havenstone
First Post
Yeah, in a way, it's surprising there are any more chapters to this story.
...but don't worry.
-
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The Talismans of Aerdrim
- Thread starter havenstone
- Start date
Yeah, in a way, it's surprising there are any more chapters to this story.
...but don't worry.
havenstone
First Post
Onto the Plains
KYLA SLEEPS ONLY fitfully that night, and wakes with a start at words that reverberate in her mind, seeming to bypass her ears entirely: Only you can hear this. Go to the corridor below the eastmost wall if you want a chance to save your people. She looks down at Gareth’s outstretched body, and her hand hovers for a moment above his shoulder. Then she slips out of bed, clothes and arms herself, and leaves her d’Loriad lover asleep.
The stables and barracks of Guardwatch are swarming with warriors preparing to ride out at dawn; the rest of the fortress is unusually deserted, and Kyla has to evade relatively few guards before arriving at the rendezvous point. A tall, hooded man detaches himself from the shadows at the end of the corridor. His features are hidden by his cowl, and he carries a nondescript sword with the poise of a skilled fighter. When he speaks, it is with an affected, raspy stammer. “W-we are al-lone.”
“Who are you?” Kyla hisses, her knives in her hands. When the hooded man stays silent, she adds accusingly, “Why did you and Aleander kill General Marcor?”
“W-we have done w-what was needful to w-weaken the army,” the man whispers. “W-we do not want it d-destroyed, but it c-cannot be allowed to d-destroy the Arawai.”
“What do you want from me?”
“W-we have sent a Message t-to the Arawai, as w-we did t-to you in your sleep. The sp-speaker for the t-tribes will be waiting f-for you t-ten miles to the s-south. S-simply tell h-him to watch the Basin’s s-southeast r-ridge for t-twenty-five hundred m-men.” The hooded man spreads his hands. “T-that is all. W-with this knowledge, the t-tribesmen w-will be able to d-defeat the f-flanking force and push back th-the army. N-neither side will be d-destroyed. The Arawai w-will keep their l-land.”
Kyla looks around distrustfully, still seeing no one around them – no one to accuse her of treason, no one who could help her capture the hooded man.
“This is truth, Arawai girl.” The man steps back into the shadows. “D-do with it what you will.”
A STORM IS rolling in from the south, and the livid dawn light barely penetrates the thick purple bank of cloud as Kyla slips out across the plains. She takes a circuitous route, checking frequently to see whether she is being followed as part of some plot to have her trapped and painted as a traitor. She sees no one. For three hours, she runs through the grasslands, tormented to the last by doubts about where her loyalties ought to lie. When she finally spies seven riders on the horizon moving toward her, Kyla halts, feeling her emotional turmoil collapse into dull resignation. She leaves her bow on her back and her knives in their sheaths.
As the riders approach her, she recognizes T’harai of the Red Kestrel. The speaker for the tribes rides with five other warriors she has not seen before, as well as a withered Arawai crone wearing a dozen knotted necklaces of feathers, bones, and twigs. T’harai regards Kyla with impassive wariness. “Hail, little sister. What word do you bring for us?”
“There are traitors among the Senallines,” Kyla says simply. “They told me to warn you to watch the Basin’s southeast ridge for twenty-five hundred men. They say that if you break this flanking force, you will be able to hold off the Great Army of the North, and the plains will remain free.”
T’harai glances over to the wise woman, who has been gazing oddly at Kyla. “She is not lying,” the old seer wheezes.
“But you can’t trust these men,” Kyla bursts out. “I’ve told you truly what they told me, but I don’t know who they are. In my heart... I don’t believe they are friends to the Arawai as they claim.”
The clan-chief nods without surprise. “Do not fear, little sister. There is more treachery here than the kherasi know.” He exchanges glances with his warriors, and a tremendous bitterness swells up his voice. “At Lynar I warned them how their games would end.”
No one speaks for several long moments. Having delivered her message, Kyla feels lost and empty. “Should... should I stay with you, or go?”
T’harai looks intently at her before answering. “The kherasi have my sister’s son.”
ON A FAR distant stretch of the plains, Ash is finishing his solitary breakfast of dry bread and jerky. He has found no Arawai scouts in his area, and no one has fired on him. However, as he prepares to advance, he glimpses a flash of silvery movement; squinting more carefully, he thinks he sees a lithe, human shape moving through the brush some hundred yards away. At once, Ash draws his bow and fires a remarkably precise shot [natural 20].
The movement stops. A cautious Ash begins making his way toward the bushes, and is halfway there when he feels a long, razor-keen blade rest on his throat. He freezes, wondering how his target managed to get behind him so swiftly and silently. “You have wounded me with steel, man,” a strangely thin voice hisses in Ash’s ear, sending a chill down his spine. “Centuries after your corpse returns to the mud, you will be remembered for the never-healing pain you have caused.”
“I thought you were Arawai,” Ash manages to choke out, dropping his bow and holding out his hands in a yielding gesture.
“It is only for the sake of an Arawai that you still live,” says the unamused voice. The slender sword moves away from Ash’s throat; Ash notes that the blade appears to be made of bone. “The Arawai woman Tevrala has been cast out by her people for bearing my child, and has taken refuge with yours. I could not reach my lover in her people’s place; but if she has come north, I will be able to find her. Have you seen or heard of an Arawai woman among your tribe?”
Ash cautiously turns his head. He glimpses pale hands, and for a moment fears that he has been captured by Shect – but then he sees his captor’s long mane of silver hair bound back by an intricate web of thorn-vines, huge dark eyes, and bloodless lips, and knows that he has never seen anyone remotely like this before. The lean figure wears mottled leather clothes that seem to be slowly shifting their color to match the grass and brush around them; he carries a recurved bow and a quiver which seems to contain not only finely fletched arrows but faint, roiling light, like a will-o-the-wisp. A neat cut along one shoulder, dark and glistening, marks the place where Ash’s arrow struck. “Who are you?” Ash gasps in disbelief.
“I should boil your blood dry for presuming to ask, man,” comes the sharp response.
“I think my friend Kyla helped your Tevrala,” Ash says hurriedly, his skin crawling. “She told me she had helped an outcast Arawai woman with an albino newborn find shelter with the merchants outside Guardwatch.”
A gleam appears in his adversary’s fathomless eyes. “I am Kabriel, Thorn Prince of the Fe Duatha. If I find her, I will be in your debt, and your friend’s. If I do not, you will know the name behind the arrow that finds your throat.” Without another word, the pale stranger stalks off into the brush. Seconds later, Ash can no longer see him.
BACK IN GUARDWATCH, the two High Generals of the Senallines complete their muster of six hundred cavalry (half the total from all the Northern nations), a hundred warrior priests, and eighteen hundred infantry. Shortly after dawn, Sarquin d’Loriad and Athriam d’Aramant ride across the courtyard to eager cheers. “The battle we have awaited is at hand!” roars General Athriam. “You few are the hammer that will break the plainsmen against the anvil of our main force. They will not see us or know of our presence until we come pouring down upon them like the brimstone of Ain!”
“Today, we march hard,” General Sarquin shouts. “Tomorrow, we will hit the Arawai by surprise on their weakest flank, while the rest of the army joins us to crush them. You have been chosen because you are the finest, the fiercest, the strongest warriors in all the civilized realms. Your battle begins now; from this hour, do not falter, do not reduce your vigilance or strength, until you have broken the barbarians forever!”
Ontaya and her seven squires ride out close to the Generals. The flanking force moves at speed all day across the rolling plains, up to the edge of a great dry basin, where they make camp without fires and settle down for a few hours of sleep. Throughout the evening, the scouts who have been clearing this region of barbarians begin to return and report. Though no Arawai outriders have been known to escape alive, the Northern scouts have found rather fewer than expected.
“M’lord – what if, after all, the Arawai have found out we’re here?” Ontaya questions the General in private. “Will they be able to fend off the surprise attack if they know it’s coming?”
“We brought our strongest warriors here not only to make a strong surprise attack,” Sarquin replies softly, looking out across the gritty expanse. “Our spies tell us that the plainsmen consider this Basin the most sacred spot in the Arawai plains -- holier even than the great burial plain where Zeresc fought with them, and plans to fight again tomorrow. To prevent the Basin's desecration, the Arawai would throw everything at us – more of their riders than they can afford. I believe that even if they know we are here, we can hold them long enough for Mercon, Zeresc, and the other generals to overrun their other force and come to our relief.”
Ontaya looks out at the dust basin again. There is a sense of wild power to the place, a hum just out of the range of audible sound – not quite the sanctification she knows from the cathedrals of Senallin, to which her paladin senses are attuned, but a close cousin to it. She is not surprised that the Arawai consider it sacred, and she walks away slightly troubled.
Ash arrives after dark and finds his way to Ontaya and the squires. They tersely exchange news of the last few days before falling into a brief sleep. The camp rouses silently before daybreak. The cavalrymen muffle their horses’ hooves with cloth to limit the amount of dust and grit they’ll kick up, and under the stars, the army moves out slowly into the hallowed basin.
KYLA SLEEPS ONLY fitfully that night, and wakes with a start at words that reverberate in her mind, seeming to bypass her ears entirely: Only you can hear this. Go to the corridor below the eastmost wall if you want a chance to save your people. She looks down at Gareth’s outstretched body, and her hand hovers for a moment above his shoulder. Then she slips out of bed, clothes and arms herself, and leaves her d’Loriad lover asleep.
The stables and barracks of Guardwatch are swarming with warriors preparing to ride out at dawn; the rest of the fortress is unusually deserted, and Kyla has to evade relatively few guards before arriving at the rendezvous point. A tall, hooded man detaches himself from the shadows at the end of the corridor. His features are hidden by his cowl, and he carries a nondescript sword with the poise of a skilled fighter. When he speaks, it is with an affected, raspy stammer. “W-we are al-lone.”
“Who are you?” Kyla hisses, her knives in her hands. When the hooded man stays silent, she adds accusingly, “Why did you and Aleander kill General Marcor?”
“W-we have done w-what was needful to w-weaken the army,” the man whispers. “W-we do not want it d-destroyed, but it c-cannot be allowed to d-destroy the Arawai.”
“What do you want from me?”
“W-we have sent a Message t-to the Arawai, as w-we did t-to you in your sleep. The sp-speaker for the t-tribes will be waiting f-for you t-ten miles to the s-south. S-simply tell h-him to watch the Basin’s s-southeast r-ridge for t-twenty-five hundred m-men.” The hooded man spreads his hands. “T-that is all. W-with this knowledge, the t-tribesmen w-will be able to d-defeat the f-flanking force and push back th-the army. N-neither side will be d-destroyed. The Arawai w-will keep their l-land.”
Kyla looks around distrustfully, still seeing no one around them – no one to accuse her of treason, no one who could help her capture the hooded man.
“This is truth, Arawai girl.” The man steps back into the shadows. “D-do with it what you will.”
A STORM IS rolling in from the south, and the livid dawn light barely penetrates the thick purple bank of cloud as Kyla slips out across the plains. She takes a circuitous route, checking frequently to see whether she is being followed as part of some plot to have her trapped and painted as a traitor. She sees no one. For three hours, she runs through the grasslands, tormented to the last by doubts about where her loyalties ought to lie. When she finally spies seven riders on the horizon moving toward her, Kyla halts, feeling her emotional turmoil collapse into dull resignation. She leaves her bow on her back and her knives in their sheaths.
As the riders approach her, she recognizes T’harai of the Red Kestrel. The speaker for the tribes rides with five other warriors she has not seen before, as well as a withered Arawai crone wearing a dozen knotted necklaces of feathers, bones, and twigs. T’harai regards Kyla with impassive wariness. “Hail, little sister. What word do you bring for us?”
“There are traitors among the Senallines,” Kyla says simply. “They told me to warn you to watch the Basin’s southeast ridge for twenty-five hundred men. They say that if you break this flanking force, you will be able to hold off the Great Army of the North, and the plains will remain free.”
T’harai glances over to the wise woman, who has been gazing oddly at Kyla. “She is not lying,” the old seer wheezes.
“But you can’t trust these men,” Kyla bursts out. “I’ve told you truly what they told me, but I don’t know who they are. In my heart... I don’t believe they are friends to the Arawai as they claim.”
The clan-chief nods without surprise. “Do not fear, little sister. There is more treachery here than the kherasi know.” He exchanges glances with his warriors, and a tremendous bitterness swells up his voice. “At Lynar I warned them how their games would end.”
No one speaks for several long moments. Having delivered her message, Kyla feels lost and empty. “Should... should I stay with you, or go?”
T’harai looks intently at her before answering. “The kherasi have my sister’s son.”
ON A FAR distant stretch of the plains, Ash is finishing his solitary breakfast of dry bread and jerky. He has found no Arawai scouts in his area, and no one has fired on him. However, as he prepares to advance, he glimpses a flash of silvery movement; squinting more carefully, he thinks he sees a lithe, human shape moving through the brush some hundred yards away. At once, Ash draws his bow and fires a remarkably precise shot [natural 20].
The movement stops. A cautious Ash begins making his way toward the bushes, and is halfway there when he feels a long, razor-keen blade rest on his throat. He freezes, wondering how his target managed to get behind him so swiftly and silently. “You have wounded me with steel, man,” a strangely thin voice hisses in Ash’s ear, sending a chill down his spine. “Centuries after your corpse returns to the mud, you will be remembered for the never-healing pain you have caused.”
“I thought you were Arawai,” Ash manages to choke out, dropping his bow and holding out his hands in a yielding gesture.
“It is only for the sake of an Arawai that you still live,” says the unamused voice. The slender sword moves away from Ash’s throat; Ash notes that the blade appears to be made of bone. “The Arawai woman Tevrala has been cast out by her people for bearing my child, and has taken refuge with yours. I could not reach my lover in her people’s place; but if she has come north, I will be able to find her. Have you seen or heard of an Arawai woman among your tribe?”
Ash cautiously turns his head. He glimpses pale hands, and for a moment fears that he has been captured by Shect – but then he sees his captor’s long mane of silver hair bound back by an intricate web of thorn-vines, huge dark eyes, and bloodless lips, and knows that he has never seen anyone remotely like this before. The lean figure wears mottled leather clothes that seem to be slowly shifting their color to match the grass and brush around them; he carries a recurved bow and a quiver which seems to contain not only finely fletched arrows but faint, roiling light, like a will-o-the-wisp. A neat cut along one shoulder, dark and glistening, marks the place where Ash’s arrow struck. “Who are you?” Ash gasps in disbelief.
“I should boil your blood dry for presuming to ask, man,” comes the sharp response.
“I think my friend Kyla helped your Tevrala,” Ash says hurriedly, his skin crawling. “She told me she had helped an outcast Arawai woman with an albino newborn find shelter with the merchants outside Guardwatch.”
A gleam appears in his adversary’s fathomless eyes. “I am Kabriel, Thorn Prince of the Fe Duatha. If I find her, I will be in your debt, and your friend’s. If I do not, you will know the name behind the arrow that finds your throat.” Without another word, the pale stranger stalks off into the brush. Seconds later, Ash can no longer see him.
BACK IN GUARDWATCH, the two High Generals of the Senallines complete their muster of six hundred cavalry (half the total from all the Northern nations), a hundred warrior priests, and eighteen hundred infantry. Shortly after dawn, Sarquin d’Loriad and Athriam d’Aramant ride across the courtyard to eager cheers. “The battle we have awaited is at hand!” roars General Athriam. “You few are the hammer that will break the plainsmen against the anvil of our main force. They will not see us or know of our presence until we come pouring down upon them like the brimstone of Ain!”
“Today, we march hard,” General Sarquin shouts. “Tomorrow, we will hit the Arawai by surprise on their weakest flank, while the rest of the army joins us to crush them. You have been chosen because you are the finest, the fiercest, the strongest warriors in all the civilized realms. Your battle begins now; from this hour, do not falter, do not reduce your vigilance or strength, until you have broken the barbarians forever!”
Ontaya and her seven squires ride out close to the Generals. The flanking force moves at speed all day across the rolling plains, up to the edge of a great dry basin, where they make camp without fires and settle down for a few hours of sleep. Throughout the evening, the scouts who have been clearing this region of barbarians begin to return and report. Though no Arawai outriders have been known to escape alive, the Northern scouts have found rather fewer than expected.
“M’lord – what if, after all, the Arawai have found out we’re here?” Ontaya questions the General in private. “Will they be able to fend off the surprise attack if they know it’s coming?”
“We brought our strongest warriors here not only to make a strong surprise attack,” Sarquin replies softly, looking out across the gritty expanse. “Our spies tell us that the plainsmen consider this Basin the most sacred spot in the Arawai plains -- holier even than the great burial plain where Zeresc fought with them, and plans to fight again tomorrow. To prevent the Basin's desecration, the Arawai would throw everything at us – more of their riders than they can afford. I believe that even if they know we are here, we can hold them long enough for Mercon, Zeresc, and the other generals to overrun their other force and come to our relief.”
Ontaya looks out at the dust basin again. There is a sense of wild power to the place, a hum just out of the range of audible sound – not quite the sanctification she knows from the cathedrals of Senallin, to which her paladin senses are attuned, but a close cousin to it. She is not surprised that the Arawai consider it sacred, and she walks away slightly troubled.
Ash arrives after dark and finds his way to Ontaya and the squires. They tersely exchange news of the last few days before falling into a brief sleep. The camp rouses silently before daybreak. The cavalrymen muffle their horses’ hooves with cloth to limit the amount of dust and grit they’ll kick up, and under the stars, the army moves out slowly into the hallowed basin.
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havenstone
First Post
The Great Betrayal
AFTER DARREN'S CAPTURE, he is dragged to the dungeons and thrown without ceremony into a damp, deep pit in the rock. Tumbling desperately, he manages to cushion his fall enough to stay alive, but dislocates his shoulder in the process. After popping his arm agonizingly back into place, he spends most of the night drifting in and out of consciousness. During the following day (of Ontaya’s almost fruitless investigations), the inventive Darren dismantles his leather jerkin and tries gamely to use its straps and belts, Calla’s scarves, and some of the rags and bones at the bottom of the oubliette to assemble a climbing harness to improve his chances of scaling the slick-walled pit. After several near-fatal tries, he makes it to the top but has no leverage in his precarious position to shift the heavy trap door; only his jury-rigged harness keeps him alive through the repeated falls. While lying half-conscious at the bottom of the pit, Darren despairingly overhears Meeshak and Nina’s failed rescue attempt.
A long time later, he hears the door open far above him. “Boy – you’re to be moved to another cell in preparation for questioning,” a guard shouts. Darren allows himself to be lifted out of the oubliette in a rope harness; in his famished, battered state, he decides against trying to use his concealed needle-launcher against the guards who tie his hands and feet. His spirits soar when he realizes he is being locked up near Meeshak and Nina, but a boot to the head sends him back into oblivion, and it is hours before he painfully comes to himself.
Darren uses up most of his few remaining needles trying to shoot Meeshak, giving him something sharp to work on his bonds. When Meeshak finally gets one, Darren takes two of the remaining needles and tries to pick the lock on the barred cell door. He is making scant progress when he hears booted feet approaching the cells, and quickly slumps down to feign unconsciousness.
His heart skips a beat when he hears the haggard, hateful voice of Agerain d’Aramant at his cell door: “Oh yes – this boy was there when I was killed. I’ll be interested to hear his story when he wakes up.”
STILL BARELY CONSCIOUS himself, Nina glances up in shock to see Agerain limping across the dungeon, two guards in tow. The young d’Aramant’s skin is an unhealthy greyish color, but the cut across his neck is gone, and he has no wound on the back of his head where Darren clubbed him. “And you say these two tried to break in two days ago?” Agerain continues venomously. “I recognize the priest. We’ll let Astacius have a word with him when he arrives; he’s wondered for months whether we have a renegade Sistechern in our midst. And the other? Give me their cell keys.”
Nina has sagged into his bonds, but Agerain unlocks his cell door, grips his chin, and turns his face into the light. There is a white circular mark on Agerain’s forehead that had never been there before. His bloodshot eyes are fixed on Nina’s for a long minute before he speaks.
“When I first met you, I thought you looked familiar. Thought I’d seen you at some Family gathering. But that wasn’t it – was it, Anseron?” Nina remains silent. “I should have thought about your eyes. You were dressed up as one of Ontaya’s barbarian girls. I almost slapped you.”
“I’m sorry, Agerain.”
The young d’Aramant’s fists crack back and forth across his face in a frenzy of loathing. “Shut up! I don’t want to hear your damned voice. Time for that later, plenty of time for that, when Astacius is here. We’ll hear everything before we send you off to seal the bargain.” He pauses, then whirls on the guards. “Go. Get the girl ready and bring her here. We’ll see how they like seeing each other cut to pieces.”
As the guards walk away, Agerain leans in close to Nina. There’s a sickly grave-smell on his breath. “What was it all for, Anseron? You and Atrix and Ontaya and your little group of friends. What were you trying to accomplish?”
“I betrayed you,” Nina admits. “What does it matter what it was for? It’s over now.”
“Yes, it’s over,” whispers Agerain, a note of delight entering his voice. “For you, for your friends, for House d’Loriad. Yesterday Athriam rode out with Sarquin, and Mercon led the rest of the host north. By the end of this morning, there will be only four Families. You were on to the scent, my little traitor, but it’s too late to stop it now.”
“What are you talking about?” Nina coughs weakly, hoping against hope that if Agerain just keeps talking, Darren will be able to pick his lock and get away.
Agerain looks at Nina with disdain and pity. “Still trying to get the information? I’ve wanted to tell you for months, falsest friend. There’s no reason to hold back now. There’s nothing you can do.” He glances around before continuing in a harsh whisper. “We will destroy the d’Loriads utterly, Anseron. Control of Senallin requires controlling three of five Families; the d’Orbis will never really join us, and the wretched d’Syrnons have already chosen their side. The only way forward is to wipe out the d’Loriads, and the only question was how to do that without inciting the other Families against us. Everything became clear when the Arawai campaign took shape. If a Family betrays the North to the Arawai, all of Senallin will rise up to demand that Family’s extinction. So we have orchestrated that great betrayal. We have set all these things into motion, that the name of Sarquin the Betrayer will be remembered even when his Family has been forgotten.”
“What?” Nina says in disbelief. “I don’t understand.”
Agerain laughs. “Of course you don’t. Sarquin d’Loriad is leading the flanking force – the lynchpin of the Northern strategy. But we’ve made sure that the Arawai know that force is coming, and will send their full strength to wipe it out. We’ve prepared a few witnesses in reserve, who can testify that Sarquin rode to join the Arawai while his men died or fled. Poor, brash Uncle Athriam thinks he’ll be one of the survivors, but he’ll be our chief martyr instead. Today, Mercon will ensure that that no relief force arrives until every soldier in that flanking force is dead.” Agerain’s smile is pure malevolence. “That includes your dear friend Ontaya, incidentally. But we’re sure that in fact Sarquin will lead a brilliant, bloody last stand, and we don’t foresee any problem for the remainder of the Northern host to wipe out the remnants of the Arawai.”
“Why... why do you think people will believe your lies about Sarquin?”
The young d’Aramant shrugs. “Because they’re about the d’Loriads, not just about Sarquin, and because many of them aren’t lies. Uncle Mercon is a master at spinning rumors, and he’s been preparing for this for months. It’s already well known around Lynar that the d’Loriads wish to weaken the d’Nereins and d’Aramants – the Families with the largest landholdings in the south of the realm, who stand to gain the most from an expansion into Arawai. It’s also widely known that General Marcor d’Syrnon was murdered by a d’Loriad boy. That was a necessary murder for us, incidentally, to ensure that no surviving General could contradict the story of Sarquin the Betrayer.” Agerain’s lips twitch with anger as he continues. “Of course, everyone will soon know that Atrix d’Loriad, his brother, and their disguised friends infiltrated the d’Aramant Family with murderous intent – and believe me, you and your friends will confess Sarquin’s involvement before we let you die. Above all, the d’Loriads played into our hands when they brought an Arawai girl to Lynar, let her seduce half the d’Loriads in the place, gave her Patriarch’s Gold to toss around, and brought her along to Guardwatch – from which she mysteriously disappeared on the eve of the battle.”
“What have you done to Kyla?” Nina groans.
“Sent her home,” Agerain says indifferently. “For what it’s worth, she probably has actually betrayed us – though we weren’t relying on her to do so. May she die with her people, where she belongs. If she comes back here, we’ll make sure she dies with her d’Loriad lovers.”
Nina shakes his head, forcing tears to add to the image of despair. “But... who’s the hooded man? The one who arranged for Marcor’s murder?”
Agerain cocks his head. “Were your allegiances with the d’Syrnons then? No matter. Uncle Mercon handled almost everything himself. I believe he wore a hood and mask when he needed to.”
“Why did he tell you all of this? What was your role?”
“Mercon couldn’t have pulled off this scheme without the knowledge of our Patriarch,” Agerain says, smiling arrogantly. “But Uncle Athagon is an old man, and doesn’t know when Death may come for him. He wanted to make sure that his most trusted nephew knew what was going on, and could intervene if Mercon started to lose control.”
“But... how do you hope to dominate a Senallin led by Four Families?” Nina asks, stretching desperately to keep the young d’Aramant talking.
“There must always be Five Families, Anseron. If you were really of our blood, you would know that.” Agerain is beginning to look bored, and he glances around to see whether the guards are back yet. “When Mercon leads our allies to victory despite the crippling blow of Sarquin’s betrayal, he will be every Senalline’s hero. He’ll become Patriarch of the new Family to replace the extinguished d’Loriads. I believe he intends to call it House d’Angor, after his father Angor, lord of the north. That’s the prize for Mercon’s game.”
He straightens slowly away from Nina. “And he’ll help to make sure I’m Patriarch one day, when my uncle’s gone. You almost stole it all from me, Anseron – or whatever your name is. But Astacius the Sistechern is desperate to establish his Order in Senallin, and he was willing to summon up Death to stay in favor with House d’Aramant.” Agerain’s eyes grow haunted and distant. “We made a bargain, traitor. Your life for mine. Death agreed to restore my soul if I hunted you down and killed you. That’s why I’ve told you all of this – so you understand that your death today isn’t just for me. It’s for something much bigger. It’s for our Family.”
“Trying to be impressive, d’Aramant?” comes a caustic voice from across the hall. “You weren’t so high and mighty when I bashed your brains out.”
AGERAIN SPINS AROUND to see a feeble-looking Darren clinging to his cell door. Having failed again to pick the lock with his battered hands, Darren is trying a last desperate scheme. “You struck me?” Agerain snarls, murder in his eyes. “You probably wouldn’t have survived questioning long enough to give us anything useful anyway, would you, you miserable little tinker?” He stalks vengefully out of Nina’s cell and slams the door – not noticing that the drop bolt has failed to catch. While Agerain unlocks Darren’s door, Nina works his hands out of their ropes, which he managed to loosen a few hours ago. He tries to remember the eight ways his uncle taught him to kill a man without weapons, and limps out of the cell, his ankles still chained together.
Just as he gets his former friend within arm’s reach, Nina’s stealth fails him, and he stumbles with a noisy clatter of chains. Agerain wheels around, mouth opening in shock. Nina punches him in the gullet, choking off his cry but not seriously hurting the d’Aramant, who almost knocks Nina out with his return blow. While Nina grapples weakly with Agerain, Darren hurls himself at the young noble’s throat and makes a valiant effort to fire a needle up into his brain.
Then a harsh voice echoes through the cell. Meeshak has finally managed to cut his bonds, yank off his gag, and cast Hold Person just in time to save his friends’ lives. Seconds later the guards return with Carwyn in tow; Meeshak’s spells drop them before they have a chance to raise the alarm. “Get me out of here,” Meeshak says urgently. “If Astacius is really on his way, we need to be gone before he arrives.”
A shaken Carwyn relieves the guards of their daggers and the paralyzed Agerain of the dungeon keys. While she unlocks Meeshak’s cell, Darren dons his dwarrow amulet and considers the currents of air, heat, and sound for a moment. “It feels like there are hollows below these passages,” he whispers. “Drainage channels.”
Meeshak claims one of the guards’ daggers from Carwyn and quickly drops some light healing spells on his friends. “Help me carry the d’Aramant, Nina. We’ll need a hostage if we run into trouble.”
With Darren’s help, they find their way into the narrow, flooded drainage tunnels below the Guardwatch dungeons – pausing for a few moments to gag and hog-tie Agerain so he’ll be helpless when his paralysis expires. They move in total darkness, trying to splash as little as possible. Darren guides them away from side passages with dead air and follows the flow of air toward an exit. With his perception of the visible spectrum reduced, his companions see the dim torchlight coming around a corner of the passage before he does. Nina puts a warning hand on Darren’s shoulder to halt him. The light increases to the point where the four severely injured friends can see each others’ faces; they exchange silent glances as they prepare to make a last stand.
Lune appears at the corner, brandishing a knife in one hand and a torch in the other, with Carwyn’s crossbow strapped to his back. “I hoped this passage would get me into wherever they’d tossed you. Should have known you’d meet me halfway.”
Carwyn barely restrains a delighted yelp as she sloshes over to the scruffy gambler and clutches him tightly. Lune leads them back to the end of the drain, where the cold water spills out through a gap at the foot of the rocky shelf below the castle. It’s almost noon when they emerge, but though they cautiously scan the wall of Guardwatch for guards, none appears. The great camp of settlers and army followers appears to be breaking up in inexplicable disarray, with massive streams of people heading north along the road. “I don’t know what’s going on,” Lune mutters in confusion. “Things were normal here just before dawn.”
“Bad news from the south,” Meeshak guesses grimly.
Lune blinks incredulously. “Is it possible that the Arawai might have won?”
AS SOON AS they’re a safe distance from the castle, Meeshak drops Agerain and brings the dagger to his throat. The young d’Aramant’s eyes bulge helplessly in terror and he froths against his gag. Carwyn averts her eyes.
Nina catches Meeshak’s hand. “No. Don’t do it.”
Meeshak’s brow furrows. “We don’t need him, Nina. We’ve got to make a run for it, and he’ll only slow us down.”
“He’s mine to kill,” Nina says softly. His utter betrayal of Agerain’s trust weighs hard on him, even after hearing how great a treachery the d’Aramants themselves had planned. He knows he can’t kill the defenseless Agerain in cold blood a second time, or stand by while someone else does. “And I say this isn’t the time.”
Meeshak stares into Nina’s eyes for a moment before shrugging curtly. “We don’t have time to argue. He’s your responsibility. Just remember: his life depends on killing you.”
AFTER DARREN'S CAPTURE, he is dragged to the dungeons and thrown without ceremony into a damp, deep pit in the rock. Tumbling desperately, he manages to cushion his fall enough to stay alive, but dislocates his shoulder in the process. After popping his arm agonizingly back into place, he spends most of the night drifting in and out of consciousness. During the following day (of Ontaya’s almost fruitless investigations), the inventive Darren dismantles his leather jerkin and tries gamely to use its straps and belts, Calla’s scarves, and some of the rags and bones at the bottom of the oubliette to assemble a climbing harness to improve his chances of scaling the slick-walled pit. After several near-fatal tries, he makes it to the top but has no leverage in his precarious position to shift the heavy trap door; only his jury-rigged harness keeps him alive through the repeated falls. While lying half-conscious at the bottom of the pit, Darren despairingly overhears Meeshak and Nina’s failed rescue attempt.
A long time later, he hears the door open far above him. “Boy – you’re to be moved to another cell in preparation for questioning,” a guard shouts. Darren allows himself to be lifted out of the oubliette in a rope harness; in his famished, battered state, he decides against trying to use his concealed needle-launcher against the guards who tie his hands and feet. His spirits soar when he realizes he is being locked up near Meeshak and Nina, but a boot to the head sends him back into oblivion, and it is hours before he painfully comes to himself.
Darren uses up most of his few remaining needles trying to shoot Meeshak, giving him something sharp to work on his bonds. When Meeshak finally gets one, Darren takes two of the remaining needles and tries to pick the lock on the barred cell door. He is making scant progress when he hears booted feet approaching the cells, and quickly slumps down to feign unconsciousness.
His heart skips a beat when he hears the haggard, hateful voice of Agerain d’Aramant at his cell door: “Oh yes – this boy was there when I was killed. I’ll be interested to hear his story when he wakes up.”
STILL BARELY CONSCIOUS himself, Nina glances up in shock to see Agerain limping across the dungeon, two guards in tow. The young d’Aramant’s skin is an unhealthy greyish color, but the cut across his neck is gone, and he has no wound on the back of his head where Darren clubbed him. “And you say these two tried to break in two days ago?” Agerain continues venomously. “I recognize the priest. We’ll let Astacius have a word with him when he arrives; he’s wondered for months whether we have a renegade Sistechern in our midst. And the other? Give me their cell keys.”
Nina has sagged into his bonds, but Agerain unlocks his cell door, grips his chin, and turns his face into the light. There is a white circular mark on Agerain’s forehead that had never been there before. His bloodshot eyes are fixed on Nina’s for a long minute before he speaks.
“When I first met you, I thought you looked familiar. Thought I’d seen you at some Family gathering. But that wasn’t it – was it, Anseron?” Nina remains silent. “I should have thought about your eyes. You were dressed up as one of Ontaya’s barbarian girls. I almost slapped you.”
“I’m sorry, Agerain.”
The young d’Aramant’s fists crack back and forth across his face in a frenzy of loathing. “Shut up! I don’t want to hear your damned voice. Time for that later, plenty of time for that, when Astacius is here. We’ll hear everything before we send you off to seal the bargain.” He pauses, then whirls on the guards. “Go. Get the girl ready and bring her here. We’ll see how they like seeing each other cut to pieces.”
As the guards walk away, Agerain leans in close to Nina. There’s a sickly grave-smell on his breath. “What was it all for, Anseron? You and Atrix and Ontaya and your little group of friends. What were you trying to accomplish?”
“I betrayed you,” Nina admits. “What does it matter what it was for? It’s over now.”
“Yes, it’s over,” whispers Agerain, a note of delight entering his voice. “For you, for your friends, for House d’Loriad. Yesterday Athriam rode out with Sarquin, and Mercon led the rest of the host north. By the end of this morning, there will be only four Families. You were on to the scent, my little traitor, but it’s too late to stop it now.”
“What are you talking about?” Nina coughs weakly, hoping against hope that if Agerain just keeps talking, Darren will be able to pick his lock and get away.
Agerain looks at Nina with disdain and pity. “Still trying to get the information? I’ve wanted to tell you for months, falsest friend. There’s no reason to hold back now. There’s nothing you can do.” He glances around before continuing in a harsh whisper. “We will destroy the d’Loriads utterly, Anseron. Control of Senallin requires controlling three of five Families; the d’Orbis will never really join us, and the wretched d’Syrnons have already chosen their side. The only way forward is to wipe out the d’Loriads, and the only question was how to do that without inciting the other Families against us. Everything became clear when the Arawai campaign took shape. If a Family betrays the North to the Arawai, all of Senallin will rise up to demand that Family’s extinction. So we have orchestrated that great betrayal. We have set all these things into motion, that the name of Sarquin the Betrayer will be remembered even when his Family has been forgotten.”
“What?” Nina says in disbelief. “I don’t understand.”
Agerain laughs. “Of course you don’t. Sarquin d’Loriad is leading the flanking force – the lynchpin of the Northern strategy. But we’ve made sure that the Arawai know that force is coming, and will send their full strength to wipe it out. We’ve prepared a few witnesses in reserve, who can testify that Sarquin rode to join the Arawai while his men died or fled. Poor, brash Uncle Athriam thinks he’ll be one of the survivors, but he’ll be our chief martyr instead. Today, Mercon will ensure that that no relief force arrives until every soldier in that flanking force is dead.” Agerain’s smile is pure malevolence. “That includes your dear friend Ontaya, incidentally. But we’re sure that in fact Sarquin will lead a brilliant, bloody last stand, and we don’t foresee any problem for the remainder of the Northern host to wipe out the remnants of the Arawai.”
“Why... why do you think people will believe your lies about Sarquin?”
The young d’Aramant shrugs. “Because they’re about the d’Loriads, not just about Sarquin, and because many of them aren’t lies. Uncle Mercon is a master at spinning rumors, and he’s been preparing for this for months. It’s already well known around Lynar that the d’Loriads wish to weaken the d’Nereins and d’Aramants – the Families with the largest landholdings in the south of the realm, who stand to gain the most from an expansion into Arawai. It’s also widely known that General Marcor d’Syrnon was murdered by a d’Loriad boy. That was a necessary murder for us, incidentally, to ensure that no surviving General could contradict the story of Sarquin the Betrayer.” Agerain’s lips twitch with anger as he continues. “Of course, everyone will soon know that Atrix d’Loriad, his brother, and their disguised friends infiltrated the d’Aramant Family with murderous intent – and believe me, you and your friends will confess Sarquin’s involvement before we let you die. Above all, the d’Loriads played into our hands when they brought an Arawai girl to Lynar, let her seduce half the d’Loriads in the place, gave her Patriarch’s Gold to toss around, and brought her along to Guardwatch – from which she mysteriously disappeared on the eve of the battle.”
“What have you done to Kyla?” Nina groans.
“Sent her home,” Agerain says indifferently. “For what it’s worth, she probably has actually betrayed us – though we weren’t relying on her to do so. May she die with her people, where she belongs. If she comes back here, we’ll make sure she dies with her d’Loriad lovers.”
Nina shakes his head, forcing tears to add to the image of despair. “But... who’s the hooded man? The one who arranged for Marcor’s murder?”
Agerain cocks his head. “Were your allegiances with the d’Syrnons then? No matter. Uncle Mercon handled almost everything himself. I believe he wore a hood and mask when he needed to.”
“Why did he tell you all of this? What was your role?”
“Mercon couldn’t have pulled off this scheme without the knowledge of our Patriarch,” Agerain says, smiling arrogantly. “But Uncle Athagon is an old man, and doesn’t know when Death may come for him. He wanted to make sure that his most trusted nephew knew what was going on, and could intervene if Mercon started to lose control.”
“But... how do you hope to dominate a Senallin led by Four Families?” Nina asks, stretching desperately to keep the young d’Aramant talking.
“There must always be Five Families, Anseron. If you were really of our blood, you would know that.” Agerain is beginning to look bored, and he glances around to see whether the guards are back yet. “When Mercon leads our allies to victory despite the crippling blow of Sarquin’s betrayal, he will be every Senalline’s hero. He’ll become Patriarch of the new Family to replace the extinguished d’Loriads. I believe he intends to call it House d’Angor, after his father Angor, lord of the north. That’s the prize for Mercon’s game.”
He straightens slowly away from Nina. “And he’ll help to make sure I’m Patriarch one day, when my uncle’s gone. You almost stole it all from me, Anseron – or whatever your name is. But Astacius the Sistechern is desperate to establish his Order in Senallin, and he was willing to summon up Death to stay in favor with House d’Aramant.” Agerain’s eyes grow haunted and distant. “We made a bargain, traitor. Your life for mine. Death agreed to restore my soul if I hunted you down and killed you. That’s why I’ve told you all of this – so you understand that your death today isn’t just for me. It’s for something much bigger. It’s for our Family.”
“Trying to be impressive, d’Aramant?” comes a caustic voice from across the hall. “You weren’t so high and mighty when I bashed your brains out.”
AGERAIN SPINS AROUND to see a feeble-looking Darren clinging to his cell door. Having failed again to pick the lock with his battered hands, Darren is trying a last desperate scheme. “You struck me?” Agerain snarls, murder in his eyes. “You probably wouldn’t have survived questioning long enough to give us anything useful anyway, would you, you miserable little tinker?” He stalks vengefully out of Nina’s cell and slams the door – not noticing that the drop bolt has failed to catch. While Agerain unlocks Darren’s door, Nina works his hands out of their ropes, which he managed to loosen a few hours ago. He tries to remember the eight ways his uncle taught him to kill a man without weapons, and limps out of the cell, his ankles still chained together.
Just as he gets his former friend within arm’s reach, Nina’s stealth fails him, and he stumbles with a noisy clatter of chains. Agerain wheels around, mouth opening in shock. Nina punches him in the gullet, choking off his cry but not seriously hurting the d’Aramant, who almost knocks Nina out with his return blow. While Nina grapples weakly with Agerain, Darren hurls himself at the young noble’s throat and makes a valiant effort to fire a needle up into his brain.
Then a harsh voice echoes through the cell. Meeshak has finally managed to cut his bonds, yank off his gag, and cast Hold Person just in time to save his friends’ lives. Seconds later the guards return with Carwyn in tow; Meeshak’s spells drop them before they have a chance to raise the alarm. “Get me out of here,” Meeshak says urgently. “If Astacius is really on his way, we need to be gone before he arrives.”
A shaken Carwyn relieves the guards of their daggers and the paralyzed Agerain of the dungeon keys. While she unlocks Meeshak’s cell, Darren dons his dwarrow amulet and considers the currents of air, heat, and sound for a moment. “It feels like there are hollows below these passages,” he whispers. “Drainage channels.”
Meeshak claims one of the guards’ daggers from Carwyn and quickly drops some light healing spells on his friends. “Help me carry the d’Aramant, Nina. We’ll need a hostage if we run into trouble.”
With Darren’s help, they find their way into the narrow, flooded drainage tunnels below the Guardwatch dungeons – pausing for a few moments to gag and hog-tie Agerain so he’ll be helpless when his paralysis expires. They move in total darkness, trying to splash as little as possible. Darren guides them away from side passages with dead air and follows the flow of air toward an exit. With his perception of the visible spectrum reduced, his companions see the dim torchlight coming around a corner of the passage before he does. Nina puts a warning hand on Darren’s shoulder to halt him. The light increases to the point where the four severely injured friends can see each others’ faces; they exchange silent glances as they prepare to make a last stand.
Lune appears at the corner, brandishing a knife in one hand and a torch in the other, with Carwyn’s crossbow strapped to his back. “I hoped this passage would get me into wherever they’d tossed you. Should have known you’d meet me halfway.”
Carwyn barely restrains a delighted yelp as she sloshes over to the scruffy gambler and clutches him tightly. Lune leads them back to the end of the drain, where the cold water spills out through a gap at the foot of the rocky shelf below the castle. It’s almost noon when they emerge, but though they cautiously scan the wall of Guardwatch for guards, none appears. The great camp of settlers and army followers appears to be breaking up in inexplicable disarray, with massive streams of people heading north along the road. “I don’t know what’s going on,” Lune mutters in confusion. “Things were normal here just before dawn.”
“Bad news from the south,” Meeshak guesses grimly.
Lune blinks incredulously. “Is it possible that the Arawai might have won?”
AS SOON AS they’re a safe distance from the castle, Meeshak drops Agerain and brings the dagger to his throat. The young d’Aramant’s eyes bulge helplessly in terror and he froths against his gag. Carwyn averts her eyes.
Nina catches Meeshak’s hand. “No. Don’t do it.”
Meeshak’s brow furrows. “We don’t need him, Nina. We’ve got to make a run for it, and he’ll only slow us down.”
“He’s mine to kill,” Nina says softly. His utter betrayal of Agerain’s trust weighs hard on him, even after hearing how great a treachery the d’Aramants themselves had planned. He knows he can’t kill the defenseless Agerain in cold blood a second time, or stand by while someone else does. “And I say this isn’t the time.”
Meeshak stares into Nina’s eyes for a moment before shrugging curtly. “We don’t have time to argue. He’s your responsibility. Just remember: his life depends on killing you.”
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havenstone
First Post
Broken Swords
AFTER WHAT FEELS like the deepest sleep of his life, Atrix slowly becomes aware of the profound chill throbbing in his arms and legs. The air is unnaturally icy, far colder than the stone under his back. A persistent, ominous intonation in an unfamiliar language echoes from all around him. His eyes flicker open to see an elaborate pattern laid out in white and gold dust on a dark stone floor. Alarmed and completely disoriented, Atrix struggles to sit up. His limbs protest, as though he hasn’t used them in days.
He finds himself in a murky room, lit by a scattering of candles in the pallid web of dust. The gold dust amongst the chalk is blackening, and the candle flames are blue and trembling, drawn toward the center of the chamber as though by a steady, intangible wind. Seven priests are ringed outside the pattern, chanting in low tones, their faces taut with fear. An aged high priest holds a glowing staff over Atrix, pointed unwaveringly toward the center of the circle.
A man is standing at the heart of the room, clad simply in black, half-turned away from Atrix as though about to depart. The skin on the stranger’s face and slender-fingered hands is alabaster white; his eyes are colorless, his hair long and black. A dark-hilted sword is strapped to his back, with a foot and a half of blade ending in a jagged fracture. Atrix can feel the heat in his body fleeing, drawn toward the man with the broken sword. Kay hangs limply from the man’s arms.
Without any pause for thought, Atrix leaps toward the terrible figure, trying to attack him with his bare hands – but finds the strength sapped from every muscle in his body. He slips to the floor, and pulls himself up again with enormous effort. The man with the broken sword shifts his head to regard the desperate young d’Loriad. A toneless voice reverberates in Atrix’s mind:
- Do not risk so readily what has just been paid for with so great a sacrifice.
Atrix’s face twists as he remembers the end of his duel with Shect – remembers his death – and understands what must have just happened. “She didn’t know what she was doing,” he rasps. “You can’t accept this.”
- She knew.
“No. I don’t accept it. Take me, not her.”
- The sacrifice is not yours to accept.
“No.” Atrix stares into Death’s colorless eyes and tries by sheer force of will to deny what is happening. His adversary gazes back impassively. Waves of unnatural dread and desolation surge through Atrix, but he manages somehow to keep from blinking and forces his tremulous limbs to take two more steps toward the man with the broken sword. No trace of emotion or decision plays across Death’s alabaster face as Atrix staggers closer. He simply bends, touches his bloodless lips to Kay’s forehead, and disappears.
Atrix lurches forward to catch Kay, and they fall to the ground together. The room brightens as the candles blaze back to a full and yellow flame. Kay sucks in breath again in a sob as her eyes spring open. A round, pallid mark has appeared on her forehead. “Cousin?” she whispers, her eyes darting around the room. “Are you... are we...”
Beyond words, Atrix pulls her closer, and they weep in each other’s arms in the dark circle.
OUT ON THE plains, where the dawn is only a livid smear through the dense cloudbanks, the great Northern flanking force approaches the top of the far slope of the Arawai’s sacred basin. Since the march began, Ontaya has been catching flickers of evil intent from all around them, in particular from General Athriam d’Aramant and a tough, bullying squire named Vorent who has been trying to rival her ever since Wildengard. Today Vorent’s eyes are looking glazed and he doesn’t respond to Ontaya’s queries. She beckons Ash and her squire Corim d’Orbis close. “Something’s about to break,” she says flatly, and tells them what she’s feeling.
Scanning the horizon, Ash notices a scout ahead flash an unfamiliar signal back to Athriam. Ontaya spots Ash’s reaction and spurs Dorma toward the arrogant d’Aramant general, even while he turns to Sarquin with a look of horror on his face. Athriam dramatically bellows, “What? What have you done, man? Treaso... oof,” as Ontaya tackles him and brings him to the ground. Vorent, his eyes still glassy, goes for the flat-footed Sarquin with a poisoned knife, but Ash cuts him down and wheels his horse around to shield the d’Loriad general from any other attacks. Ontaya pounds Athriam’s head against the sun-baked earth until the treacherous d’Aramant passes out. Her squires form up around them, swords out and ready for a fight.
The host mills in confusion for a moment, as hundreds of Senalline nobles and thousands of soldiers from other countries try to take in what just happened. The d’Aramant knights, though angry, seem just as bewildered as those from other Families. Then with a thunder of hooves, many hundreds of Arawai riders charge over the ridge all along the rim of the basin, ululating triumphantly and hurling flint spears ahead of them.
His eyes bleak with comprehension, Sarquin d’Loriad raises the banner of Lynar and cries, “ATTACK!” Quickly rallying his stunned troops into combat formation, Senallin’s greatest general begins pushing toward the high ground. Ontaya and her squires are among the leading horsemen who clear a path, fighting in the saddle, with hundreds of stone arrows shattering against their shields and armor. Finally, bloodied and battered, Ontaya charges forward with fifty other Northern knights to claim the height of the ridge.
And sees, behind the charging Arawai hordes, a thousand utterly unfamiliar golden-skinned soldiers armored in brightly lacquered plate, bearing long steel spears and curved swords.
AFTER WHAT FEELS like the deepest sleep of his life, Atrix slowly becomes aware of the profound chill throbbing in his arms and legs. The air is unnaturally icy, far colder than the stone under his back. A persistent, ominous intonation in an unfamiliar language echoes from all around him. His eyes flicker open to see an elaborate pattern laid out in white and gold dust on a dark stone floor. Alarmed and completely disoriented, Atrix struggles to sit up. His limbs protest, as though he hasn’t used them in days.
He finds himself in a murky room, lit by a scattering of candles in the pallid web of dust. The gold dust amongst the chalk is blackening, and the candle flames are blue and trembling, drawn toward the center of the chamber as though by a steady, intangible wind. Seven priests are ringed outside the pattern, chanting in low tones, their faces taut with fear. An aged high priest holds a glowing staff over Atrix, pointed unwaveringly toward the center of the circle.
A man is standing at the heart of the room, clad simply in black, half-turned away from Atrix as though about to depart. The skin on the stranger’s face and slender-fingered hands is alabaster white; his eyes are colorless, his hair long and black. A dark-hilted sword is strapped to his back, with a foot and a half of blade ending in a jagged fracture. Atrix can feel the heat in his body fleeing, drawn toward the man with the broken sword. Kay hangs limply from the man’s arms.
Without any pause for thought, Atrix leaps toward the terrible figure, trying to attack him with his bare hands – but finds the strength sapped from every muscle in his body. He slips to the floor, and pulls himself up again with enormous effort. The man with the broken sword shifts his head to regard the desperate young d’Loriad. A toneless voice reverberates in Atrix’s mind:
- Do not risk so readily what has just been paid for with so great a sacrifice.
Atrix’s face twists as he remembers the end of his duel with Shect – remembers his death – and understands what must have just happened. “She didn’t know what she was doing,” he rasps. “You can’t accept this.”
- She knew.
“No. I don’t accept it. Take me, not her.”
- The sacrifice is not yours to accept.
“No.” Atrix stares into Death’s colorless eyes and tries by sheer force of will to deny what is happening. His adversary gazes back impassively. Waves of unnatural dread and desolation surge through Atrix, but he manages somehow to keep from blinking and forces his tremulous limbs to take two more steps toward the man with the broken sword. No trace of emotion or decision plays across Death’s alabaster face as Atrix staggers closer. He simply bends, touches his bloodless lips to Kay’s forehead, and disappears.
Atrix lurches forward to catch Kay, and they fall to the ground together. The room brightens as the candles blaze back to a full and yellow flame. Kay sucks in breath again in a sob as her eyes spring open. A round, pallid mark has appeared on her forehead. “Cousin?” she whispers, her eyes darting around the room. “Are you... are we...”
Beyond words, Atrix pulls her closer, and they weep in each other’s arms in the dark circle.
OUT ON THE plains, where the dawn is only a livid smear through the dense cloudbanks, the great Northern flanking force approaches the top of the far slope of the Arawai’s sacred basin. Since the march began, Ontaya has been catching flickers of evil intent from all around them, in particular from General Athriam d’Aramant and a tough, bullying squire named Vorent who has been trying to rival her ever since Wildengard. Today Vorent’s eyes are looking glazed and he doesn’t respond to Ontaya’s queries. She beckons Ash and her squire Corim d’Orbis close. “Something’s about to break,” she says flatly, and tells them what she’s feeling.
Scanning the horizon, Ash notices a scout ahead flash an unfamiliar signal back to Athriam. Ontaya spots Ash’s reaction and spurs Dorma toward the arrogant d’Aramant general, even while he turns to Sarquin with a look of horror on his face. Athriam dramatically bellows, “What? What have you done, man? Treaso... oof,” as Ontaya tackles him and brings him to the ground. Vorent, his eyes still glassy, goes for the flat-footed Sarquin with a poisoned knife, but Ash cuts him down and wheels his horse around to shield the d’Loriad general from any other attacks. Ontaya pounds Athriam’s head against the sun-baked earth until the treacherous d’Aramant passes out. Her squires form up around them, swords out and ready for a fight.
The host mills in confusion for a moment, as hundreds of Senalline nobles and thousands of soldiers from other countries try to take in what just happened. The d’Aramant knights, though angry, seem just as bewildered as those from other Families. Then with a thunder of hooves, many hundreds of Arawai riders charge over the ridge all along the rim of the basin, ululating triumphantly and hurling flint spears ahead of them.
His eyes bleak with comprehension, Sarquin d’Loriad raises the banner of Lynar and cries, “ATTACK!” Quickly rallying his stunned troops into combat formation, Senallin’s greatest general begins pushing toward the high ground. Ontaya and her squires are among the leading horsemen who clear a path, fighting in the saddle, with hundreds of stone arrows shattering against their shields and armor. Finally, bloodied and battered, Ontaya charges forward with fifty other Northern knights to claim the height of the ridge.
And sees, behind the charging Arawai hordes, a thousand utterly unfamiliar golden-skinned soldiers armored in brightly lacquered plate, bearing long steel spears and curved swords.
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havenstone
First Post
The Breaking of the North
KYLA WAKES UP from a cold, starless night on the plains, having walked east for most of the previous day to avoid the great host that she knew was marching south. The dust of Mercon’s seven thousand soldiers, which had smudged the whole western sky when she made her camp the previous night, has settled. Hearing grumbles of thunder from the west, Kyla quickly finishes the last of her water and sets off on foot for the last few hours’ trek to Guardwatch. She arrives shortly before dawn and heads to the merchants’ camp to find Tevrala, T’harai’s outcast sister.
Atrix’s relatives, the Perigords and Porphyry, have already left. “There was some sort of terrible row between Kendall and his daughter,” a friendly merchant tells Kyla over his breakfast. “Shouts and tears, who knows what. Then yesterday, Kendall sold all the stock he had to the rest of us – must have needed the gold awfully bad – and he and Porphyry rode off. I didn’t see the daughter go with them. She seemed like a nice girl. I can’t imagine what kind of trouble she got into that would need that kind of money.”
“And the Arawai woman who was with them?” Kyla asks cautiously.
The merchant purses his lips. “You be careful who you mention that woman to, lass. A day ago she left her babe with some pious cloth merchants of Velnar — asked them to make sure he’d be all right — and then she got onto one of Kendall’s horses and rode off through the guard cordon before the army left. Everyone knows she went back to die with her folk. I’m glad to see you haven’t done the same.”
Kyla shakes her head. “No. No, I don’t really have a folk. And her people will surely kill her if our army doesn’t. Where’s the baby?”
She finds the little albino with the Velnaryn merchants, who despite their piety are plainly fretful about having extended charity to the child of a wild Arawai. When Kyla explains that she is willing to take the infant off their hands, they are more than happy to hand him over. “Did his mother tell you his name?” she asks.
“Ah, he doesn’t have a name yet,” the portly clothier replies. “She said someone else from the family usually chooses it.”
Kyla picks up the sleeping child. “His name is T’harai,” she says in a quiet voice. “It means Lord of the Flames. He has an uncle by that name. A noble man who did what he could to end this war.”
The merchants shift uncomfortably. “Do you need any milk for him? He fed an hour ago. There’s a woman with the Kedris traders who has a babe only a week or two older.”
“The d’Loriads will help me find a wet nurse,” Kyla says shortly. “Thank you for your kindness to the boy.” Cradling little T’harai in her arms, she walks toward the castle, wondering what she can possibly say to Gareth.
She is halfway to the gates when she hears the wailing rising faintly from the southern plains, and sees a scattering of horsemen appear along the horizon. An anxious crowd forms around her and surges southward to meet the retreating knights. The first man to appear, a mountain rider of Kedris, is bleeding from an ugly head wound; his remaining armor is blackened and warped as though he had fallen into a forge. “Flee,” he shrieks, spittle flying from his cracked lips. “Flee! Demons fight with the Arawai this day!” He spurs his horse frantically into the crowd, trampling several helpless people in his desperation to keep riding north.
The next rider is scarcely less wild-eyed, but pauses for a moment to answer the frightened, demanding crowd. “The Arawai do not fight alone. A thousand thousand strange warriors have joined them, armored and masked and bearing steel. The monsters have called fire down upon us, and lightning. I saw General Zeresc swallowed up by the earth, along with thousands of our men. The other Generals of the North have fallen or are fleeing.” He cranes his neck to look back to the south. “The Arawai are pursuing us. Sweet Ain, run for your lives!”
FIREBALL AFTER FIREBALL bursts out of nowhere into the ranks of Northern knights around Ontaya. The smell of sulfur and scorched flesh is thick in the air. On the slopes of the basin, two thousand soldiers who have not yet even seen the alien, golden-skinned legion begin to panic as they witness the nobility of a half-dozen nations dying inexplicably in flames atop the ridge.
Unflinching, Ontaya bellows at her squires to make an orderly retreat. Despite the confusion and terror in their eyes, they fall back fighting with the discipline their paladin leader drilled into them over the three months’ march. They push back an Arawai charge, and during a second of calm, Ontaya is able to take in the battlefield. She sees the army collapsing, as the Arawai horsemen flank them, and from the other side of the ridge she hears the metallic clamor of the armored strangers marching into combat.
“Corim!” she shouts to the leader of her squires.
“Yes, m’lady?” All of Corim d’Orbis’ customary roguishness has been stripped away by fear, fury, and determination. Ontaya places her hands on him, healing him of his wounds and restoring him to full strength.
“You have command. Retreat and return to Lynar. Warn them of what’s happened here. Tell them that the d’Aramants betrayed us to this. Go—now!” Ontaya wheels Dorma around, knowing that Corim will want to protest, knowing that he will obey. Spotting a group of knights who are faltering against another Arawai advance, she charges back to them and holds the line long enough to give her squires a fighting chance.
Then the ranks of unspeaking, armored spearmen arrive along the ridge, and a horrified din rises from the Northern soldiers as two enormous bursts of flame devastate the middle of their ranks. An Arawai chieftain shouts in heavily accented Northron: “Throw down your arms, blaspheming kherasi! Surrender, or by Keyashai we will slay you to the last man.”
As swords and spears clatter to the ground all around her, Ontaya casts a searching glance to the south. She sees her seven squires break through the last barbarian line and ride for freedom, with the Arawai in hot pursuit.
KYLA WAKES UP from a cold, starless night on the plains, having walked east for most of the previous day to avoid the great host that she knew was marching south. The dust of Mercon’s seven thousand soldiers, which had smudged the whole western sky when she made her camp the previous night, has settled. Hearing grumbles of thunder from the west, Kyla quickly finishes the last of her water and sets off on foot for the last few hours’ trek to Guardwatch. She arrives shortly before dawn and heads to the merchants’ camp to find Tevrala, T’harai’s outcast sister.
Atrix’s relatives, the Perigords and Porphyry, have already left. “There was some sort of terrible row between Kendall and his daughter,” a friendly merchant tells Kyla over his breakfast. “Shouts and tears, who knows what. Then yesterday, Kendall sold all the stock he had to the rest of us – must have needed the gold awfully bad – and he and Porphyry rode off. I didn’t see the daughter go with them. She seemed like a nice girl. I can’t imagine what kind of trouble she got into that would need that kind of money.”
“And the Arawai woman who was with them?” Kyla asks cautiously.
The merchant purses his lips. “You be careful who you mention that woman to, lass. A day ago she left her babe with some pious cloth merchants of Velnar — asked them to make sure he’d be all right — and then she got onto one of Kendall’s horses and rode off through the guard cordon before the army left. Everyone knows she went back to die with her folk. I’m glad to see you haven’t done the same.”
Kyla shakes her head. “No. No, I don’t really have a folk. And her people will surely kill her if our army doesn’t. Where’s the baby?”
She finds the little albino with the Velnaryn merchants, who despite their piety are plainly fretful about having extended charity to the child of a wild Arawai. When Kyla explains that she is willing to take the infant off their hands, they are more than happy to hand him over. “Did his mother tell you his name?” she asks.
“Ah, he doesn’t have a name yet,” the portly clothier replies. “She said someone else from the family usually chooses it.”
Kyla picks up the sleeping child. “His name is T’harai,” she says in a quiet voice. “It means Lord of the Flames. He has an uncle by that name. A noble man who did what he could to end this war.”
The merchants shift uncomfortably. “Do you need any milk for him? He fed an hour ago. There’s a woman with the Kedris traders who has a babe only a week or two older.”
“The d’Loriads will help me find a wet nurse,” Kyla says shortly. “Thank you for your kindness to the boy.” Cradling little T’harai in her arms, she walks toward the castle, wondering what she can possibly say to Gareth.
She is halfway to the gates when she hears the wailing rising faintly from the southern plains, and sees a scattering of horsemen appear along the horizon. An anxious crowd forms around her and surges southward to meet the retreating knights. The first man to appear, a mountain rider of Kedris, is bleeding from an ugly head wound; his remaining armor is blackened and warped as though he had fallen into a forge. “Flee,” he shrieks, spittle flying from his cracked lips. “Flee! Demons fight with the Arawai this day!” He spurs his horse frantically into the crowd, trampling several helpless people in his desperation to keep riding north.
The next rider is scarcely less wild-eyed, but pauses for a moment to answer the frightened, demanding crowd. “The Arawai do not fight alone. A thousand thousand strange warriors have joined them, armored and masked and bearing steel. The monsters have called fire down upon us, and lightning. I saw General Zeresc swallowed up by the earth, along with thousands of our men. The other Generals of the North have fallen or are fleeing.” He cranes his neck to look back to the south. “The Arawai are pursuing us. Sweet Ain, run for your lives!”
FIREBALL AFTER FIREBALL bursts out of nowhere into the ranks of Northern knights around Ontaya. The smell of sulfur and scorched flesh is thick in the air. On the slopes of the basin, two thousand soldiers who have not yet even seen the alien, golden-skinned legion begin to panic as they witness the nobility of a half-dozen nations dying inexplicably in flames atop the ridge.
Unflinching, Ontaya bellows at her squires to make an orderly retreat. Despite the confusion and terror in their eyes, they fall back fighting with the discipline their paladin leader drilled into them over the three months’ march. They push back an Arawai charge, and during a second of calm, Ontaya is able to take in the battlefield. She sees the army collapsing, as the Arawai horsemen flank them, and from the other side of the ridge she hears the metallic clamor of the armored strangers marching into combat.
“Corim!” she shouts to the leader of her squires.
“Yes, m’lady?” All of Corim d’Orbis’ customary roguishness has been stripped away by fear, fury, and determination. Ontaya places her hands on him, healing him of his wounds and restoring him to full strength.
“You have command. Retreat and return to Lynar. Warn them of what’s happened here. Tell them that the d’Aramants betrayed us to this. Go—now!” Ontaya wheels Dorma around, knowing that Corim will want to protest, knowing that he will obey. Spotting a group of knights who are faltering against another Arawai advance, she charges back to them and holds the line long enough to give her squires a fighting chance.
Then the ranks of unspeaking, armored spearmen arrive along the ridge, and a horrified din rises from the Northern soldiers as two enormous bursts of flame devastate the middle of their ranks. An Arawai chieftain shouts in heavily accented Northron: “Throw down your arms, blaspheming kherasi! Surrender, or by Keyashai we will slay you to the last man.”
As swords and spears clatter to the ground all around her, Ontaya casts a searching glance to the south. She sees her seven squires break through the last barbarian line and ride for freedom, with the Arawai in hot pursuit.
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Orichalcum
First Post
Hey, can we see what happens when Corim reports back, or are you going to stick to the p.o.v. of the PCs?
And yeah, it's hard to see how the PCs even survived this section of the game. Well, except for those who didn't. Did you cliffhang for six months in real time, and where?
And yeah, it's hard to see how the PCs even survived this section of the game. Well, except for those who didn't. Did you cliffhang for six months in real time, and where?
havenstone
First Post
The Taken and the Dead
ATRIX AND KAY have managed to leave Guardwatch before the news arrived from the south to spark panic. At dawn, after reviving Atrix, the weary Dethasian high priest sought an inspired word from Ain on their next course of action — and was told that all of them should flee, without looking back. They walked out the main gate of the castle wearing hooded clerical robes. Atrix and Kay, both totally drained from their ordeal, told the Dethasians to press on along the road while they tried to find and warn their friends in the camp.
The first person they find, in the mercenary grounds, is Lucian di Tosca di Ferrau. The furious, impulsive Caragond refused to fight alongside the Senalline army after hearing about Atrix’s death and the brutal d’Aramant response. He looks astounded to see Atrix alive, but also unfeignedly pleased.
“You missed our sparring match,” Atrix says casually, trying to look like he isn’t about to collapse.
“You didn’t wait for me to accompany you to the field,” Lucian retorts. “I could have had a seventh torc, you could have lived, and we both could have marched off to fight the Arawai.” Warily, he walks over to them and considers their Dethasian disguise. “So how in Ain’s name did you manage this trick? I didn’t realize that they’d bring you back from the dead if you agreed to join the priesthood.”
Atrix almost manages a laugh. “No time now, di Ferrau. We have to find the others and run. The real priests are convinced that something terrible is coming.”
To their consternation they find the dwarrow all gone and Darren nowhere to be found, Carwyn and Lune’s gambling tent stripped, and Meeshak’s quarters empty. They debate heading back into Guardwatch to warn Atrix’s cousins, but as the first survivors of the southern calamity arrive and hysteria spreads, the castle gate is besieged by thousands of frantic camp followers seeking refuge. Atrix, Kay, and Lucian reluctantly start trudging along the crowded road to the north. To their relief, they are soon overtaken by Kyla; her albino baby T’harai wakes up and gives a reedy wail as the friends enthusiastically embrace each other.
A half hour later, they hear a whip crack and a familiar grim voice warning, “Not too close to the cart, gentlemen.” Kyla looks around in delight to see Meeshak carrying a drover’s whip, standing atop a wagon piled high with wool sacks and bolsters. Carwyn and Lune are guiding the cart-horse, and Nina and Darren are perched among the sacks, casually brandishing daggers at anyone who casts a covetous glance at the cart or horse. Kyla waves them down, and for a moment all the horrors of the last few days are forgotten as the old friends discover each other alive. The group in the cart are dumbfounded to see Atrix walking and talking, but he shrugs off their whispered questions with a promise to explain later, as he helps lift an exhausted Kay into the wagon bed.
“On the north side of the camp, we met a merchant who was happy to part with this cart and goods for an unreasonable amount of our gold,” Carwyn explains. “We thought – hoped – that we might need it if we found injured friends along the way.”
ATRIX CLIMBS UP into the wool sacks and sees the wretched Agerain trussed in the bottom of the wagon, hidden from view. “di Ferrau, I need your sword,” Atrix demands instantly. Agerain writhes and screams through his gag at the sight of the supposedly deceased d’Loriad. Nina only just manages to reach them in time. Atrix directs a dangerous stare at the fingers gripping his sword hand. “Let go of me.”
“I can’t let you kill him.”
Fury simmers up in Atrix’s eyes. “Nina, allow me to say something that’s been on my mind for months: what the hell exactly do you think you’re doing?”
Nina shakes his head, unable to explain his sense of obligation. “Atrix, look at him. He’s done all the harm he can do, and now he’s at our mercy. This isn’t the time to kill him.”
“My brother was tortured to death because of him,” Atrix snarls. “Don’t talk to me about mercy.”
“We might yet need a hostage, Atrix,” Meeshak murmurs from the front of the wagon. “Or someone who can admit the d’Aramants’ treachery. There are greater betrayals here than your brother’s murder. We’ll punish the d’Aramant when we’re sure he’s given us everything we need. And believe me, he’ll be punished appropriately for what he’s done.”
After a long silence, Atrix pulls away from Nina and hands Lucian back his saber, before checking that Kay is comfortably cradled between two rolled up bolsters. He sits at the rear of the cart, holding Kay’s hand, poised painfully between equally powerful impulses toward violence and tenderness. Nina glances down at Agerain, whose eyes are tearing up with fear and hatred but show no trace of gratitude. Uncle, Nina thinks bleakly, you always said that there was more to the clan than the assassins’ code – that we were more than a pack of killers. I hope you’d understand me if you were here now.
The wagon reaches the top of a rise overlooking a river ford. To their despair, the small group of refugees see a great horde of Arawai galloping toward the road, pursuing a small band of d’Aramant cavalry. “That’s Mercon,” Darren declares urgently, pointing to the leader of the knights. “And... and Calla.”
Kyla whips out her bow and Carwyn her crossbow. Every other party member who has anything left to throw or shoot sends it in the direction of the treacherous d’Aramant General. The already wounded Mercon makes it across the ford, only to collapse as Kyla’s fifth arrow takes him between the shoulder blades. He slumps into Calla’s arms; Darren’s throat goes dry at the anguish in her face, and he shouts, “No – he’s dead, don’t hit the girl!” as Kyla prepares to shoot again. The d’Aramant knights ride in to prop up their General’s limp form, and flee out of sight.
Then the hundreds of Arawai thunder up to the ford, and wheel around to face the tide of hopeless refugees, bows and spears in hand. “Surrender, kherasi,” one of them calls. “Turn back to the castle, or be slain.”
HERDED BY THE Arawai to the blood-soaked plains south of Guardwatch, the haggard Senallines find themselves surrounded by a seemingly endless multitude of armored strangers. The Arawai’s mysterious allies are thoroughly unfamiliar and unsettling – the curious designs engraved on their plate mail; the frightening, inhuman masks attached to their commanders’ broad helmets; the smell of unknown spices that surrounds them; the tightly disciplined silence with which they carry out their work, only rarely snapping out terse orders in their musical, incomprehensible tongue. The Northerners are thoroughly, brusquely searched by a hundred men with gold or brown skin, wearing gray tunics and loincloths. All the captives’ weapons and goods are stripped from them, and they are left wearing only their simplest clothes. Darren finally loses his needle shooter, but manages in a desperate feat of dexterity to retrieve his dwarrow amulet unnoticed from the man who takes it from him.
After the search, the thousands of prisoners are forced into single file and moved along by silent soldiers with long spears. The line stretches on almost interminably to a man clad in shining gold-colored robes, who takes a single instant to touch his hand to the forehead of each captive and point them into either one thorn-walled corral or the other. As the friends approach the end of the line, they realize uneasily that this is a division by nobility; the minority who possess high blood are shackled and separated from those without. Atrix notes that a few questionable Senalline aristocrats who successfully claimed descent from a Family bloodline are sorted into the non-noble camp, despite having been accepted as noble in practice. In fact, the friends from Rim Square are all placed without hesitation into the non-noble category – even Atrix himself, to his surprise and mild annoyance. He considers protesting, but is pushed on before he can figure out how to communicate the mistake. The golden-robed man pauses for an additional second on both Agerain and baby T’harai, but waves them through into the non-noble enclosure.
By late evening, close to a thousand prisoners from the flanking force are also marched into camp. Ontaya and Ash are reunited with the party – Ontaya’s adoption into the d’Orbis clearly renders her non-noble – while the grim-faced General Sarquin and most of the knights are ushered into the other corral. On the noble side of the divide, Atrix spots his best friend Jaron d’Syrnon, his dashing cousin Alan d’Loriad, and Ontaya’s cousin Ellikard, all captured on the battlefield. With her pulse hammering in her throat, Kyla also sees a badly wounded Gareth, who must have left Guardwatch to find her at some point, apparently without Adgar. The corrals are too far apart for voices to carry over the groans of the injured, but the friends try to communicate as best they can with waves and gestures.
The gray and red moons are high in the sky by the time the sorting is complete. Then several hundred armored spearmen surround each corral. A dozen figures entirely swathed in black cloth approach the noble enclosure, wearing silver skull pendants that glint in the moonlight and bearing long, curved swords. The strange soldiers drag a cluster of noble captives out by their shackles and force them to kneel before the black-clad men.
Kyla screams harshly and Darren feels the bile rise in his throat as the executioners’ swords rise and fall, parting heads from bodies without apparent effort. Ontaya roars, barely suppressing her berserker rage, and Atrix tears at the thick thorn fence in denial as the soldiers approach his uncle Sarquin. The d’Loriad General stills his captors with an intense glare, rises to his feet and walks to his doom past the host of sobbing, horrified nobles. The little group of friends from Rim Square sink to the ground and avert their eyes in anguish as it becomes clear that the beheadings will spare no one.
By morning, not a single Northern noble remains alive.
Silhouetted on the southern horizon stand scores of massive, wheeled cages.
This marks the end of “The Arawai Campaign” – Part One of The Talismans of Aerdrim.
ATRIX AND KAY have managed to leave Guardwatch before the news arrived from the south to spark panic. At dawn, after reviving Atrix, the weary Dethasian high priest sought an inspired word from Ain on their next course of action — and was told that all of them should flee, without looking back. They walked out the main gate of the castle wearing hooded clerical robes. Atrix and Kay, both totally drained from their ordeal, told the Dethasians to press on along the road while they tried to find and warn their friends in the camp.
The first person they find, in the mercenary grounds, is Lucian di Tosca di Ferrau. The furious, impulsive Caragond refused to fight alongside the Senalline army after hearing about Atrix’s death and the brutal d’Aramant response. He looks astounded to see Atrix alive, but also unfeignedly pleased.
“You missed our sparring match,” Atrix says casually, trying to look like he isn’t about to collapse.
“You didn’t wait for me to accompany you to the field,” Lucian retorts. “I could have had a seventh torc, you could have lived, and we both could have marched off to fight the Arawai.” Warily, he walks over to them and considers their Dethasian disguise. “So how in Ain’s name did you manage this trick? I didn’t realize that they’d bring you back from the dead if you agreed to join the priesthood.”
Atrix almost manages a laugh. “No time now, di Ferrau. We have to find the others and run. The real priests are convinced that something terrible is coming.”
To their consternation they find the dwarrow all gone and Darren nowhere to be found, Carwyn and Lune’s gambling tent stripped, and Meeshak’s quarters empty. They debate heading back into Guardwatch to warn Atrix’s cousins, but as the first survivors of the southern calamity arrive and hysteria spreads, the castle gate is besieged by thousands of frantic camp followers seeking refuge. Atrix, Kay, and Lucian reluctantly start trudging along the crowded road to the north. To their relief, they are soon overtaken by Kyla; her albino baby T’harai wakes up and gives a reedy wail as the friends enthusiastically embrace each other.
A half hour later, they hear a whip crack and a familiar grim voice warning, “Not too close to the cart, gentlemen.” Kyla looks around in delight to see Meeshak carrying a drover’s whip, standing atop a wagon piled high with wool sacks and bolsters. Carwyn and Lune are guiding the cart-horse, and Nina and Darren are perched among the sacks, casually brandishing daggers at anyone who casts a covetous glance at the cart or horse. Kyla waves them down, and for a moment all the horrors of the last few days are forgotten as the old friends discover each other alive. The group in the cart are dumbfounded to see Atrix walking and talking, but he shrugs off their whispered questions with a promise to explain later, as he helps lift an exhausted Kay into the wagon bed.
“On the north side of the camp, we met a merchant who was happy to part with this cart and goods for an unreasonable amount of our gold,” Carwyn explains. “We thought – hoped – that we might need it if we found injured friends along the way.”
ATRIX CLIMBS UP into the wool sacks and sees the wretched Agerain trussed in the bottom of the wagon, hidden from view. “di Ferrau, I need your sword,” Atrix demands instantly. Agerain writhes and screams through his gag at the sight of the supposedly deceased d’Loriad. Nina only just manages to reach them in time. Atrix directs a dangerous stare at the fingers gripping his sword hand. “Let go of me.”
“I can’t let you kill him.”
Fury simmers up in Atrix’s eyes. “Nina, allow me to say something that’s been on my mind for months: what the hell exactly do you think you’re doing?”
Nina shakes his head, unable to explain his sense of obligation. “Atrix, look at him. He’s done all the harm he can do, and now he’s at our mercy. This isn’t the time to kill him.”
“My brother was tortured to death because of him,” Atrix snarls. “Don’t talk to me about mercy.”
“We might yet need a hostage, Atrix,” Meeshak murmurs from the front of the wagon. “Or someone who can admit the d’Aramants’ treachery. There are greater betrayals here than your brother’s murder. We’ll punish the d’Aramant when we’re sure he’s given us everything we need. And believe me, he’ll be punished appropriately for what he’s done.”
After a long silence, Atrix pulls away from Nina and hands Lucian back his saber, before checking that Kay is comfortably cradled between two rolled up bolsters. He sits at the rear of the cart, holding Kay’s hand, poised painfully between equally powerful impulses toward violence and tenderness. Nina glances down at Agerain, whose eyes are tearing up with fear and hatred but show no trace of gratitude. Uncle, Nina thinks bleakly, you always said that there was more to the clan than the assassins’ code – that we were more than a pack of killers. I hope you’d understand me if you were here now.
The wagon reaches the top of a rise overlooking a river ford. To their despair, the small group of refugees see a great horde of Arawai galloping toward the road, pursuing a small band of d’Aramant cavalry. “That’s Mercon,” Darren declares urgently, pointing to the leader of the knights. “And... and Calla.”
Kyla whips out her bow and Carwyn her crossbow. Every other party member who has anything left to throw or shoot sends it in the direction of the treacherous d’Aramant General. The already wounded Mercon makes it across the ford, only to collapse as Kyla’s fifth arrow takes him between the shoulder blades. He slumps into Calla’s arms; Darren’s throat goes dry at the anguish in her face, and he shouts, “No – he’s dead, don’t hit the girl!” as Kyla prepares to shoot again. The d’Aramant knights ride in to prop up their General’s limp form, and flee out of sight.
Then the hundreds of Arawai thunder up to the ford, and wheel around to face the tide of hopeless refugees, bows and spears in hand. “Surrender, kherasi,” one of them calls. “Turn back to the castle, or be slain.”
HERDED BY THE Arawai to the blood-soaked plains south of Guardwatch, the haggard Senallines find themselves surrounded by a seemingly endless multitude of armored strangers. The Arawai’s mysterious allies are thoroughly unfamiliar and unsettling – the curious designs engraved on their plate mail; the frightening, inhuman masks attached to their commanders’ broad helmets; the smell of unknown spices that surrounds them; the tightly disciplined silence with which they carry out their work, only rarely snapping out terse orders in their musical, incomprehensible tongue. The Northerners are thoroughly, brusquely searched by a hundred men with gold or brown skin, wearing gray tunics and loincloths. All the captives’ weapons and goods are stripped from them, and they are left wearing only their simplest clothes. Darren finally loses his needle shooter, but manages in a desperate feat of dexterity to retrieve his dwarrow amulet unnoticed from the man who takes it from him.
After the search, the thousands of prisoners are forced into single file and moved along by silent soldiers with long spears. The line stretches on almost interminably to a man clad in shining gold-colored robes, who takes a single instant to touch his hand to the forehead of each captive and point them into either one thorn-walled corral or the other. As the friends approach the end of the line, they realize uneasily that this is a division by nobility; the minority who possess high blood are shackled and separated from those without. Atrix notes that a few questionable Senalline aristocrats who successfully claimed descent from a Family bloodline are sorted into the non-noble camp, despite having been accepted as noble in practice. In fact, the friends from Rim Square are all placed without hesitation into the non-noble category – even Atrix himself, to his surprise and mild annoyance. He considers protesting, but is pushed on before he can figure out how to communicate the mistake. The golden-robed man pauses for an additional second on both Agerain and baby T’harai, but waves them through into the non-noble enclosure.
By late evening, close to a thousand prisoners from the flanking force are also marched into camp. Ontaya and Ash are reunited with the party – Ontaya’s adoption into the d’Orbis clearly renders her non-noble – while the grim-faced General Sarquin and most of the knights are ushered into the other corral. On the noble side of the divide, Atrix spots his best friend Jaron d’Syrnon, his dashing cousin Alan d’Loriad, and Ontaya’s cousin Ellikard, all captured on the battlefield. With her pulse hammering in her throat, Kyla also sees a badly wounded Gareth, who must have left Guardwatch to find her at some point, apparently without Adgar. The corrals are too far apart for voices to carry over the groans of the injured, but the friends try to communicate as best they can with waves and gestures.
The gray and red moons are high in the sky by the time the sorting is complete. Then several hundred armored spearmen surround each corral. A dozen figures entirely swathed in black cloth approach the noble enclosure, wearing silver skull pendants that glint in the moonlight and bearing long, curved swords. The strange soldiers drag a cluster of noble captives out by their shackles and force them to kneel before the black-clad men.
Kyla screams harshly and Darren feels the bile rise in his throat as the executioners’ swords rise and fall, parting heads from bodies without apparent effort. Ontaya roars, barely suppressing her berserker rage, and Atrix tears at the thick thorn fence in denial as the soldiers approach his uncle Sarquin. The d’Loriad General stills his captors with an intense glare, rises to his feet and walks to his doom past the host of sobbing, horrified nobles. The little group of friends from Rim Square sink to the ground and avert their eyes in anguish as it becomes clear that the beheadings will spare no one.
By morning, not a single Northern noble remains alive.
Silhouetted on the southern horizon stand scores of massive, wheeled cages.
This marks the end of “The Arawai Campaign” – Part One of The Talismans of Aerdrim.
Last edited:
havenstone
First Post
We're sticking with PC p.o.v. All things in good time...
The capture of the party by the Arawai's mysterious spellcasting allies marked the end of our first semester of play... so I guess that must have been May or June '96. I spent the fall in London, and we resumed play in Jan '97.
Nina's player, sadly, wasn't able to stick with us, and Kyla's player left temporarily as well -- you'll all see those points of departure in the narrative that follows. On the plus side, their leaving opened up space for a new arrival. *grin* Be getting to you soon, Ori...
Feir Fireb
First Post
Yeah, I believe the appropriate response at this point is, "Geez, grandpa! What did you read me this thing for?"
Orichalcum
First Post
I always wondered - how did the "noble test" work? Was their blood actually different in some way from non-nobles? Did it only descend through the paternal line?
No wonder folks were impatient for your return that fall.
No wonder folks were impatient for your return that fall.
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