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Rule of Darkness -Book II Chapter 3 Last Update 19 June 2008- Book I Completed
Ghostknight
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Book II: The Realms of Madness: Prologue
My aplogies for my tardiness- life just isn't fair at times. But, never mind that- on with the story!
Three hundred bears before the establishment of Harmony Hall
Captain Ferilice looked at the massive rent in the walls that protected Hidden Vale. The scars on his face danced, and, slowly, the pattern they formed created a blue light which spread across the ground, creeping over the wall, through the gap that led deep into the darkness. Behind him, his troops stirred, anticipation running across their faces as the blue light changed to red and a trail of light pointed their way. Smiling, the captain waved the troops forward. One question remained, one whose answer he wished he had before his force came into contact with those who had destroyed the wall that led deep into the unknown, deeper than even the Dark Paeons would tread, those that had led a large number of slaves, undetected, through his city and into this tunnel.
The troops moved forward, their eyes seeing easily through the darkness, their weapons and shields of the finest steel, the edges lined with cold steel, the blades engraved with runes that drew magical energy within, energy that enhanced and made them far deadlier than the mundane blades wielded by the majority of those they attacked, to kill or enslave. So they feared nothing as they went down, as they moved forward in deadly silence, familiar and comfortable in the utter dark of the world below.
The first of them fell silently, not even feeling a faint stir of wind as a shadowy figure stepped out of the solid rock, plunging its hands deep into his body, ignoring armour and skin, to draw out his heart, its other hand catching the body and letting it drop gently to the floor. One by one they fell, their blades unbloodied, their deaths uncontested. Eventually the slaughter was noticed, and the remaining Dark Paeons huddled together. As they stood there, one fell, his chest a bloody hole through which his blood gushed and from which his intestines hung.
“By the Gods of Ruin, we need light!” Captain Ferilice’s voice was gruff, his fear and stress not visible in his face or actions, but making his voice tremble. His fingers reached up, tracing his tattoos, a nail with a razor sharp edge scouring the pattern, drawing blood. As the blood fell, light burst forth, washing across them all, showing a plain stone passage, littered with the bodies of his men. There was no sign of their attackers. Slowly they moved backwards, the light illuminating the passage clearly. No one relaxed till they arrived back at Hidden Vale.
“Collapse this tunnel. The slaves are lost, as are the men we left behind. Whatever lies below must be left undisturbed.” The Captain’s voice was clear, his tone indicating he would listen to no arguments. He turned and stalked off, ignoring the miners and others who had hoped to explore, to plunder the depths.
***
The slaves were hurried down the tunnel. They had been summonsed by the strange lights, the voices resonating in their heads, calling them to freedom. Was it the promise of freedom that drove them? For some, perhaps, but many had been born to slave families, had known no other life and did not know what was meant to freedom. Perhaps they were driven by the fervour of their captured fellows, those that the Dark Paeons had captured and enslaved.
The hundreds of slaves hurried down the dark passage, the dwarves helping the humans who were blind in the darkness. The tunnel was smooth, unmarred, as if the rock had been melted, flowed down into the depths like a river flowing towards the sea. Eventually the tunnel levelled out, and a glow could be seen from ahead. The slaves hurried forward, those who could not see in the dark rejoicing at the light.
As they neared the light, the noise began. A humming that came to their ears, slowly increasing in volume, a disturbing noise that set their teeth on edge As they neared, they could distinguish more than just the one hum, but overlapping notes that interwove between each other, creating a harmony that was disconcordant, a mad melody that was a raucous noise. Uncertain, scared of the unknown ahead, the group slowed down, coming to an uncertain halt. That was when the flames sprung up behind them, moving slowly forward, shepherding the slaves into the light ahead. With no choice left to them, the slaves moved forward, stepping into the light,
The chamber was huge, massive globes floating in the air, shedding light downwards, leaving as much hidden as was revealed. The floor was covered in murals, marked into the ground with precious stones, cemented into the ground with cement stained red and gold. The slaves saw the murals, each one illuminated by the globe hanging above, the closest ones representing massive beings, creatures out of nightmare, bulbous bodies covered with tentacles, legs and arms sticking out at odd points which made no sense, heads adorned with massive mouths filled with fangs just as haphazardly placed. Disturbed, the slaves wandered between the murals, noting that each one produced its own note, the humming emanating from beneath the murals.
A curious orc, Sheriak of the Hidden Claw tribe, one of the lsesser clans that had hidden themselves with their traditional enemies, the dwarves, leant down, running his green hand across a massive emerald, his fingers tracing the space between it and an equally gigantic sapphire. He shook his finger, a tear from a jagged edge of one of the gems. He sucked on it, shrugging and smiling at his fellow escapees. A silly mistake, anyone could make.
The blood rolled across the sapphire, dropping of the edge, into the cement. It hit the cement, and evaporated in a puff of smoke. Simultaneously, Sheriak let out a shriek, his hand flying out as the cut on his finger smoked, blood shooting out, disappearing into red tinged steam that floated into the over hanging globes. It did not take long, soon there was nothing left of Sheriak but an emaciated corpse, the green tinged skin blackened from being cooked from within.
The rest of the escaped slaves gathered together, their fear driving them together. Terrified, they peered around, their eyes peering out from the bright lights into the shadows they could not see, the incessant humming hurting their ears, the conflicting notes driving their unease. Thus, when the apparitions appeared, dark talons dripping with some strange colourless ichor, most were too terrified to move or even to scream. Some tried fleeing, only to find that the strange apparitions were coming in from all sides. The screams started as the cutting started, and echoed long after the throats from they had been uttered had been ripped apart.
The blood from the hundreds of slaves steamed into the air, absorbed into the floating globes, the light changing from white to red. The red light shone down onto the murals, the red light hiding their details, but their growing, the stones of their murals flowing together, growing into the creatures they depicted was all the more frightening. The apparitions that had slaughtered the slaves knelt down, their heads bowed. As one they bowed their heads and unsheathed their claws, driving them deep into their own bodies, their blood going to feed the growth of their masters.
***
Present Day
The peaks broke through the clouds, their tips eternally hidden from sight. The peaks formed a barrier, one beyond which only legends lived, beyond which no one ventured except for in stories told of many years ago. Now dive down, head north into those legendary lands. Find the sea at their base, the massive waves crashing against them, the white spray flying high into the sky.
Be the bird that flies above the waves, skimming across the water, flying forever further north. Ignore the cold as it starts to bite, the ice floating in the water, taking ever more space until nothing but a sheet of frozen water lies below. Go even further, ignoring the massive winds that buffer you, that drive everything before them, throwing them aside. Let the winds take you, through up the iron sided mountains that thrust the ice, through the gap into the hidden valley
Stay hidden, speak not, move not, for now you see the pack. See how the massive creatures run, their legs ending in massive pads, blue steel claws retracting and emerging in their agitation, the hooks on the bottom of their pads gripping the ice, letting them run faster than a horse in the sure footing of a grasslands plain.
Soar away, leave them, flow further, up to the cavern mouth at which stands Briokel. White fur flows down his arms, his back, forming a mane that turns into a crest atop his head. Huge arms hang limp at his side, his face turned towards the sky, his elongated snout sniffing the air. His mouth opens, fangs lining his mouth, rows of teeth going all the way down his throat. He throws his head back, howling into the night. As his howl reverberates across the vale, he change; his body bends, arms become legs, hair shifting till he looks like just another member of the pack below, though larger, stronger, his mane more pronounced. He races down, ready to lead the pack, to do the bidding of the hidden masters with the cavern, to once more ensure that any who dare venture this deep into the unknown return to tell no tales to those that live beyond the mountain barrier.
***
Leave the pack and their fiendish master, return over the sea, travel to the lands where the sun is warm. Soar over the mountains; look down onto the endless plains, at the grass that undulates, razor sharp leaves dripping red sap onto the ground. Pass over the sea of bones through which the dead walk, their endless hunger unsated, their faces forever turned to stare across the ocean of grass that would shred them, destroy even their undead existence if they dared to venture through it.
Through their ranks passes Glazerou. Once a mighty king, he sold his soul, and those of his people, to the devil’s that rule. Now, he rules nothing, just the remnant of a mighty nation, those strong enough to survive the taint, to give in to their fiendish masters and embrace a new existence. He raises his staff and darkness flows forth, engulfing all around him, the dead and the Changed alike. Those still alive rejoice in the darkness, feeling it invigorate them, those already dead loose their free will, and turn blank, unseeing eyes to him, their jaws hanging slack.
As if it were waves breaking on the shore, the red grass dips, falling to the side as a massive stone ship pushes through, its obsidian hull undamaged by the grass. Rope ladders, the rope of woven metal fibre are thrown down and the dead swarm up, filling the hold of the colossal ship. Glazerou and his people climb up behind them. Nothing awaits them on board, save a massive black crystal that pulsates softly. Galzerou nods, he has his orders, and mounts the forecastle.
“The message has come from Jelial. We go forth to find those who reject his mercy, who seek to deny is ascension. Those who call us traitors for choosing Jelial, the divine one, over archaic notions of holiness, good and putiry, will soon learn what they miss, as they watch us feast ion their friends dead bodies, before supping on them as they writhe, alive as we enjoy their bones!”
A cheer breaks out from amongst the Changed, greedy red eyes staring forth, tongues slipping between sharp teeth and small tentacles unclasp from their necks, slithering forth, trying to find sustenance. Morse ships arrive, and are filled with the dead and the Changed, until a small armada sails forth, heading towards the mountains.
My aplogies for my tardiness- life just isn't fair at times. But, never mind that- on with the story!
***
PrologueThree hundred bears before the establishment of Harmony Hall
Captain Ferilice looked at the massive rent in the walls that protected Hidden Vale. The scars on his face danced, and, slowly, the pattern they formed created a blue light which spread across the ground, creeping over the wall, through the gap that led deep into the darkness. Behind him, his troops stirred, anticipation running across their faces as the blue light changed to red and a trail of light pointed their way. Smiling, the captain waved the troops forward. One question remained, one whose answer he wished he had before his force came into contact with those who had destroyed the wall that led deep into the unknown, deeper than even the Dark Paeons would tread, those that had led a large number of slaves, undetected, through his city and into this tunnel.
The troops moved forward, their eyes seeing easily through the darkness, their weapons and shields of the finest steel, the edges lined with cold steel, the blades engraved with runes that drew magical energy within, energy that enhanced and made them far deadlier than the mundane blades wielded by the majority of those they attacked, to kill or enslave. So they feared nothing as they went down, as they moved forward in deadly silence, familiar and comfortable in the utter dark of the world below.
The first of them fell silently, not even feeling a faint stir of wind as a shadowy figure stepped out of the solid rock, plunging its hands deep into his body, ignoring armour and skin, to draw out his heart, its other hand catching the body and letting it drop gently to the floor. One by one they fell, their blades unbloodied, their deaths uncontested. Eventually the slaughter was noticed, and the remaining Dark Paeons huddled together. As they stood there, one fell, his chest a bloody hole through which his blood gushed and from which his intestines hung.
“By the Gods of Ruin, we need light!” Captain Ferilice’s voice was gruff, his fear and stress not visible in his face or actions, but making his voice tremble. His fingers reached up, tracing his tattoos, a nail with a razor sharp edge scouring the pattern, drawing blood. As the blood fell, light burst forth, washing across them all, showing a plain stone passage, littered with the bodies of his men. There was no sign of their attackers. Slowly they moved backwards, the light illuminating the passage clearly. No one relaxed till they arrived back at Hidden Vale.
“Collapse this tunnel. The slaves are lost, as are the men we left behind. Whatever lies below must be left undisturbed.” The Captain’s voice was clear, his tone indicating he would listen to no arguments. He turned and stalked off, ignoring the miners and others who had hoped to explore, to plunder the depths.
***
The slaves were hurried down the tunnel. They had been summonsed by the strange lights, the voices resonating in their heads, calling them to freedom. Was it the promise of freedom that drove them? For some, perhaps, but many had been born to slave families, had known no other life and did not know what was meant to freedom. Perhaps they were driven by the fervour of their captured fellows, those that the Dark Paeons had captured and enslaved.
The hundreds of slaves hurried down the dark passage, the dwarves helping the humans who were blind in the darkness. The tunnel was smooth, unmarred, as if the rock had been melted, flowed down into the depths like a river flowing towards the sea. Eventually the tunnel levelled out, and a glow could be seen from ahead. The slaves hurried forward, those who could not see in the dark rejoicing at the light.
As they neared the light, the noise began. A humming that came to their ears, slowly increasing in volume, a disturbing noise that set their teeth on edge As they neared, they could distinguish more than just the one hum, but overlapping notes that interwove between each other, creating a harmony that was disconcordant, a mad melody that was a raucous noise. Uncertain, scared of the unknown ahead, the group slowed down, coming to an uncertain halt. That was when the flames sprung up behind them, moving slowly forward, shepherding the slaves into the light ahead. With no choice left to them, the slaves moved forward, stepping into the light,
The chamber was huge, massive globes floating in the air, shedding light downwards, leaving as much hidden as was revealed. The floor was covered in murals, marked into the ground with precious stones, cemented into the ground with cement stained red and gold. The slaves saw the murals, each one illuminated by the globe hanging above, the closest ones representing massive beings, creatures out of nightmare, bulbous bodies covered with tentacles, legs and arms sticking out at odd points which made no sense, heads adorned with massive mouths filled with fangs just as haphazardly placed. Disturbed, the slaves wandered between the murals, noting that each one produced its own note, the humming emanating from beneath the murals.
A curious orc, Sheriak of the Hidden Claw tribe, one of the lsesser clans that had hidden themselves with their traditional enemies, the dwarves, leant down, running his green hand across a massive emerald, his fingers tracing the space between it and an equally gigantic sapphire. He shook his finger, a tear from a jagged edge of one of the gems. He sucked on it, shrugging and smiling at his fellow escapees. A silly mistake, anyone could make.
The blood rolled across the sapphire, dropping of the edge, into the cement. It hit the cement, and evaporated in a puff of smoke. Simultaneously, Sheriak let out a shriek, his hand flying out as the cut on his finger smoked, blood shooting out, disappearing into red tinged steam that floated into the over hanging globes. It did not take long, soon there was nothing left of Sheriak but an emaciated corpse, the green tinged skin blackened from being cooked from within.
The rest of the escaped slaves gathered together, their fear driving them together. Terrified, they peered around, their eyes peering out from the bright lights into the shadows they could not see, the incessant humming hurting their ears, the conflicting notes driving their unease. Thus, when the apparitions appeared, dark talons dripping with some strange colourless ichor, most were too terrified to move or even to scream. Some tried fleeing, only to find that the strange apparitions were coming in from all sides. The screams started as the cutting started, and echoed long after the throats from they had been uttered had been ripped apart.
The blood from the hundreds of slaves steamed into the air, absorbed into the floating globes, the light changing from white to red. The red light shone down onto the murals, the red light hiding their details, but their growing, the stones of their murals flowing together, growing into the creatures they depicted was all the more frightening. The apparitions that had slaughtered the slaves knelt down, their heads bowed. As one they bowed their heads and unsheathed their claws, driving them deep into their own bodies, their blood going to feed the growth of their masters.
***
Present Day
The peaks broke through the clouds, their tips eternally hidden from sight. The peaks formed a barrier, one beyond which only legends lived, beyond which no one ventured except for in stories told of many years ago. Now dive down, head north into those legendary lands. Find the sea at their base, the massive waves crashing against them, the white spray flying high into the sky.
Be the bird that flies above the waves, skimming across the water, flying forever further north. Ignore the cold as it starts to bite, the ice floating in the water, taking ever more space until nothing but a sheet of frozen water lies below. Go even further, ignoring the massive winds that buffer you, that drive everything before them, throwing them aside. Let the winds take you, through up the iron sided mountains that thrust the ice, through the gap into the hidden valley
Stay hidden, speak not, move not, for now you see the pack. See how the massive creatures run, their legs ending in massive pads, blue steel claws retracting and emerging in their agitation, the hooks on the bottom of their pads gripping the ice, letting them run faster than a horse in the sure footing of a grasslands plain.
Soar away, leave them, flow further, up to the cavern mouth at which stands Briokel. White fur flows down his arms, his back, forming a mane that turns into a crest atop his head. Huge arms hang limp at his side, his face turned towards the sky, his elongated snout sniffing the air. His mouth opens, fangs lining his mouth, rows of teeth going all the way down his throat. He throws his head back, howling into the night. As his howl reverberates across the vale, he change; his body bends, arms become legs, hair shifting till he looks like just another member of the pack below, though larger, stronger, his mane more pronounced. He races down, ready to lead the pack, to do the bidding of the hidden masters with the cavern, to once more ensure that any who dare venture this deep into the unknown return to tell no tales to those that live beyond the mountain barrier.
***
Leave the pack and their fiendish master, return over the sea, travel to the lands where the sun is warm. Soar over the mountains; look down onto the endless plains, at the grass that undulates, razor sharp leaves dripping red sap onto the ground. Pass over the sea of bones through which the dead walk, their endless hunger unsated, their faces forever turned to stare across the ocean of grass that would shred them, destroy even their undead existence if they dared to venture through it.
Through their ranks passes Glazerou. Once a mighty king, he sold his soul, and those of his people, to the devil’s that rule. Now, he rules nothing, just the remnant of a mighty nation, those strong enough to survive the taint, to give in to their fiendish masters and embrace a new existence. He raises his staff and darkness flows forth, engulfing all around him, the dead and the Changed alike. Those still alive rejoice in the darkness, feeling it invigorate them, those already dead loose their free will, and turn blank, unseeing eyes to him, their jaws hanging slack.
As if it were waves breaking on the shore, the red grass dips, falling to the side as a massive stone ship pushes through, its obsidian hull undamaged by the grass. Rope ladders, the rope of woven metal fibre are thrown down and the dead swarm up, filling the hold of the colossal ship. Glazerou and his people climb up behind them. Nothing awaits them on board, save a massive black crystal that pulsates softly. Galzerou nods, he has his orders, and mounts the forecastle.
“The message has come from Jelial. We go forth to find those who reject his mercy, who seek to deny is ascension. Those who call us traitors for choosing Jelial, the divine one, over archaic notions of holiness, good and putiry, will soon learn what they miss, as they watch us feast ion their friends dead bodies, before supping on them as they writhe, alive as we enjoy their bones!”
A cheer breaks out from amongst the Changed, greedy red eyes staring forth, tongues slipping between sharp teeth and small tentacles unclasp from their necks, slithering forth, trying to find sustenance. Morse ships arrive, and are filled with the dead and the Changed, until a small armada sails forth, heading towards the mountains.
BLACKDIRGE
Adventurer
Neurotic said:Hey, Ghostknight where's our update?!
I know Blackdirge is your rolemodel but you don't need to take everything from him
Let real life out of your life and write, write, write!
Please?!
What, this rookie? Man, I could go 6 months between updates without even trying hard.
But I will admit, it's nice to bump someone else's story hour for a change.
BD
Ghostknight
First Post
My apologies to everyone. A chapter will be up in the next 24 hours. Unfortunately I have not had an internet connection- it happens when you are going bankrupt and are busy negotiating with the banks... Ah wellm such is life. Now if only I could be the next JK Rowling- somehow I don't think Jeria has quite the same appeal :\
BLACKDIRGE
Adventurer
Ghostknight said:
Wow, sorry to hear that, man. But as corny as it might sound, some of my best writing has come during times of personal distress and disaster. For some reason, nothing gets the creative juices flowing like angst and misery. Don't ask me why.
I'm not a Rowling fan, but damn, I wouldn't mind being a billionaire.
Let me break down her success real quick. The average novel you see in a bookstore will sell around 12,000 copies. In fact, on most book deals a writer can expect a greater royalty if his book sells over 15,000 copies. (Don't take this as gospel, but it's what a couple of literary agents have told me.)
The inital press run for Deathly Hallows was 12 frickin' million, with 2 million pre-sold through Amazon, Barne & Noble, and so forth. That's just mind-boggling, and it's why Ms. Rowling is the most successful writer on the planet.
So, hang in there, man. You're readers will be here.
BD
Ghostknight
First Post
Rule of Darkness- Book II Chapter I- Book 1 complete Updated 2/8/2007
The streets of Ger City ran with ichor. Bodies littered the street, each surrounded by its own pool of liquid; some red, some green, some indistinguishable from the black cobbles over which it flowed. Occasional shadows darted across the streets, often cut short by a scream as dark wings dipped down, grabbed a body, only to drop it broken; rent and torn onto the street below.
Gerion sat within his fortress, staring deeply into a pool of water. His eyes glowed green as he stared within, their arcane energy suffusing the bowl, turning it into a window on the outside. He saw his city, the bodies littering the street, the once proud houses and spires in ruin, flames dancing in the night as thousands of the dark fiends fluttered overhead, killing everything that moved.
His focus shifted, moving across the city, centering on a wide boulevard, once paved with white marble, now coated with the bodily fluids of the piles of corpses that littered its paving stones. Deep red veins suffused the stones, rippling through it, pulsating as they absorbed not just the fluids, but the very essences of the souls that had died upon it, the power flowing through the stones, up the edifice, into a huge crystal that floated in the air.
“Beautiful, is it not?” The voice was quiet, cultured; the tone friendly, and all the more menacing for that.
‘Did you need to destroy my city to feed your toy?” Gerion turned quickly, uncomfortable with his back to such a powerful being. He grows in power. Once he would not have been able to breach the defences, send his minions within my demesne. His power grows, and if I do not act soon, I will be forever left behind!
Jelial laughed, his hand coming to rest on Gerions chest- the neatly manicured nails, arcane symbols etched into them in silver-steel, pressed lightly against the muscles.
“Games, Gerion? Surely we are well beyond that. Millennia have passed; millennia in which you have served me well, and loyally. This city was as meaningless to you, as it was to me. The only reason it was of any use to you, was for the corrupted temple and the font.”
He turned, his eyes passing over Gerion, resting on the pool. “Ahh, I see that the font was not lost to you. You put it to good use.”
Gerion knelt on one knee, bowing his head before rising.
“As always, I am at your service, oh liege. I have not known you to jest before; you know, as well as I, that your gem hovers above it, absorbing its power, as it absorbs the souls of those that used to live within this city.”
Jelial paced, turning, his walk circling his minion, his dangerous minion, more powerful than any other in his service. What was to come was a gamble, a roll of the dice; even now he questioned his course of action. I must reveal my weakness to him, but how far will he go? Will he continue to bide his time, or do I flirt with disaster?
“It was necessary. I need the power.” His eyes came to rest on the pool, on the pool, his will turning it to his desire. The surface flowed, a picture forming, shifting as they watched; different scenes of slaves and others calling his name, working magic and “miracles” thereby.
“You know my plan, Gerion. Get them to worship me, fuel my power with the power of their faith. Yet it goes slowly. Till now, their faith does not flow into me, but my power must flow ever outwards. I have extended much power to fuel their prayers, and that power needs to be replenished!” The picture shifted, now concentrating on the immense black gem pulsating with power. “Your city was a necessary sacrifice; its destruction an atonement for your past failures, for the allowing of the escape of your son which cost us victory over Weald Hall, let them escape and establish Harmony Hall, now one of the major points of resistance to my rule! And then your failure at the Fort of Peaks, the one which you blamed on legendary figures from the distant past.” He stopped, his hand coming up, the rune encrusted nails pointed directly at Gerion, “You have yet to show any evidence of the existence of Aspith, beyond blaming your inability to retake the fortress on him. You failed me Gerion, as loyal as you have been, you failed me. So, payment had to be made, and your city was that payment, be glad I did not demand the payment from you!”
He smiled at the rage on Gerion’s face, at the heat he could feel rising from his body. Yet Gerion did not strike.
“As you say, my liege. But my son will be mine, and the fort will yet fall.’ Gerion turned his back on Jelial, leaving Jelial to wonder; was his lack of fear from not caring, or because he no longer perceived him to be a threat?
***
Filio straightened his back. As he did so, sluggish streams of blood broke free from the scabs on his back, a legacy of another bout of disobedience and a session with the lash. The map-work of scars, freshly healed lashes, and the newer, scab encrusted slashes across his back were testimony that he was often in trouble, and thus why he had been sent to work in the fields so close to an area in which war raged, and his death, or loss, would not be considered of any impact.
As he stood under the sun, the pain of shoulders and back burnt from no protection in the torturous, near-desert conditions, Filio risked a quick glance around himself, hoping that he would not be noticed by any of the guards, or the overseer. The fields of the cacti which they were harvesting, their fruit considered a delicacy by the many of the fiends, surrounded him on all sides, the path behind him and the other slaves speckled with spots of blood where their feet had been pierced by thin, near invisible thorns. His abandonment of his job, however momentary, had been noticed though, and the sting of a lash across his shoulders, not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to raise another welt, bent him back to his task. As he did so, he thought he caught the sight of a dust cloud out in the desert. A puzzle he thought about as he carefully tried to extract the fruit of the cacti without piercing his hands on the thorn: What was making that cloud. The day was windless and nothing lay out in that direction
Filio did not wonder long for long, it was but a short time before one of the guards noticed the approaching cloud, his shouts raising the alarm. The dull sound of the massive brass bell tolled across the field, sending herders amongst the slaves, chivying them with lashes of the whip, moving them towards the compound and the protected walls. Filio risked a glance behind, and saw the gigantic lizard-like beasts bearing down on them. Their riders wore red armor, their faces were covered with clothe that kept the dust from their noses, and goggles that protected their eyes.
He grinned; the stories of the desert raiders were true! And, if they were true beyond their mere fact of their existence, then the raiders were human! With glee in his eyes, he dived out of the line, running towards the raiders, ignoring the lash that fell across his back. His gamble paid off, the herders were worried about their own safety and the guards about protecting the compound- no one cared about one more disobedient slave! He stopped, out of breathe, as the dust surrounded him. He felt the air being knocked out of him, as he was suddenly swept off his feet by a massively muscled arm and placed across the back of the mount. The raider carrying him swerved out of the mass of the raiders, heading back in the other direction. Filio felt elation, even as the uncomfortable ride took him further into the unknown.
Five days into the desert, and Filio had become friends with the raider that had picked him up, freeing him from slavery. Hesdith was not what he had expected, aside from the fact that he was human and untouched by the fiendish taint that marked the allies of those that ruled. Instead of the swarthy, weather hardened skin of the natives of the region, Hasdith was fair, his skin burnt golden by the desert sun. Eyes of bright blue appeared below eyebrows so fine they were almost invisible, and the eyebrows were of the same fine, golden color of the hair cropped short above.
Filio sat behind Hesdith, watching as the unchanging desert moved around them. He looked at the riders around them, all bearing their load of raider and freed slave. He remembered their flight, their arrival at the stone outcropping after a whirlwind ride through the sand, to await the return of the other raiders. When they had arrived, more of the lizard-like mounts stood there, burdened with food, water and medical supplies. As they had come in, one of those tending the beasts had come forward, and taken Filio off the mount. Behind him, Hesdith dismounted and removed his goggles.
“This one broke away from his captors and ran towards us. I wanted to stop and see to those cuts on his backs, but orders were no stopping until we got back here.”
The man that had come forward grunted, and started inspecting the wounds, both new and old.
“There is nothing of concern here; most of these are ugly looking, but superficial. Evidently a troublemaker though, surprising that he is still alive. What’s your name and story, boy?”
Filio listened to the two, but took no offense at the words or at being spoken about.
“Sir, my name is Filio. Originally of the Ger city herd, and then transferred to the plantation herd here.”
Hesdith looked at him closely. “Ger city? It’s a long way from there to here, how did they get you here?”
Filio turned to look at the raider that had rescued him. “I don’t know. We were loaded into a box, which was sealed and placed onto a wagon. A short while later the wagon stopped and we were let out. Some had died from the heat and the lack of air; those that had survived were here.” He shrugged, “We were there, and then we were here, wherever here is.”
The two raiders looked at each other, trading glances that seemed to suggest that what Filio said was of great import, yet he could not understand why. The one that had met them at the meeting point looked towards where the raiders now fought with the fiends and their allies. “We shall have to see how many others are from Ger city or other far flung places; it could be a serious problem if they have established a portal in the area.” Hasdith looked at him grimly, Filio stared back, nut with a complete lack of understanding.
“You speak truly, Cynd. This news may be more important than the slaves we rescue this day.” Hasdith looked at Filio, clasping his shoulder, though carefully avoiding the welts, new or old, that adorned his back. “It would seem, Filio that you may have more to offer than you imagined.”
They had waited as the sun had wheeled across the sky, at least a quarter of the day, as other raiders returned: singularly, in pairs or in small groups. Throughout that time, the raiders had shared water and food with the ex-slaves, and stories of the good life ahead of them. Amongst the ex-slaves, were some that had heard of the House of Souls, the group the raiders represented. They, to the obvious amusement of their liberators, shared their stories with the others, gleefully telling them of the Houses’ dedication to freeing slaves. As time passed, the stories were embellished, tales of their mighty armies confronting the slave caravans of the fiends being elaborated on in great detail.
As they told their stories, Cynd listened in, eventually stepping into their circle. “You labor under some misinformation. The House of Souls does not possess armies, or the means to directly confront and oppose the fiends. Raids such as this one are the limits of our capabilities. For the true resistance against the devils, we have the Alliance to thank., They are the ones the fiends of this area fear; we just use their fear of the Alliance to aid us in our work.”
He sighed at the confused looks on their faces.
“The news of the Alliance is not yet known to those who toil in slavery? Ah well, in brief it is an alliance between many races that have lived in fear, renegade fiends that have no desire to see Jelial rule…” He broke off as he saw the automatic gesture of subservience many of the recently freed slaves made when the name of the fiendish ruler was used.
“None of that! The name of Jelial is hated and cursed by us; those gestures merely serve to increase his power! Now, let me see, where was I? Ah yes, those who make up the alliance: the renegade fiends that oppose Jelial, plus fiends from the planes of Hell that wish to stop Jelial before he can demand a seat amongst the rulers of Hell, with yet more fiends coming in to fight against Jelial- these serving under one known as Aspith, who claims to be a descendant of both fiend and angel. Which brings us to a very bizarre addition to these groups a group of angels from the Celestial sphere, whom are allied with the Mages of the Tower Arcane, Harmony Hall, Fort Livian and Ginder’s Hall. There are rumours that even the Dark Paeons of Hooded Vale have joined. Now, come, we must mount and be gone, the fiends will be coming after us as soon as they have brought their forces to bear.”
In the five days since, Filio had thought often on those revelations; fiends that opposed Jelial, agents of the Celestial spheres fighting with them to defeat the invaders from Hell. He had spoken to Hesdith at length as they had ridden, but still could not grasp the concept of devil and angel working, and fighting, together towards a common goal. He looked forward to the future, as confusing as it might be.
The streets of Ger City ran with ichor. Bodies littered the street, each surrounded by its own pool of liquid; some red, some green, some indistinguishable from the black cobbles over which it flowed. Occasional shadows darted across the streets, often cut short by a scream as dark wings dipped down, grabbed a body, only to drop it broken; rent and torn onto the street below.
Gerion sat within his fortress, staring deeply into a pool of water. His eyes glowed green as he stared within, their arcane energy suffusing the bowl, turning it into a window on the outside. He saw his city, the bodies littering the street, the once proud houses and spires in ruin, flames dancing in the night as thousands of the dark fiends fluttered overhead, killing everything that moved.
His focus shifted, moving across the city, centering on a wide boulevard, once paved with white marble, now coated with the bodily fluids of the piles of corpses that littered its paving stones. Deep red veins suffused the stones, rippling through it, pulsating as they absorbed not just the fluids, but the very essences of the souls that had died upon it, the power flowing through the stones, up the edifice, into a huge crystal that floated in the air.
“Beautiful, is it not?” The voice was quiet, cultured; the tone friendly, and all the more menacing for that.
‘Did you need to destroy my city to feed your toy?” Gerion turned quickly, uncomfortable with his back to such a powerful being. He grows in power. Once he would not have been able to breach the defences, send his minions within my demesne. His power grows, and if I do not act soon, I will be forever left behind!
Jelial laughed, his hand coming to rest on Gerions chest- the neatly manicured nails, arcane symbols etched into them in silver-steel, pressed lightly against the muscles.
“Games, Gerion? Surely we are well beyond that. Millennia have passed; millennia in which you have served me well, and loyally. This city was as meaningless to you, as it was to me. The only reason it was of any use to you, was for the corrupted temple and the font.”
He turned, his eyes passing over Gerion, resting on the pool. “Ahh, I see that the font was not lost to you. You put it to good use.”
Gerion knelt on one knee, bowing his head before rising.
“As always, I am at your service, oh liege. I have not known you to jest before; you know, as well as I, that your gem hovers above it, absorbing its power, as it absorbs the souls of those that used to live within this city.”
Jelial paced, turning, his walk circling his minion, his dangerous minion, more powerful than any other in his service. What was to come was a gamble, a roll of the dice; even now he questioned his course of action. I must reveal my weakness to him, but how far will he go? Will he continue to bide his time, or do I flirt with disaster?
“It was necessary. I need the power.” His eyes came to rest on the pool, on the pool, his will turning it to his desire. The surface flowed, a picture forming, shifting as they watched; different scenes of slaves and others calling his name, working magic and “miracles” thereby.
“You know my plan, Gerion. Get them to worship me, fuel my power with the power of their faith. Yet it goes slowly. Till now, their faith does not flow into me, but my power must flow ever outwards. I have extended much power to fuel their prayers, and that power needs to be replenished!” The picture shifted, now concentrating on the immense black gem pulsating with power. “Your city was a necessary sacrifice; its destruction an atonement for your past failures, for the allowing of the escape of your son which cost us victory over Weald Hall, let them escape and establish Harmony Hall, now one of the major points of resistance to my rule! And then your failure at the Fort of Peaks, the one which you blamed on legendary figures from the distant past.” He stopped, his hand coming up, the rune encrusted nails pointed directly at Gerion, “You have yet to show any evidence of the existence of Aspith, beyond blaming your inability to retake the fortress on him. You failed me Gerion, as loyal as you have been, you failed me. So, payment had to be made, and your city was that payment, be glad I did not demand the payment from you!”
He smiled at the rage on Gerion’s face, at the heat he could feel rising from his body. Yet Gerion did not strike.
“As you say, my liege. But my son will be mine, and the fort will yet fall.’ Gerion turned his back on Jelial, leaving Jelial to wonder; was his lack of fear from not caring, or because he no longer perceived him to be a threat?
***
Filio straightened his back. As he did so, sluggish streams of blood broke free from the scabs on his back, a legacy of another bout of disobedience and a session with the lash. The map-work of scars, freshly healed lashes, and the newer, scab encrusted slashes across his back were testimony that he was often in trouble, and thus why he had been sent to work in the fields so close to an area in which war raged, and his death, or loss, would not be considered of any impact.
As he stood under the sun, the pain of shoulders and back burnt from no protection in the torturous, near-desert conditions, Filio risked a quick glance around himself, hoping that he would not be noticed by any of the guards, or the overseer. The fields of the cacti which they were harvesting, their fruit considered a delicacy by the many of the fiends, surrounded him on all sides, the path behind him and the other slaves speckled with spots of blood where their feet had been pierced by thin, near invisible thorns. His abandonment of his job, however momentary, had been noticed though, and the sting of a lash across his shoulders, not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to raise another welt, bent him back to his task. As he did so, he thought he caught the sight of a dust cloud out in the desert. A puzzle he thought about as he carefully tried to extract the fruit of the cacti without piercing his hands on the thorn: What was making that cloud. The day was windless and nothing lay out in that direction
Filio did not wonder long for long, it was but a short time before one of the guards noticed the approaching cloud, his shouts raising the alarm. The dull sound of the massive brass bell tolled across the field, sending herders amongst the slaves, chivying them with lashes of the whip, moving them towards the compound and the protected walls. Filio risked a glance behind, and saw the gigantic lizard-like beasts bearing down on them. Their riders wore red armor, their faces were covered with clothe that kept the dust from their noses, and goggles that protected their eyes.
He grinned; the stories of the desert raiders were true! And, if they were true beyond their mere fact of their existence, then the raiders were human! With glee in his eyes, he dived out of the line, running towards the raiders, ignoring the lash that fell across his back. His gamble paid off, the herders were worried about their own safety and the guards about protecting the compound- no one cared about one more disobedient slave! He stopped, out of breathe, as the dust surrounded him. He felt the air being knocked out of him, as he was suddenly swept off his feet by a massively muscled arm and placed across the back of the mount. The raider carrying him swerved out of the mass of the raiders, heading back in the other direction. Filio felt elation, even as the uncomfortable ride took him further into the unknown.
Five days into the desert, and Filio had become friends with the raider that had picked him up, freeing him from slavery. Hesdith was not what he had expected, aside from the fact that he was human and untouched by the fiendish taint that marked the allies of those that ruled. Instead of the swarthy, weather hardened skin of the natives of the region, Hasdith was fair, his skin burnt golden by the desert sun. Eyes of bright blue appeared below eyebrows so fine they were almost invisible, and the eyebrows were of the same fine, golden color of the hair cropped short above.
Filio sat behind Hesdith, watching as the unchanging desert moved around them. He looked at the riders around them, all bearing their load of raider and freed slave. He remembered their flight, their arrival at the stone outcropping after a whirlwind ride through the sand, to await the return of the other raiders. When they had arrived, more of the lizard-like mounts stood there, burdened with food, water and medical supplies. As they had come in, one of those tending the beasts had come forward, and taken Filio off the mount. Behind him, Hesdith dismounted and removed his goggles.
“This one broke away from his captors and ran towards us. I wanted to stop and see to those cuts on his backs, but orders were no stopping until we got back here.”
The man that had come forward grunted, and started inspecting the wounds, both new and old.
“There is nothing of concern here; most of these are ugly looking, but superficial. Evidently a troublemaker though, surprising that he is still alive. What’s your name and story, boy?”
Filio listened to the two, but took no offense at the words or at being spoken about.
“Sir, my name is Filio. Originally of the Ger city herd, and then transferred to the plantation herd here.”
Hesdith looked at him closely. “Ger city? It’s a long way from there to here, how did they get you here?”
Filio turned to look at the raider that had rescued him. “I don’t know. We were loaded into a box, which was sealed and placed onto a wagon. A short while later the wagon stopped and we were let out. Some had died from the heat and the lack of air; those that had survived were here.” He shrugged, “We were there, and then we were here, wherever here is.”
The two raiders looked at each other, trading glances that seemed to suggest that what Filio said was of great import, yet he could not understand why. The one that had met them at the meeting point looked towards where the raiders now fought with the fiends and their allies. “We shall have to see how many others are from Ger city or other far flung places; it could be a serious problem if they have established a portal in the area.” Hasdith looked at him grimly, Filio stared back, nut with a complete lack of understanding.
“You speak truly, Cynd. This news may be more important than the slaves we rescue this day.” Hasdith looked at Filio, clasping his shoulder, though carefully avoiding the welts, new or old, that adorned his back. “It would seem, Filio that you may have more to offer than you imagined.”
They had waited as the sun had wheeled across the sky, at least a quarter of the day, as other raiders returned: singularly, in pairs or in small groups. Throughout that time, the raiders had shared water and food with the ex-slaves, and stories of the good life ahead of them. Amongst the ex-slaves, were some that had heard of the House of Souls, the group the raiders represented. They, to the obvious amusement of their liberators, shared their stories with the others, gleefully telling them of the Houses’ dedication to freeing slaves. As time passed, the stories were embellished, tales of their mighty armies confronting the slave caravans of the fiends being elaborated on in great detail.
As they told their stories, Cynd listened in, eventually stepping into their circle. “You labor under some misinformation. The House of Souls does not possess armies, or the means to directly confront and oppose the fiends. Raids such as this one are the limits of our capabilities. For the true resistance against the devils, we have the Alliance to thank., They are the ones the fiends of this area fear; we just use their fear of the Alliance to aid us in our work.”
He sighed at the confused looks on their faces.
“The news of the Alliance is not yet known to those who toil in slavery? Ah well, in brief it is an alliance between many races that have lived in fear, renegade fiends that have no desire to see Jelial rule…” He broke off as he saw the automatic gesture of subservience many of the recently freed slaves made when the name of the fiendish ruler was used.
“None of that! The name of Jelial is hated and cursed by us; those gestures merely serve to increase his power! Now, let me see, where was I? Ah yes, those who make up the alliance: the renegade fiends that oppose Jelial, plus fiends from the planes of Hell that wish to stop Jelial before he can demand a seat amongst the rulers of Hell, with yet more fiends coming in to fight against Jelial- these serving under one known as Aspith, who claims to be a descendant of both fiend and angel. Which brings us to a very bizarre addition to these groups a group of angels from the Celestial sphere, whom are allied with the Mages of the Tower Arcane, Harmony Hall, Fort Livian and Ginder’s Hall. There are rumours that even the Dark Paeons of Hooded Vale have joined. Now, come, we must mount and be gone, the fiends will be coming after us as soon as they have brought their forces to bear.”
In the five days since, Filio had thought often on those revelations; fiends that opposed Jelial, agents of the Celestial spheres fighting with them to defeat the invaders from Hell. He had spoken to Hesdith at length as they had ridden, but still could not grasp the concept of devil and angel working, and fighting, together towards a common goal. He looked forward to the future, as confusing as it might be.
Ghostknight
First Post
BLACKDIRGE said:
Unfortunately, I find creative juices hindered by the upsurge of activity from my hernia- nothing like feeling nauseous to make one not want to stare at the screen! :\
I'm not a big Harry Potter fan myself- but I do wish I had a fan base like that to make some money off!BLACKDIRGE said:
Sigh, its much the same as I have read- though in South Africa, with an even smaller market, the numbers are lower. And I don't see any of the local publishers running to publish fantasy here- the market just doesn't exist- and pushing a manuscript overseas without an agent or such is not particularly easy!
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