The Latest from Josiah!

Like holy crap! This is a writer's dream come true! It's Prad, in the High-Elven city of Tazar, doing some thinking.

Another sketch of Vasper, by Josiah!

This one is still a little sketchy, but I think its an awesome pose of Vasper about to rip it up with some of those sneaky shadows he loves so much! Thanks Josiah!

Copyright 2006, Josiah D. Haught / Ryan Stringer

Vasper (sketch), by Josiah!

At last! I know I've been waiting for someone to finally draw the guy! I was totally blown away when I saw this -- this is almost exactly how I imagined him!

Copyright 2006, Josiah D. Haught / Ryan Stringer

Josiah's Prad Final Version - Coloured

Pretty darn awesome, I gotta say. Thanks Josiah!

Copyright 2006 Josiah D. Haught / Ryan Stringer

Josiah's Prad Version 2, Take 3

I still wasn't entirely convinced about the hair, so I asked him if he could get rid of the bangs and spike him up a little bit. I emailed him before I left work and by the time I got home I had another change in my inbox. What a professional!

Copyright 2006, Josiah D. Haught / Ryan Stringer

Josiah's Prad Version 2, Take 2

I have to say, I am very impressed, both with Josiah's artistic talent and also his enthusiasm! I liked his rendition of Prad a whole heck of a lot, but I made a couple of suggestions about the hair and the face (the hair was kind of poofy and big looking, and his face was too sharp and Elven looking). I think it was less than 2 hour later, the guy emails me this new version: Copyright 2006, Josiah D. Haught / Ryan Stringer

The Truestar sigil, by Josiah

Copyright 2006, Josiah D. Haught / Ryan Stringer

Prad Version 2, by Josiah

Copyright 2006, Josiah D. Haught / Ryan Stringer

Pre-Destined Prad Sketch

Image Copyright 2006, Josiah D. Haught

* * *

The other day I was just leaving some comments on the day's newly posted art on Elfwood and I came across a guy named Josiah Haught, who had some good fantasy sketches. I had mentioned that I'd be interested in commissioning some work from him, and he graciously offered to do some drawing for me for free! Nice guy!

Later on, I got this in my email:

--------------------------------------------
I was flipping through some of my art to see if I had any free paper,and found this.Just after reading the first part of "Prad", I immediatly saw that this -drawn a month ago- could be him. It's a sketch for a elven paladin.....strange. If you want it, I could color to your preferances,or complete it in pencil. If you have any other characters, they might magicaly appear in my stack of random drawings. Who knows?
Josiah D. Haught
-Elfwood Artist
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Well hey, who am I to argue??

Chapter 7 : Flames of Vengeance, Flames of Hell

The King’s embassy was on the road six days later, accompanied by a small honour-guard of Serapis Guards, along with two-hundred regular troops, all under the command of Captain Serdigal, who had lately been assigned the role of personal military representative to the Thane. It was not a large company, but Serdigal’s men were known far and wide as the best Unver had to offer, and were, like their captain, fiercely loyal to the Thane. In the last few years, Vasper had rarely traveled without them.

The road to the Eastmarches was a treacherous route and the frigid, three-week trek crossed frequently through the territory of a particularly nasty band of toaderoid headhunters, whose coldly animal intelligence kept the collective nerves of the company on a constant knife’s edge.

By the time they had entered the relative safety of the T’kula’s outer territory, Serdigal’s men had fought a series of almost-daily skirmishes against the merciless amphibians. All-told, the company lost thirty soldiers to the toaderoids, mostly those caught in cruel traps, cunningly set by the hunters’ hands. The losses were relatively few, however, due in no small part to the expert training and experience imbued upon the soldiers by their Captain’s masterful leadership.

The King’s company was not the only group moving across the frozen tundra of the Eastmarches; they had arrived with little time to lose. The disparate T’kula clans were already on the move toward S’thaka’s steading, where they would gather in honour of the Chieftain-of-Chieftains. This gathering, as Kaynid explained, was the key to his plan’s success.

“The tribes are traveling to pay tribute to S’thaka, so they will be of a mind to honour him,” said the King, watching as several tribes converged and continued their long march as one great mass. “And we will also have the attention of all the tribal chiefs and elders under one roof, something which has not happened in nearly a hundred years and may not happen again for a hundred more. Not only that, but all the warriors and men of high respect have also come, in fact, the only ones not in attendance are those either too old or sick to travel and mothers with small children.”

“I hope you are right,” said Vasper, “from what I have seen it will not be convincing S’thaka that is the difficult part, but winning over the rest of the men.”

“Not today, Vasper,” Kaynid mused, “today they will be primed to follow. You’ll see.”

Vasper gave no response, but continued to look ahead for any signs that they had been noticed. None were apparent until a few hours later when the company found itself quite suddenly surrounded by a T’kula patrol armed with a crude assortment of spears, staves and clubs, faces and bodies painted in aggressive swirls of blue, white and black.

“S’sisi karn tooda?” shouted a tall, bearded warrior, waving a crude spear above his head. The colourful patterns adorning his body were particularly fierce and, unlike the others, appeared to be permanently tattooed rather than simply painted on.

“S’sisi karn tooda!” the warrior cried again. “Why come you here?” he repeated, this time in broken unverion.

Vasper leaned over to Kaynid. “That will be the leader,” he whispered, “I will deal with him.”

Two-hundred hands went to their swords as Vasper stepped toward the tattooed fighter, almost daring the T’kula warriors to make a hostile move.

“Do not be alarmed!” Kaynid shouted, motioning for the men to stand down. “The T’kula are quite peaceful – there is nothing to fear!”

Vasper waited for the soldiers’ reluctant compliance before answering the warrior’s question. “Sikt k’dlma yadi fahn kekt’tiri’kekt.”

“S’thaka?” asked the warrior, registering surprise at being answered back in his own language.

“F’lgi, S’thaka,” Vasper replied, nodding affirmatively.

The T’kula leader turned to speak with the warriors beside him in a flurried exchange of their native tongue, then back at Vasper. “F’lgi’dara j’dakra.”

Vasper bowed and returned to his place beside Kaynid. “He will lead us to S’thaka.”

Kaynid clapped his hands with glee, “Oh very good, Vasper, masterfully done!” he beamed. “When in Giliathor did you find the time to learn their tongue?”

“One cannot hope to conquer something that he does not understand,” Vasper replied.


Four hours of easy travel – the T’kula did not believe in undue haste – brought the company within viewing distance of the great gathering, already underway. A massive skin tent stretched out across the land, large enough for all the men of the nine tribes to hold council together at once, while a great mass of women and children remained outside, celebrating the coming together of the tribes.

“T’blisi gobaya,” said the patrol leader once they reached the outer entryway into the tent.

Vasper signaled for a halt. “We are to wait here while he announces our arrival.”

The tall warrior returned, accompanied by another, less fearsome T’kula, whose body was clear of warrior’s markings.

“Do’bal siah S’thaka’kekt, tueyba natro t’kektra eil dobi’cil ka!” called the Herald, ushering the Unverians inside.

“The great chieftain S’thaka welcomes the chieftains from the West to his gathering, as honoured guests,” Vasper translated, leading the way.

The building, itself, was a work of considerable ingenuity. What appeared, on the outside, to be one massive pavilion was, in fact, a clever arrangement of thousands of smaller tents erected against and on top of one another on a scale that even the royal engineers of Unver could doubtfully accomplish.

Inside, the tent was like a giant amphitheatre whose many tiers were filled with T’kula men, over 100,000 strong. Jutting from the walls of the tent, well above the highest tier, were ten long jetties, arranged in a circle and suspended by ropes from the ceiling. The clan chieftains and their entourages occupied nine of the jetties, leaving one empty. Common warriors and men of little prominence crowded the lower tiers and the rest sat somewhere in between.

In the very middle stood a lone figure atop a platform situated neither in line with the chiefs, nor on the ground with the common-folk, but between them. S’thaka was both a Chieftain-of-Chieftains and a man of the people.

“Why the chieftain from the West comes to this gathering, I do wonder,” said S’thaka, looking down upon the party as they gathered in the entryway. “Not to pay tribute, I think.”

By some unknown power, all who spoke inside the tent could be clearly heard by all the others. There was an air of discipline amongst the gathered, none of whom would speak out of turn, in order that all might have their rightful turn to add his thoughts to the table. There were generally few besides tribe chieftains who did much talking, however.

Vasper felt a distinct crackle of power behind the amplification, and searching for its source, noticed the inmost ring of men on the ground floor kneeling as if in deep concentration or prayer. Their markings identified them as shamans of some considerable power. These slaves know not which master they truly serve – all the better, all the better.

Vasper kneeled, one fist to the floor. “You are correct, Chieftain-of-Chieftains. I come with an offer the likes of which—“

“—I have never before imagined!” S’thaka cut in. “I have heard such promises before. What will you offer me this time – pieces of yellow metal stamped with the faces of men I have never known? Or your shiny stones, whose uses, aside from decoration, are few? Maybe you come with barrels of fiery water that steals men’s souls, though its use I have outlawed among my people. The last time your people came, it was to bring wicked weapons and coverings of bright steel, but why would my people want such things which have only made it easier for your kind to kill each other? I ask again, what do you have that I could possibly want, Chieftain-of-the-West?”

“Forgive me, great S’thaka, if my agents have failed to understand the heart of your people in the past,” Vasper replied, “but what I bring you is beyond mere material things. I offer you the chance to be a nation, as you have desired – to have a country of your own and to lead them as their King.”

S’thaka’s eyes sparkled with excitement, but turned sad and dark a moment later. “Sadly, I cannot discuss such matters with you, Chieftain-of-the-West, as you are not the greatest Chieftain of your people, but only his servant.”

Right then a passage began to open up in the soldiers’ line, accompanied by shouts of “Make way! Make way for the King!”

Kaynid bowed low, as he and Vasper had rehearsed, then stood boldly before S’thaka’s high seat. “Greetings, great Chieftain S’thaka! In the name of the people of Unver and all her gods, I ask only that you hear what my servant, Thane Vasper of Serapis, has to say and treat his word as though they were my own.”

“Receive the full honour of your station, then, King of Unver!” S’thaka called down. “You are named friend of the gathering and given rights to speak as a Chieftain for your tribe! You will be lodged as our Chieftains lodge and will want for nothing while you are among us!"

Kaynid and his advisors were appointed to the vacant Chieftain’s platform and, along with Captain Serdigal and a squad of his elites, were taken up, by way of a man-powered elevator platform, to their seats. Vasper stayed below with the rest of the soldiery on the ground floor, where he began the negotiations in earnest.

Vasper began by laying out the entire offer in great detail while stopping frequently to answer questions from the Chieftains, or from S’thaka himself. Despite Vasper’s skills as an orator, the hours stretched into days and the days into weeks as Vasper talked himself hoarse time and time again. Kaynid was reduced to a largely symbolic role, watching the proceedings in silence except when he was asked to give his blessings to some new proposal or add his thoughts to a debate.

For nearly a month the snow fell outside the meeting tent, doing nothing to cool the flames of discord that burned inside. Up until that point, the weather had gone largely unheeded by the T’kula men, who spent their days at the fire-warmed council and their nights among the snug family tents erected outside. Little thought was given by the T’kula, at all, to worrying about the cold; even the weakest women and children were well-accustomed to living in such conditions.

Then came a very different sort of night: colder by far than anything in recent memory, with wind enough to break branches from trees and a heavy blanket of falling snow that hid from view anything further away than an outstretched hand. ‘Unnatural’ some called it; even the most revered shamans were unable to detect its warning or discern its cause.

The coming of morning dispelled the wind and snow but brought with it a dense curtain of fog that settled over the area like an impenetrable shroud, blocking all view of the landscape beyond its reach. There were rumours in camp about strange noises from beyond the fog, like heavy footsteps, and the sounds of tinkering. To make matters worse, the previous night’s patrols had not returned and were widely presumed to have been trapped in the storm and overcome.

In council, the T’kula were on edge, squabbling and bickering with each other in an uncharacteristic fashion, even more so than with the Unverians. All pretense of reasonable deliberation had been given up for lost by the time Serdigal returned to the meeting tent, having been sent out on apparent patrol, flanked by a small squad of elites.

“I respectfully request a short break to confer with my Captain,” said Vasper to the gathering.

“Agreed,” said S’thaka from his podium, and called for refreshment to be brought.

King Kaynid watched as Vasper and Serdigal disappeared into the tent’s long entryway, wondering what could be important enough to interrupt the council, and feeling somewhat annoyed at having been left out of it. Perhaps they forgot to send someone for me, I’d better go down and see what is going on. After gulping down a goblet or two of dewberry juice, his new favourite beverage, he snuck onto the elevator with the servants heading down to the bottom.

Vasper and Serdigal stood a short distance away with their backs turned to facilitate privacy. Kaynid moved toward them quietly, curious for a hint of their discussion, both men gesturing emphatically as they spoke. Serdigal shook his head, then stopped and looked gravely at the floor.

“…Do as I command of you, Captain,” Vasper was saying, “and be concerned only with reaping your reward. I will worry about deciding who is innocent and who is guilty.”

Hmph, some sort of troop discipline issues, Kaynid thought, no wonder they didn’t call for me. He turned to leave and then stopped as the conversation took an interesting turn.

“As you command, my Thane,” Serdigal was nodding. “All has been made ready, and is at your command.”

“Excellent work, Captain, this charade has gone on long enough. I am filled with a sudden optimism about this afternoon’s negotiations, as though I stood on the precipice of an unexpected breakthrough.” Vasper’s eyes twinkled, darkly.

Serdigal bowed, turning to leave. “I must go tend to the placement of—“

The conversation quickly halted and Kaynid was startled to find himself looking into Vasper’s narrowed eyes. He tried to think of something to say in defense of his eavesdropping, but before he could form the words, Vasper flung out a hand towards him and mouthed words he could not hear.

With no particular explanation, Kaynid felt firmly compelled to immediately return to his seat. Without thinking about the actions involved, he found he had walked back to the elevator and was already halfway to the top, feeling rather nebulous as to why he had wanted to go down to the floor to begin with. By the time he sat back in his comfortable seat he could only muster up the vaguest recollection of having left at all. A fresh goblet of dewberry juice dispelled what little memory remained.

When council reconvened a change had come over Vasper. Authority, which had been absent through all the previous weeks, flowed through his words. Questions and objections were met and dismantled like so much intellectual fodder, his answers driven home on a spearpoint. So great was Vasper’s power that all negotiations were finished that afternoon, and every T’kula, to a man, shouted approval for the agreement with their whole hearts.

“At last! At last!” cried S’thaka, “We will be a nation – a people worthy to have a country of our own!” The T’kula cheered wildly, making such a noise that the Unverians feared that the tent might collapse on top of them.

“People of T’kula, a new age is upon us!” proclaimed the proud Chieftain-of-Chieftains, now a mighty King. “This council is closed, now let us light the great flare and give back the setting sun to the sky in thanks to the guiding spirits!”

S’thaka clapped and a number of servants holding great polished mirrors entered, forming a ring around the centre of the tent. Once the mirror-holders were in place, another group grasped long ropes that hung from the middle of the ceiling. With a concerted pull, an eye began to open in the ceiling, slowly growing in size to allow the light in from the sky above. Though the land was still beset with an oppressive pall of fog, the setting sun shone down brightly into the tent, its light caught up by the ring of mirrors, re-focused and reflected back up through the aperture like a great column of yellow light reaching into the heavens. The flare was accompanied by a deep rumbling hum that emanated from the T’kula, caught up in rapt praise to their gods.

Serdigal called down from the high platform, ordering the troops to back away into the entryway, and S’thaka bowed appreciatively at the display of apparent reverence and respect. Serdigal did not return the gesture.

The eye began to close, signaling the ritual’s end. S’thaka clapped once more, this time out of joy and exultation. “Join me, brother!” he called to Vasper, who he had come to think of as his compatriot over the past long weeks. “It is good for the builders of the pact to celebrate together!”

Vasper stepped toward the army at his back, face twisted into a contemptuous snarl. “I will celebrate when you and all your pestilent people’s bones have been burned to ashes and spread across the East Marches!” he growled.

Deep confusion coloured the Chieftain’s face, wiping away his jubilant smile. The celebratory sounds of the other tribesmen said that no one had heard the Thane’s damning words but S’thaka, and almost he tried to convince himself that he had somehow imagined it. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the menacing stances of the Unverian soldiers – not reverent, but ready.

“Shields!” yelled Serdigal from above. To the General’s side, Kind Kaynid seemed entirely bewildered by the order. The Unverian troops spun to face the entry-flap behind them, dropping to their knees as shields were raised above their heads. The sound of celebration stilled as the councilmen began to notice the peculiar goings-on, and an ominous sound rose up in its place, like a great insect swarm, flying on wings of wood and steel.

The arrows struck, ten-thousand razor-sharp teeth, piercing the tent-skin in a single instant, and every one alight with flame. S’thaka was among the first to die, falling from his pedestal with a burning shaft in his heart. Others followed, and those who did not die pierced by an arrow’s point were devoured by the licking tongues of flame kindled in the projectiles’ wake. Those who survived to flee toward the exit found themselves facing an untouched line of Unverian troops, whose swords eagerly finished what the flaming darts had begun.

Another volley came, and another after that, and another, each bringing death and fire the likes of which had never been known among the peaceful T’kula. Screams of confused terror echoed throughout the burning tent as men breathed their last or witnessed the last breaths of their fathers, brothers, uncles and friends.

Crouched atop the last remaining high platform, Kaynid grasped onto the hem of Serdigal’s cloak as arrows rained destruction upon those he had come to appease. “How could you do this?” he wept. “I did not command this! I did not want this!”

“It was the only way, my King,” Serdigal replied, “it had to be done for you and for Unver. Vasper made the difficult choice, knowing you could not.”

“Vasper!” Kaynid cried, “He is behind this! Where is Thane Vasper?”

“Here, Kaynid,” said an icy voice from behind.

The King spun around, and there was Vasper standing on the platform, seemingly oblivious to the flames licking at the walls all around him. He held a jewel-hilted dagger in his hand.

“Curse you and all of your descendants to the halls of Ferius!” Kaynid screamed, “You will bring the wrath of the gods down upon all our heads!”

Vasper sneered. “You are sorely mistaken, my King; it is the gods who have directed my hands.”

More flaming projectiles fell, igniting a section of the jetty and illuminating Kaynid’s advisors – all dead – with the light of their destructive power. Kaynid cowered amidst the flames, hanging onto one of Serdigal’s black steel greaves like a shield. “I will pardon your part in this, Captain, if you bring me Vasper’s head! He is a traitor and a criminal and I order his execution!”

“Execution!” Vasper hissed, raising the knife, “Was it an execution when you ordered my mother to kill her husband?” He took a step toward the King, “Or was it simply murder?” Another step. “What was it when you told her to kill her son?” Kaynid gave a surprised gasp.

“Yes, dear friend, in her bid to have her final suffering ended, my mother told me everything. It has not been easy to be patient all this time, but well worth the wait. I am looking forward to watching you burn.”

Serdigal stepped between them, torn between his two masters. “This was not what we discussed, Thane! I am yours to command, but… I am a Captain of his majesty’s Royal Army... I can’t just stand here and watch you kill the King!”

“Then do not watch,” Vasper commanded, his eyes never leaving the King. “Surely my General has troops to command, yes?” Serdigal’s eyes widened at the sudden promotion, glancing back and forth between Thane and King in momentary hesitation before submitting to the fate he knew he must choose.

“Soldiers – steady the line! Prepare to fall back!” the newly raised General bawled, striding toward the elevator and out of sight.

Kaynid keened as his only protection left his side, scurrying backwards, over corpses, toward the platform’s end. Flames roared across the entirety of the lower levels, fueled by the bodies of the dead. None had escaped; all were dead or dying.

He tried to cry out but his voice was stolen by a tendril of liquid shadow that wrapped around his throat and choked his breath away. More shadows came, covering him in their foul darkness, suspending him over the hellish inferno below. Vasper stood before him, on the edge of the jetty, the naked blade ready in his hand. Darkness clung to the Thane’s body like a cloak that no power of flame could expel.

“Soon you will enter the eternal flames of hell,” whispered Vasper, “but the flames of my vengeance shall have you first.”

A single stroke sealed Kaynid’s fate, the dagger moving swiftly from ear to ear. A look of disbelief replaced the fear on the King’s face as his own blood drowned the life from his body. The shadows pulled away and Kaynid fell, his gurgling screams consumed by the roaring of flames that never went out.

Many outside were dead already, struck down by stray arrows, or overcome while attempting to help those trapped inside, by the time Serdigal led his troops out of the meeting tent. Most had moved away from the sky-high flames and were huddled together in a great, disorganized mass of panic and shock. Almost as many women remained outside as men had died inside, and most of these had at least one child with them, every face streaked with tears.

The masses watched the Unverians emerge from the burning wreck of a council tent, now the massive funeral pyre of husbands and fathers, grief turning to a rage hotter than any fire. No longer a despondent mass of helpless victims, a horde of furious T’kula, many times larger than any army their enemy had seen before, faced down Serdigal’s tiny contingent. Fighters they were not, but the press came on, curses on their lips, their lack of ability more than made up for by the sheer force of numbers alone.

“Loose!” cried Serdigal, his voice echoing through the oncoming rush and beyond. A symphony of bowstrings twanged in answer, and a near-solid mass of darkwood shafts pierced the foggy walls, showering the vengeful mob with barbed-steel heads. Women and children fell by the thousands, and the T’kula charge broke as people scattered every which way to avoid the next barrage, and the next.

Fog roiled behind the Unverian line, growing denser and darker, as if on the cusp of a mighty storm. The cloud burst, and rank upon rank of grim fighting men, all in Serapis black and silver, marched through the protective veil to join with Serdigal’s company.

“You took your time coming,” the General remarked, taking over command of the army from a graying Undercaptain named Melchym.

“Three and a half weeks to move fifty-thousand foot and half-again as many archers, without being heard or seen, is damned respectable in my books,” the Undercaptain retorted. “Especially in this freeze, I might add! Mind you, I’m mighty thankful for this weather; we’d have been hard up to get in close enough to do any damage without it! Thank Tergo, I guess.”

“You can thank the Thane for your cover, when he arrives.”

Melchym looked fairly taken aback. “Then it’s true, what they say…” He shook his head.


The surviving T’kula, still an impressive score, regrouped for another attempt at a charge, but found themselves pinned down by a hail of arrows, laid down by the unseen bowmen in the fog. Their anger spent, the women lacked the spirit to face so many skilled soldiers, and they put up their hands in surrender, hoping that their children might be spared the Thane’s retribution.

No longer needed, the misty covering around the battlefield melted away, and the sun shone down upon twenty-five thousand bowmen with arrows nocked and at the ready.

“Finish them, General,” came a slithery voice, approaching.

Serdigal looked around, startled at Vasper’s appearance. “My Thane, they have surrendered.”

“Excellent, that should make them easy to dispatch,” Vasper replied.

Serdigal looked puzzled. “Dispatch, my lord?”

“Hear me well, General,” Vasper’s eyes blazed sinisterly, “I will not share Serapis with these base creatures, nor will I countenance their continued existence as rebels and witnesses. Now, you will order my army to deal with this rabble, as I have prescribed, or somebody more compliant, perhaps Melchym here, shall take your place.”

Serdigal met the Undercaptain’s eyes with a scowl and moved to the front of the line.

“Company… attack!”

The battle – or massacre, as it could more properly be called – raged for many long hours; there were many to kill. But, by the time the crimson harvest moon had chased the waning sun from the sky, the land had been desecrated, perhaps forever, by innocent blood. Women and children lay dead, almost an entire race laid to waste by blade and bow; not a single man, woman or child was left upon the field, nor in the charred remains of the gathering tent.

Vasper stood at the head of his army, its General by his side, and smiled. “Prepare the men to move out, and leave the crows to their meal. They will be well fed by the time we leave the Eastmarches, I think,” said the Thane, and then added “Let my enemies burn.”

* * *

“Vengeance,” said Vasper as he returned to the present, a triumphant smile on his lips. “Let them all burn.”

Chapter 6 : Blood Relations

A swift kick brought Vasper back around.

“Beast of hell!” Bey’s voice crackled as his manicured fingers closed savagely around his opponent’s pale throat. Barely aware of the crushing pressure of Bey’s hands on his windpipe, Vasper nonetheless noticed the tears of rage that had begun to form in the corner of his assailant’s eyes. Already the cracks are forming. A little more patience will see him undone.

Bey’s anger had finally reached the boiling point; Vasper had to die, and the determined set of his grip on the man’s throat made it clear he had decided that now was the time. The single-minded rage that coursed through his hands had given him all the strength he would need to choke the life out of his most hated adversary and he was not about to stop.

“How many children died..?” Vasper managed to croak through the strangulation.

The question struck its intended chord, catching Bey off guard enough for him to let up just a moment too long. How could Vasper know about the children?

“What are you talking about?” Bey demanded.

“How many children died by your hands, kin-killer?” Vasper repeated, this time loud enough for the rest of the room’s occupants to hear. “You have told your rebels all about my crimes, what about your own?”

Bey froze, unable to form a response. All Bey’s currency in the coup depended entirely on his followers’ belief in him as an altruistic hero battling selflessly against the evil tyrant. It was this supposed strength conviction that had allowed him to raise himself above all the depraved nobles and disgruntled soldiers who might otherwise seek power for themselves, instead. Their allegiance depended on a fragile bubble of confidence in the idea that Count Bey had what it took to lead them into glorious prosperity and the assumption that they were replacing evil with good. Now the bubble quivered and the rebellion stood, still and silent, waiting for it to burst.

Bey’s white beard bristled as he realized what fate awaited him, should he lose the support he had worked so hard to gather and knew something had to be done to clear the air of doubt and direct the room’s attention back to his enemy. He did the only thing he could think of, pulling Vasper into a sitting position and slamming him hard in the face with the back of his fist.

“How dare you?” he cried at the top of his lungs, pulling Vasper up and striking him again. “I will not have such vile aspersions cast at me by a repugnant wretch!”

The nobles began cheering and clapping, uncertainly at first, for their leader as soldiers hauled Vasper to his feet once more. Baron Madray marched brashly from the crowd, blowing a secret look of relief to his co-conspirator as he raised his drawn sword into the air to much applause with the arrogance and attitude for which he was so well-known.

“I’ve heard enough!” Madray declared, striding eagerly forward and pressing the tip of his sword blade against the prisoner’s chest. “This scum would be best served on the end of a sword, I say!”

A displeased murmur ran through the nobles, however, no longer quite confident enough in their leader to allow summary execution. Now Vizina took her turn, stepping forward, in a convincing display of skepticism, to play her given role.

“Let us not be hasty, Baron,” she countered Madray, echoing the feelings of the other nobles.

“Would it not be in the best interests of us all to have a few questions answered first?” Sounds of affirmation followed from the crowd as the eye-pleasing Lady winked at her compatriots.

“What’s to question?” Madray retorted, loudly, “he tortured and killed his own mother!”
“A woman who many of us greatly admired,” said Bey, reinforcing Madray’s point. “And a crime to which he has freely admitted!”

“You make good points, my lords, but as we have also discovered, the Lady, herself, was not innocent. Is the murder of one Thane and the attempted murder of another not deserving of punishment?” Vizina questioned. “Supposing she had been caught in the act by a guard, or some such, would she not have been subject to death, at the very least?”

The crowd collectively shuddered at the implications of Vizina’s questions. Had she, in fact, deserved what Vasper had done to her?

“No,” Bey answered, “not when she was under the orders of the King!”

Madray and Vizina appeared as totally shocked as the rest of the assemblage at the revelation.

“Have you any proof of this, Count?” Vizina demanded, speaking her scripted lines with the flair of a natural actress.

Bey made a point of dramatically reaching into his cloak to retrieve a pair of sealed scrolls that he held up for everyone to see.

“Written on these scrolls, signed and sealed by the late King Kaynid, himself, are secret execution orders for Thanes Jirith and Vasper. In both cases, the order was not made public but issued only to Lady Nisceia, out of the King’s fear of retribution. After Nisceia’s death, Kaynid made several attempts to retrieve the documents in the hopes of preventing Vasper from learning of his involvement. When that proved fruitless he turned to simple appeasement, probably hoping to dispel suspicion,” he turned back to Vasper, “by becoming your best friend during your difficult time of loss. How does it feel, master duper, to know that you were duped by your closest confidante?”

Vasper looked sufficiently miserable, hanging in the grasp of Serdigal, who clearly was enjoying his new master’s game.

“I would like to know how it is that you came into possession of my mother’s private documents,” Vasper replied, solemnly.

Bey’s lips curled up shrewdly, “It’s amazing what a woman will entrust you with, once she’s been sharing your bed for long enough.”

Vasper’s eyes flashed at this, though he said nothing.

“She went to the King for counsel after she first learned of what your father was involved in, worried, more than anything, for her innocent little son,” Bey continued. “Over time, Kaynid convinced her that the only way to safeguard you from your father’s influence was to kill him. So she did. And later, when she began to fear that you had picked up where your father had left off, he issued the second order and urged her to act swiftly, frightened as he was of your finding out.

“When Nisceia turned up dead, Kaynid became obsessively nervous about you finding the documents in her belongings or learning the truth some other way, which is why he began keeping his enemy so close to him.”

Bey turned again to face his intently listening audience, “And that brings us to what may be Thane Vasper’s most heinous crime: genocide!” The crowd gasped almost as a single entity, swept away by Bey’s dramatic narration.

“I had never considered King Kaynid to be a particularly crafty man,” Bey began, once again a prosecutor questioning the accused, “but I’ll admit, he surprised me with you. Not for one second did I imagine that he, of all people, had what it took to pull the wool over your eyes. It certainly seemed transparent enough to me, at the time. But, it would seem his simple brand of desperate ingratiation worked on you. In fact, judging by the vehemence in which you avenged his unfortunate demise, I think it would be fair to say that you were uncharacteristically passionate about your friendship with the King.”

“Ridiculous!” Vasper exclaimed, “He was a rung on the ladder of my ascension and nothing more! I have never cared to avenge him; your accusations are sorely misplaced!”

“I can understand why you would be defensive about your friendship with Kaynid,” Bey said, “after all, it can’t be easy, after all these years, to find that you aren’t as impervious to deception as you might think. I know it burns to hear such things of your closest friend, whom you cared out so deeply. But the fact remains that the pain of Kaynid’s death drove you to commit your most egregious crime, for which deserve to burn in the hells for all eternity!”

Vasper snarled, “If you believe I shed one single tear about Kaynid’s death, you are grasping at straws more desperately than I first thought! You are a fool – a witless, pitiable fool, and my thoughts are beyond and reckoning of yours!”

Bey was laughing now, far too smugly for his own good. “Oh, Vasper, you do yourself a disservice with all these pitiful attempts to hide the truth. I can read it all over your face, as if it wasn’t already obvious enough by your actions! All You slaughtered an entire race of people to satisfy your quest for vengeance, all in the name of your closest friend, a man who not only ordered and paid for your death more times than I can count, but also turned your own loving mother into your assassin!”

Deep shock and trepidation splayed across Vasper’s features faster than his legendary stoic control could wipe it away, too slowly for Bey to miss. It seemed all he could do to sputter a few meaningless words in rebuttal.

“You cannot possibly—“

“—Know about that?” Bey finished the statement, simultaneously reveling in both the poorly concealed look of growing dismay on his enemy’s face and the rapt expressions of the courtiers as they strained to hear every word. “Your surprise is well earned, Vasper. You took great pains to cover up your foul deeds from those who would use it against you. Not even your own people were safe from your obfuscations.

“I have personally questioned many of the soldiers who accompanied you to the Eastmarches and carried out your evil will, that winter. Most remember exactly what you, I believe, allowed them to, or they remember nothing at all. As for the rest, well, unfortunately they failed to survive the shattering of their minds that accompanied their attempts to speak of what they knew; another of the generous gifts from you to your loyal soldiers?”

“Devilry!” the crowd burst out in unison.

“Of the very worst kind!” Bey answered back. “Truth to be told, not all of these victims died in the breaking. I would have brought such survivors here, as silent witnesses to Vasper’s devilry, except that they, regrettably, thirsted and starved to death, having been left without the ability to eat or drink.”

“How convenient that your only witnesses are dead,” Vasper piped up. “You will have to do better than that if you hope to convince the Prince of your far-fetched claims.”

“Not my only witnesses.” Bey smiled to Vasper’s holder.

“I was there!” Serdigal shouted to the crowd, “I remember every bloody thing he made us do like it was yesterday, and I curse him for it!”

Nobles and soldiers alike turned their eyes upon the General.

“Aye, I remember, all too well, his wrath when the King fell. Even after we’d already decimated what passed for warriors, he wasn’t satisfied. He wanted them all! He’d convinced us all, somehow, that we were doing the right thing – that it was in the best interests of the kingdom…” He stammered, uncertainly, “No one questioned him, not even once. Most of the men were dead already…was mostly women and children that were left. We didn’t like it, but we couldn’t refuse. He ordered us to kill every living one of them, so we did. He commanded us to burn every village and every hut and tent in the Eastmarches, so we did. We killed them all. He killed them all!”

All eyes turned upon Vasper once more. Baron Madray emerged from the throng as its representative. “The court of Serapis demands justice! What say you to these charges, Thane?”

“I say that your General does not remember events as well as he claims to,” Vasper calmly responded, “so I must take it upon myself to tell the true tale. Judge me as you will, but not only me.” He let his eyes wander over Serdigal’s bulky form, “Let others be judged for their crimes, accordingly.”


* * *


Vasper’s twenty-fifth birthday had been celebrated in grand form and no expense had been spared in the decorating of the estate with all manner of lively décor. Important people – nobles, generals, dignitaries and the like had traveled from all over Serapis to take part in the Thane’s coming into manhood. It was an important day in the life of any boy, but for a Thane it was the beginning of independence. So important was this day that King Kaynid himself had come all the way from his capital at Unverferth to infer upon his servant the final vows of Thanedom, thereby dissolving the intermediary council and ushering Vasper into his full measure of authority.

Serapis would finally and inexorably be his for the governing; there would be no more council, no more constraints and no more excuses. Where most men might have cringed at the though of such responsibility, Vasper reveled in it, smiling placidly as his bitterest rivals were relegated to the status of mere nobles once again.

“Your ascension to the high seat of Serapis is complete, Thane Vasper,” declared the King, echoing the ongoing theme of the succession ceremony, now so long ago, insofar as standing in the same exact spot, sporting the same kingly stance and even wearing the same ceremonial garb. Little had changed in the past fourteen years; Kaynid had more wrinkles than before, and his closely-cropped hair had turned from salt and pepper to stark white, but incidental details aside, there was little to distinguish this ceremony from the other. The ceremonial chamber had remained unchanged for a hundred years or more, as had the ceremonial words, and the same noblemen, or their successors, stood witness in their same places.

Despite all of the similarities, Vasper knew that at least one thing had, indeed, changed: himself. Fourteen years ago, he had been made a Thane. In the years since that day he had seen things that no Thane before him had seen, done things that no Thane before him had done. No longer a simple Thane, he had become something grander than his predecessors. The guild…

“Sit well, Thane-proper,” said Kaynid, closing the ancient benediction, “and may Tergo freely bless you and your house. Congratulations, my friend!”

Vasper gave his oaths with the same self-assured and decisive manner for which he had become known across the land and beyond. Where other men hung back to consider their strategy, Vasper surged forward, already three steps ahead. He was the bane and the envy of every noble and ruler who knew him and the very mention of his name inspired equal portions of awe and dread. None dared cross him, of course, for it would be an act of pitiable madness to make an enemy of one who knew a person’s plans before they did, themselves.

Despite his perilous reputation, there was not a man to be found in Unver who did not secretly wish he could be like the audacious Vasper in his great wisdom and cunning. His rivals, and even his allies, had long been dreading the Thane’s coming-of-age, wondering, with a deep sense of foreboding, what new powers he would reveal once his long-held leash had finally been loosed.

Even the King, though he counted himself Vasper’s closest friend, knew better than to push the man too far.

Following the ceremony began a great celebration, the likes of which only a King’s coffers could lightly afford. Courtiers and commoners alike partied on well into the wee hours of the night while stuffing themselves with food and drink more expensive than most could have hoped to afford in an entire lifetime of honest work. And all of it at King Kaynid’s expense, so vital was it to him that he reinforce Vasper’s loyalty and trust.

Well before the party had neared its end, King and Thane politely took leave, retiring to Vasper’s private audience chamber, a small, yet impressive room, reserved for important and usually secret meetings with the Thane’s highest-profile visitors. In this room, Vasper was the puppet-master and all other comers, with the exception of his revered mentor, were little more than expensive marionettes. It was a quality which Vasper had meticulously built into every aspect of its décor and even the very stone of its walls and floors. All in all, it was one of Vasper’s most successful experiments, and but a small sampling of a much grander plan.

“Well, Vasper, you have achieved independence, at last!” exclaimed the King, between sips of dark, sorennese wine. “And it could not have come at a better time, I might add. There is much for my newly empowered Thane of Serapis to do in the coming weeks!”

Vasper raised a questioning eyebrow in response, “You have a command for me?”

Kaynid nodded, “Indeed, I do. A favour, if you will indulge me.”

“Of course, I am yours to command, my King.”

“I knew I could count on you,” Kaynid smiled warmly. “As you are aware, circumstances in your Eastmarches have been deteriorating dramatically, a matter which you have been unable to satisfactorily resolve up until now.”

Vasper leaned pensively back in his chair with a long and irritated breath. “You know I have done everything I can to persuade these wandering tribes, my lord, but they are unwilling to negotiate on reasonable terms. And of course, the advisory council has always been adamant about—“

“Ah, but the council is no longer an obstacle, my friend,” the King interrupted, “and the tribes have been a thorn in my—our side for quite long enough. It’s time you gave the situation the benefit of your personal – and unimpeded – touch.”

“The T’kula will not be bartered with, as you well know,” Vasper replied, “And since you will not allow me to take military action against them...“

“No, no! I can’t afford bloodshed here, Vasper,” Kaynid whispered urgently, given a wild look by his bushy white eyebrows, “not unless they become hostile first, which they won’t. You know the kind of damage it would do to my reputation if I were to become known as the slaughterer of a peaceful people!”

“What, then, would you have me do?”

“I may be old, Vasper, but I’m not a complete invalid! I’ve known you long enough to know how persuasive you can be, when you need to. And now that there’s no more council looking over your shoulder…”

Vasper took another thoughtful breath and squinted in consideration, “Perhaps I could try, but even I need something to work with, a carrot, if you will. I fear I have none at my disposal that would suit them.”

“Ah, but you do!” said the King, jovially. “I have it on good authority that the T’kula Chieftain-of-Chieftains, a man named S’thaka, does, indeed, have his price. Should the right offer be made under the right circumstances by the right person, he might be persuaded to see things our way. That is where you come in, my friend; I have heard it said before, with no great exaggeration, I might add, that you could persuade a lava crawler to marry an octopus!”

“I know S’thaka,” Vasper replied, sighing, “I have tested his will and it is strong – very strong. Even with this offer of yours it will be a dubious undertaking, at best.”

The King unclasped his hands and held them out to Vasper in appreciation, smiling. “Who better to make the attempt? I know you’ll do a wonderful job!”

Vasper still looked uncertain of the arrangement. “Now tell me, King, what sort of price could possibly incent S’thaka to uproot nine tribes of people from their traditional homelands? And where will they go once they have abandoned their homes?”

A shrewd look came into Kaynid’s eyes and he grinned embarrassedly. “The answer to both questions is the same, though I fear you may not like it.”

Vasper frowned expectantly, “Go on.”

The King cleared his throat, “S’thaka, it seems, is a man with unrivaled vision and ambition among his people. He is no longer content to rule over only one tribe, even if it is the dominant one. He seeks to unite the nine T’kula tribes under one chieftain – himself, obviously – and make his people a true country to call their own.”

“And he would not be able to do such things at present, I see.”

“The disparate tribes have always been resistant, in the past, to these sorts of ideas, largely because the lands they occupy, though lush with vegetation, offer little in the way of other resources, and what resources it does contain are too spread out to make use of. As well, S’thaka recognizes that those lands would be all but impossible to properly fortify or defend. However, should the T’kula, or let us say, should S’thaka find himself in a position to move the people to a stronger place, a place with abundant resources, where he could build a nation, his dreams might be realized.”

Vasper’s eyes widened, “You’re talking about the Sylferkirsk Mountains!”

“The same,” Kaynid nodded.

“Easy access to lumber and ore for building, abundant shelter and easily defendable,” said Vasper, clearly perturbed, “not to mention all of the trade opportunities once the T’kula take over the two diamond mines and the adamantine quarry, which, I am sure you are aware, presently belong to me.”

“I knew you wouldn’t like it,” Kaynid sighed, “but I’m afraid there’s no other way.”

“Like it?” Vasper asked, bordering on outright anger, “You’re asking me to give up a fortune, not only for myself but for my province, all because some savages have taken up residence in your great-grandfather’s ancestral orchardland! Am I supposed to like it?”

“I’m getting old, Vasper, and palace life grows wearisome. I wish to spend my remaining years enjoying, as much as may be possible, the serenity and peace that my father’s fathers knew in that land.” Kaynid’s tone sounded almost pleading, “I haven’t sired any heirs, Vasper, and aren’t likely to unless I manage to attract a wife.”

“Heirs? Heirs!” Vasper exclaimed, “Kaynid, there must be a thousand eligible noblewomen in Giliathor who would be quite content to play doting Queen to an elderly King! Go marry one and I am sure you they produce as many heirs as you could wish for, if that is your aim.”

“No, no, no!” Kaynid shook his head, emphatically. “I am only interested in one woman, and she has made it quite clear that she has no desire to spend her days as a royal shut-in. She loves nature, trees, grass, clear water, wildlife – all things that the old estate could offer if only it were not overrun!

“Besides,” Kaynid went on, “it is to your own benefit, as well, that this problem be solved. I know you’ve commissioned my royal craftsmen for a rather large project, and believe me, I’m quite happy to lend them to you. They’ll do a wonderful job, I’m sure – the best in all Giliathor as far as I’m concerned. And judging by the amount you’re paying for their services I would have to assume that this project is of no small consequence to you. More so, say, than a diamond mine or two?”

Vasper slowly nodded, “Perhaps.”

“Yes, I thought as much,” the King continued, gravely. “As I’ve said, my time on this earth is not unlimited, and I simply can’t afford to wait much longer to do the things I’ve talked about. If I can’t have the orchardlands that already exist, I will have no choice but to build new ones. Much as it pains me to say this, if that is what becomes necessary it will mean tying up my craftsmen for the foreseeable future, and that means that they will not be available to you. So, you see my dilemma.”

Vasper looked deeply in the King’s eyes, and saw the man for what he was: petty, perhaps, but no fool to fall victim, for any meaningful length of time, to any of the obvious manipulations that might be used to dissuade him of this. As usual, however, Vasper was not without his resources.

“I see you are, indeed, in a pitiable position,” replied Vasper after moment’s hesitation, “I will do as you ask, though the problem remains of convincing the T’kula. There are easier, and more profitable, ways of dealing with this.”

Kaynid scrutinized Vasper for a moment before replying, “Even if I was willing to attack them, all it would accomplish is creating an enemy for myself. The last thing anyone needs is a rebel faction occupying Unverian land.”

“That is assuming there is someone left to make an enemy out of.”

“I’m sorry, Vasper, but these are politically trying times and reputation is everything. If S’thaka’s people were a band of savage killers they would be simpler to deal with, I agree, but that is not so.” He stood to leave, unofficially bringing the meeting to a close. “In any case, you must set out without delay if you are to make the offer at the appropriate time.”

Vasper eyed the King sulkily. “I will do what I can, but you must be there if there is to be any hope of success.”

“Me?”

Vasper nodded, “S’thaka aims to set himself up as a King, Kaynid. I can handle the negotiations, but T’kula custom demands that such terms are agreed upon only by equals; without you there I will not even be allowed to speak.”

Kaynid seemed hesitant but recognized the truth of Vasper’s words, “Very well, we leave in a week.”

Chapter 5 : A Mother's Love

“A good mother is truly a sacred treasure of the highest order. For, was it not I who gave those maternal instincts to the woman? A gift it is, I tell you, and not a curse as you have made it out to be! Have you never witnessed the fury of a mother bear whose cubs are threatened? A mother’s love is a force unrivaled by anything else in the world! It will live, die or kill to ward its child, or go to the ends of Giliathor in its defense. So I, Truestar, have made it.”

-- From the Book of Life, as Spoken through the messenger Elora.


* * *


“Ah, the mighty Jirith,” Bey mused, looking upon the graven likeness of the man, standing behind the throne of the Thane. “Your great and venerable father, who left his only son to fend for himself among the unscrupulous courtiers of Serapis and the ruthless jackals of the advisory council,” he continued. The flash of his eyes acknowledged himself as one of those very same jackals.

Bey placed his hand gently upon the statue’s face, as if to recall the features of a dearly departed friend. “Of course, Jirith always did act like a wolf among the dogs. He gave us all something to aspire to, with his scheming and his double-dealing. Even when he was little more than a fourth tier noble, barely even allowed at court, he was grinding our faces in the dirt with influence no petty Baron could have possessed. He made sure we all knew who was the alpha wolf.

“For my part, I tolerated him, secure in the knowledge that old Heraldic would soon be dead, and without any heirs of the body to succeed him, the title of Thane would naturally fall to me, as the ranking nobleman. Imagine my surprise when the King named your father as the next Thane of Serapis. Imagine my great anger, Vasper. Your father stole the only thing I cared about, and hung his victory over my head like a carrot on a string. We all knew your father was party to dark powers, and perhaps under the blessings of a demon patron, or some such. But he was a slippery man, and we could never prove anything, much to our great consternation. "

Bey placed his other hand upon the statue and continued. “We all thought Thane Jirith was absolutely fireproof and destined to live to forever. And then what should happen, but he dies suddenly in his sleep! Of course I was devastated.” A sardonic grin painted the Count’s face as he gave the statue a mighty push with all of his weight behind. The statue rocked backwards and fell with a loud crash, breaking into several pieces on the dark stone floor. He looked back at Vasper’s battered visage, held tightly in check by Serdigal’s tightly muscled arms.

Then Bey moved to scrutinize another image, which had been standing beside the first, now alone. “And fair Lady Nisceia,” he murmured. “Your father did not deserve so lovely a wife, and yet he stole her also from me all the same. Though I will admit to being somewhat less gracious about it at the time, she must be forgiven for yielding to the allure of marrying a Thane.”

He caressed the statue’s face, lovingly. “She knew the blackness of your father’s heart, I suspect, though hers was white as the driven snow. Better than him, she was. Better than you.”

Vasper broke his own silence with mirthful cackle at Bey’s words. “Poor, poor Bey,” he spat, “can’t get his history straight! You do not know my mother as well as you suppose, my would-be usurper. Nor do you know my mother’s deeds! I, on the other hand, am all too familiar with yours, Torbal’s bane. How did that manservant gain access to the houses of all your relatives in order to murder them, I wonder.”

A wicked backhand took Vasper’s breath away and he was thrown to the floor at his ‘mother’s’ feet, where his torso’s many bruises were revisited again and again by Serdigal’s steel-plated boots.

“So tell me,” Bey commanded, standing over Vasper’s prone form, “about your mother.”


* * *


Nisceia laughed for the first time in what seemed like years, though the occasion eluded her. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage, my son! What is all of this for?” For all her questions, the Thane-Mother twirled no less animatedly in her wondrous new gown, nor radiated a smidgen less enthusiasm about the gorgeous diamond tiara that had been placed upon her head.

“It is for nothing in particular,” Vasper smirked, seemingly at his mother’s great surprise, “I only thought it was long since time that my dear mother had a day to enjoy! And it has been so long since I have had any time away from my duties to spend with you.”

“A day to remember? You mean there’s more?” Nisceia beamed.

“Indeed, mother, much more in fact. This is but preparation for the real adventure that awaits us!” Vasper seemed the picture of mirth and happiness.

Nisceia stopped to touch Vasper’s face and noticed the beginnings of a beard growing. She realized, regretfully, just how long it had been since she had had occasion to just look at her precious son.

“Is something the matter, mother?” Vasper asked, all concern.

“No, my son,” she answered, “only that it has been such a long time since I have seen you truly happy about anything. I do hope you will decide to tell me what it is before the day is over.”

Vasper laughed, “Truly, mother, you know me too well. Yes, I do have reason for happiness today, but perhaps I shall tell you more of that later. For now, today’s activities are all about you!”

“Very well, keep your secrets,” said Nisceia, wondering what lucky woman had enamoured the great Thane of Serapis, and happily envisioning wedding bells in her son’s future. Surely, only some great romance could have been responsible for such a dramatic change in his usually somber demeanor, she reasoned.

“Worry not, mother, you will find out everything soon enough,” Vasper replied.


Once the lady was dressed and coiffed to her satisfaction, Vasper clapped his hands to summon the valet waiting outside. “Prepare the grand coach, we travel to the city within the hour,” he commanded.

“You’re taking me to the city, my son? What have you been plotting?” Nisceia laughed happily and called for her favourite lady-servants. “If we’re going to be traveling about in Verdistat, I’d better keep some loyal attendants close by. After all, I couldn’t bear to carry all of the lovely merchandise I shall no doubt look favourably upon, all by myself. You know, it has been a year or more since I have found occasion to visit the world-renowned shoppes of our great city! What a beautiful day this is turning out to be!”

Vasper could tell that his mother was the happiest she had been in months, all due to his masterful planning. He had gone to a lot of trouble to pull everything together, but knowing how well she had earned her reward made his efforts all the more worthwhile.

The valet returned a few minutes later to announce that the coach was ready to depart and before long Thane, mother and servants were contentedly taking in the scenery as the Manor-Hill road swept past. The coach’s leisurely pace brought it to the Thane’s Arch an hour or so later. Much to Nisceia’s delight, the sturdy gates flew open at their approach, and on the other side a great fanfare was arrayed, playing a variety of merry-sounding musical instruments to the Thane-Mother’s favourite tunes.

Along with the pre-arranged greeting, scores of common citizens had also gathered to welcome their most beloved public figured into the spotlight. Nisceia had ever been a noblewoman of the people, and it was obvious just how much the people loved her for her care.

“Oh my son, this is all so very wonderful,” she bubbled, “I can’t believe you have done all of this for me! I will truly never forget this day, my son. No mother could ask for a better gift.”

Vasper smiled benevolently and caressed his mother’s face. “If anyone deserves all the labour I have gone through for this, it is you. And of course I am well assured of the many memories this day will bring – you have seen but the smallest portion of your special day!”

The coach rolled into the majestic Culoryk Square, clattering to a halt in front of the city’s government house which, along with being the official centre of political power in the province was also the most lavish and impressive building in all of Verdistat. In the middle of the square had been raised a great stage around which the multitudes were quickly gathering. The coach door opened, allowing Vasper to climb out. There he was escorted by a special honour guard to the top of the jovially decorated stage where he garnered the crowd’s attention by motioning excitedly with his arms.

“Great people of Verdistat!” he bellowed to great applause. “Citizens of the greatest city in all of Unver—no, all of Giliathor!” he shouted again, to an even bigger response. Hushing the masses with a commanding gesture, he continued. “I, your Thane, come before you today on business of the utmost import. Today we, together, gather to give praise and honour to a most deserving recipient – an angel amongst devils and a sheep among wolves!”

The people laughed uproariously at the Thane’s comical attempt at self-deprecation, then quieted down quickly as they strained to hear their leader’s every word. Though only yet a teenager, Vasper had already mastered the intricacies of working a crowd.

“Such a woman has the world never before seen, yet, of all the many peoples in Giliathor it was you, great citizens, whom the gods found worthy of such a blessing. And for good reason, for truly you are the best of peoples!” More applause and cheering. “And blessed are you all – are we all, to have her among us, for everywhere she goes she leaves a place better for having enjoyed her presence. Tirelessly has she toiled, fighting for the rights and freedoms of common people, like yourselves. People neither gifted with the privilege of station, nor cursed with the responsibilities of nobility. People whose thankless struggles have not gone thankless any longer, thanks to her.”

He stopped to look over the gathered people, who awaited the entrance of their lady with baited breath. “Please join me in honouring a woman that I truly feel I have known my entire life, a woman who truly deserves our praise, my mother, the Lady Nisceia!” If the crowd was a generous tremor before, now it was a mighty volcano, exploding into sound and motion as the diminutive Thane-Mother emerged from the coach to stroll down a red velvet carpet to the stage where Vasper now stood.

Nisceia walked, ladylike, up the stairs and stood beside her son, basking in the exultation of all her many admirers. The lady spoke briefly to the crowd, graciously thanking her loyal followers and friends and promising many more years devoted to improving the lives of one and all. Vasper watched the whole affair affably, almost believing that his mother truly meant her words, though the general state of disingenuousness that characterized his own words and actions made it difficult to accept the sincerity of others.

Once Nisceia’s laudable speech was over, she and Vasper were whisked away by an impressively large escort consisting of Serapis’ best warriors and led to Verdistat’s market square, which had been specially closed off and all its shoppes opened up for the lady’s perusal.
The square, which was actually several city squares converted in a vast array of shoppes and craft houses, was renowned through most of Giliathor for its wide variety of unique and beautiful merchandise. Vasper well knew just how long his mother had been waiting for such an opportunity and strolled cheerily along with her as she picked out all the best that the shoppes had to offer. As predicted, she loved every minute.

Several hours and a full wagon-load of purchases later, Nisceia’s market tour ended with a cluster of finely decorated stalls of the city’s best artisans, built specially for the occasion upon the palatial sprawling grounds of Morrwyd Castle, whose affluent lord had been quick to offer up his home for the building of the craftsmen’s booths as well as the holding of a great banquet in the Thane-Mother’s honour to close out the night.

Nisceia took her time viewing exquisite marble figures, beautifully crafted jewelry set with magnificent stones in a rainbow of different hues, musical instruments carved out of rare goralya wood, paintings, dresses and a cornucopia of various other one-of-a-kind pieces. After much indecisive browsing, she finally managed to choose her absolutely favourite things and declared that she was ready to proceed inside the castle, which, she had been told, was their next destination. At a word from Vasper, an honour guard of Serapis soldiers appeared, forming into two separate files which would escort the lady to her banquet.

At the very front of the procession stood their captain, a clean-cut man, well built despite his small height, who seemed too young for his station, yet capable beyond his years.
“What is your name, soldier?” Vasper asked, though he suspected he already knew the young man’s name.

“Captain Serdigal, my lord. Your humble servant,” replied the captain as he knelt. Vasper had heard the name before, along with more than a few stories. A mere two years Vasper’s senior, Serdigal was the youngest man in all of Unver to have attained such a rank. However, it was not his age that was the source of his quickly growing fame, but the deadly efficacy he displayed on the battlefield. Vasper could easily see that the all the talk was quite true, noting the absolute discipline and devotion Serdigal’s soldiers displayed and making a mental note to keep a close eye on the potentially useful ally.

“It’s all so beautiful!” Nisceia loudly declared, looking thoroughly surprised as she caught her first look at the great celebration. Beyond mere surprise, the lady was practically breathless at the spectacle. “Truly, you have outdone yourself, my son. This is magnificent, simply magnificent!”

As Thane and mother joined the party, Morrwyd’s host, one of the most influential and respected men in Serapis and the current Count of old Morrwyd’s ancient lineage, approached, looking far too pleased with himself for Vasper’s liking.

“Thane Vasper, my liege, and lady Nisceia,” said the Count, bowing low to the ground as protocol required, “it is my singular pleasure to welcome you both to my humble home, here in the house of my venerable ancestor Thane Morrwyd. May you find both the table and the company to your liking.”

Nisceia flashed her brightest smile at the man – genuine, as was everything she did. “Thank you, my old friend,” she replied. “This means more to me than you can know.”

In stark contrast to his mother’s open smile, Vasper’s face twisted momentarily into a contemptuous scowl, hastily replaced with a gracious smile before his mother or their host took notice. He bore a particular hatred for the man who had been his father’s bitterest rival, and knew well the tenor of the Count’s feelings for him as well. The Count made no attempt to hide his scorn, using his significant influence as Chief Advisory Councilor to thwart the Thane at every opportunity.

Vasper bowed, just low enough to maintain the appearance of respect, and offered greetings of his own. “Well met, worthy host. I see the hospitality of your house is no less admirable than it has ever been, Count Bey.”

“Indeed, Vasper,” said Bey, his face poised in mock reverence, despite the obvious smirk in his eyes. “You know Morrwyd’s doors are always open to my most honoured Thane.”

“Someday I shall hold you to that, my faithful servant,” Vasper replied, no less acidly. Bey nodded politely and moved to greet the other guests, a satisfied smile on his face. Enjoy these small victories while you can, thought Vasper, there will be other battles.

The silvery, almost-full moon had risen high in the clear night sky by the time Nisceia and son returned to the Thane’s estate, thoroughly stuffed with food and feeling quite jubilant as she reflected upon the wondrous day, now drawing to a close. The evening had turned chill despite the comforting warmth of the day’s sunshine. Nisceia could barely stand the suspense of waiting to hear her son’s news, whatever it may be, as the servantss set a roaring fire in her drawing room hearth.

“Now then,” she began, once the servants had left, shutting the door behind them, “tell me who the lucky lady is that has conquered the heart of so mighty a Thane!”

Vasper grinned, embarrassedly. “Mother dearest, how you do jump to conclusions! Yes, something incredible has occurred, but it is nothing to do with a lady, much as I hate to disappoint you.”

Nisceia was clearly taken aback. “Well, if not a lady, what then?” she asked, puzzled.

“Something infinitely more consequential than the meaningless wiles of infatuation and base desire, and a source of comfort that no woman could ever hope to match,” he replied, emotively. “What I have discovered brings meaning to my existence in a way that no simple romance ever could.”

Nisceia smiled back at her son, unsuccessfully masking a sudden nervous creeping into her expression. “I’m afraid you’ll have a hard time convincing me of that, my son.”

Despite his mother’s obvious misgivings, Vasper continued his enraptured ravings, “Oh, but mother, you cannot possibly know the joy of it! The complex emotions that give rise to the dizzying highs and lows of what is called ‘love’ would pale in comparison.”

“I know the power of those feelings better than you ever could!” Nisceia fired back, suddenly angered at her son’s casual dismissal of her most sacred values. “I am a mother, Vasper – your mother! I know what love is, and what it can inspire a person to do! If only you knew how I have shielded you, how low you might have fallen if I had not—“ she stopped herself abruptly, cutting off the words that followed as though they portended some long-foreseen doom, and replacing them with others less dangerous, “—if I had not put your needs above my own.”

She looked around uncomfortably for a moment, the heaving of her chest gradually slowing. “That is what love is, my son. And there is nothing in this world that can match it.”

Vasper looked into his mother’s eyes, a look of castigation on his face. “I am sorry to have upset you, mother. I know how you have struggled to look out for me since father died, and I appreciate all you have sacrificed for me, so that I might be strong as he was.” He reached to take his mother into his arms, “But you need worry no longer, for the legacy of Jirith shall live again. I have found the echo of his footsteps at long last!”

Nisceia smiled openly to cover up the deep fear that had suddenly gripped her to her core, though it did nothing to hide the sudden paleness of her normally rosy cheeks. “Your father’s footsteps? Whatever do you mean?”

Vasper smiled and gestured for his mother to come close in secrecy, “I cannot tell you the specifics, I fear, but I can put your mind at ease, at the very least,” he whispered. ”Some time ago, I was approached by a man who claimed to have had some involvement in father’s affairs. He said little that I understood, but told incredible stories of the power that father had wielded and the powerful circles he had run in. At first, I refused to believe him, but over time he produced such proofs as I could not refute.”

All the blood seemed to have drained from Nisceia’s face, by now, and her voice quavered tellingly. “Circles, you say?” she asked, “what kind of circles do you mean, Vasper?”

Vasper put a finger to his lips, as if to indicate that what he was going to say next was an especial secret. “All I will say is that it is a guild, of sorts, very old and very secretive. The oldest of the guilds, in fact, and it wields power unlike any I have ever known.” He paused to look about the room, suspiciously. “Surely you know of what I speak. Father would have had quite the challenge to hide such things from your scrying eyes.”

Nisceia realized with a start that she had forgotten to breathe, and took a breath. She nodded, solemnly in response. “Yes, my son, I knew of your father’s involvement in the secretive guild you speak of. He told me little, but I know enough.”

“Then you must know of the great power father wielded through it!” Vasper laughed, gleefully, yet guardedly.

She nodded again, “Yes, I knew of his power.”

Vasper grinned from ear to ear, like a giddy pauper who has suddenly struck it rich. “The guild has accepted me into its membership, with the full station of my father before me! I am every bit his equal, and I will be even greater than he was, I swear it to you, mother. I will look after you, and I will look after Serapis, better than father ever could have!”

The full force of Nisceia’s smile was back in place, no hint of discomfort now readily apparently on her face as she lovingly stroked her son’s cheek. “That is wonderful news, my son. You will be greater, indeed, than your father was. I should have known that would be your destiny.” She looked into the eyes of her beloved son for a further few seconds before a sober expression replaced the smile on her face. She yawned, suddenly exhausted. “I believe I will find my way to bed, my dear. The day has been long, though joyous, and I feel as though I could sleep for days! Sleep well, my son, and know that I love you.”

“You, also, mother,” Vasper replied as his mother walked out the door.

How much I love you, my son..

Nisceia strode silently, bare foot-falls making no sound against the expensive tiles of the luxuriously furnished room’s floor, walking as one walks in a dream. A dream with a purpose. The view around her was like a scene out of a nightmare she had had before, and never thought to have again. But here she was. Like before, her purpose was clear.

Six years it had been since she had last set foot in that room. Six years since she had called this room her own, yet she remembered every darkened nook like it was yesterday. Even in the black of night she could see the layout in her mind’s eye, adding to the images of her memories of days long past, when the great granite columns and the cold stone walls had not been so somber and muted, but merrily decked out with bright colours and cheery works of arts.

If she tried hard enough, she could recall a time when it had been a room of comfort and love. But then her love was stolen from her – wickedly stolen – and she was the wife of a Thane no longer. The Thane’s bedchamber, it was, and dark as its inhabitant’s heart had it become.

It was not a long walk to her destination from the chamber door, and yet it seemed a journey of a thousand steps, or a thousand years. It was over in the blink of an eye, and there she was, standing over her beloved son’s bed as the dark-haired form beneath the covers drew the peaceful breaths of a deep and untroubled sleep. Wherever his mind was presently wandering, it was free of worry. She could take solace in that.

“How much I love you, my son,” she whispered, “I gave all that I had to protect you, though you know it not. Only one thing I kept for myself, and I curse myself for that indulgence, for it has cost you more than I can bear. I must put things to right, now – I must give up the thing I treasure most – not for Serapis, nor for Unver, nor the world itself, but for you, my son.”

Nisceia reached a slender hand to the belt of her robe and slipped the dagger from its jeweled scabbard. “I make this sacrifice for you.” Through tear-stung eyes, she looked upon her son for what was to be the last time and plunged the dagger into his heart.

* * *

“She saw through you, didn’t she?” asked Bey, starting down a new line of questioning. “She planned to make you pay for your crimes – was that it?”

Vasper scowled.

“Is that why you hated her so, because she saw the monster you had become?” The interrogation continued.

“No.”

“What then? Was it something that she did? Something that hurt you deeply?”

Silence.

“No matter,” Bey shrugged, “Your reasons aren’t my concern, but be assured that you will be punished for your transgressions.” He gestured toward the ranks of nobles ringed by soldiers that had eagerly watched and participated in the proceedings up to this point. “Behold your judge and jury!”

“You dare to pass judgement upon me?” Vasper demanded.

“You are a monster!” Bey screamed, working up his onlookers. “A torturous, murdering beast whose deeds must be measured, counted and met with a punishment to match!” The crowd cheered, nobles and soldiers alike.

Soliders pulled Vasper to his feet and dragged him to the front of the dais, displaying him in front of the assembly. “Even you noble houses cannot pass judgment upon me without a trial!” Vasper shouted hoarsely to his accusers.

“Don’t be a fool, Vasper,” the Count yelled back as much for his followers as for his foe, “Your trial began the moment we walked into this hall! And now we will hear your testimony so that we may fully understand the magnitude of your evil and of all the lives you’ve destroyed before justice is carried out.”

“Ask your questions then,” Vasper laughed, “I have nothing to hide from the likes of you.”

Bey closed in face to face, practically pressing his nose against his prisoner’s. “What happened on the night of your mother’s feast?”

“My mother murdered her only son, that night, and left me in his place.” Vasper replied chillingly.

Bey’s eyes blazed at that, “What did you do to her, fiend?”

“I made an exchange of sorts,” said Vasper.

Bey pressed further, “What kind of exchange?”

“I traded what I no longer needed for that which would serve me better,” snapped the Thane. “Mercy for power, remorse for pleasure, forgiveness for…”

“Expediency?”

Vasper shook his head slowly and grinned.

“Vengeance.”


* * *


Nisceia knew that something was terribly, terribly wrong, besides the knife handle sticking up out of her son’s expensive blankets. The struggle had been brief enough, her victim’s eyes coming open with the sudden panic that accompanies the violent cessation of one’s heartbeat. He had managed only the barest gurgling cry before the dark complexion of the lately dead crept into his face, and the lifeless body fell back into the blood-soaked sheets.

Urged on by her mind-numbing grief, Nisceia bent over to embrace her dead son one last time before she had to flee to the safety of her own bedchambers to await news of her son’s murder. But therein lay the problem. The dark eyes that gazed blankly back at her were not the ones she had expected, but rather those of her favourite servant – favourite due to his striking resemblance to her son. She reeled backwards from the corpse, sitting hard on the floor in a daze, trying in vain to sort through what exactly had just occurred.

Where is my son?

Confusion was replaced by a cold terror that rippled its way down her spine, sparked by the gentle caress of a supple hand upon her cheek.

“Mother.” It was more an accusation than a greeting.

She spun to face her accuser, and there was Vasper, imbued with a dark immensity the likes of which the Thane-mother had only ever seen in her late husband during his final days. He was dressed as for a ritual of some dark nature, a blackly ornate robe covering him from chin to toe. Around his neck was a thick band of blackened iron, like a slave’s collar, complete with a ring for binding slave to master.

No!

Her eyes slipped to a short length of chain, perhaps the length of a finger, that hung from the binding ring. Swaying at the end of the chain was a symbol of power and of terror: three interlocking triangles forming the head and horns of a great beast.

“Vasper, please listen to me! You don’t understand!” Nisceia pleaded, futilely.

“On the contrary, I understand perfectly,” said an eerily icy voice from above the collar. “I lied when I told you I was father’s equal, you see. To be truthful, I have surpassed him in every way.”

Nisceia could barely hear her son’s words over the thunderous roaring in her head that accompanied the sobbing cries spilling out from deep within. “Oh my gods, no! Not you! Not my son! This was not supposed to be your fate – I did what I had to do… what they said I must do to save you from your father’s burden! This was his doing…his weakness…his fate! But never yours! Please understand, my son, I was trying to protect you—“

Vasper’s backhanded blow stole the words out of her mouth, and then his iron grip around her throat stole her breath along with them. “Protect me? As you protected my father before me? Your own husband?” He squeezed until Nisceia’s eyes bulged out of her head and the blackness encroached upon her vision. A moment later she felt herself sliding back onto the floor and realized with a sudden gasping breath that he had let go.

“If my father had a weakness,” whispered Vasper, standing over his mother’s crumpled body, “it was his love for you, and his trust. In that, also, I have surpassed him.”

Nisceia got to her feet quickly, emboldened by the duty that still pressed upon her though she could hardly stand. “Fine then,” she gasped, “you’ve made your point. I killed your father, and I meant to kill you. I’ve only meant to save you both from the damnation you would bring upon yourselves! But if you’re going to kill me, then do it now, and be done with it. If you are still my son, I don’t believe you’ll do it! I know him better than that!”

Vasper offered no immediate response, nor did he move to strike his mother down, seemingly given pause at her words. Then he smiled the evil smile of the fallen, signaling to someone, or something, behind her. “You are right; I am no longer the son you know. That son is dead. I have become something you could never understand, and my vengeance will not be met in your death, but in your final hours of life.”

A pair of black-hooded figures took Nisceia from behind, out of the darkness, dragging her toward the blood-bathed bed as another pair dragged the body of her victim from the evilly soiled sheets and onto the floor. Strength left her as she realized what Vasper intended, and she had not the strength to resist as his servants laid her down in the corpse’s place and bound her hands and feet to the bed frame.

Vasper looked down at his doppelganger’s corpse, an amused look on his face. “I wonder if poor Garvin had an inkling of the crucial role he would someday play in his Thane’s affairs. More than likely not, I suppose.”

Reaching down, he plucked the dagger from the corpse and turned to stand over the bed.

“You don’t have to do this, Vasper!” Nisceia desperately cried, “It’s not too late! You can turn away from the path of evil, but you must do it now! Think about what you’re doing!”

Vasper paused momentarily, “It is far beyond ‘too late’. Did you think I would not have thought about it, mother? It was too late for you six years ago, when you murdered your husband in his sleep.”

Fearful tears ran freely over Nisceia’s face as the blade moved toward her. “Vasper, no! You can’t do this! Think about the future, Vasper!” The blade slowed. “When you are all alone and scared, and there is no one in this world for you to turn to, to tell you everything will be alright? What will do you for comfort after you have killed all who would comfort you? How much will you regret this night?”

Vasper smirked, darkly. “What will I do?” He paused for a moment of thought and looked back upon his mother with a sinister gleam in him eyes. “In those dark and lonely times, when your memory forces its way into my mind, I will commemorate the final agonized moments of your life by recreating this night in the flesh of others, and pray to my dark gods that in whatever hell you find yourself, you will feel their pain.”

Nisceia fell silent, knowing that words could no longer make any difference, and watched the blade fall towards her, the first of many strokes.


* * *

Vasper’s thoughts were jolted back to the present as he lay still upon the dais stairs where he had been flung. Every bone in his body ached, by now, from the abuse, but especially his ribs, which had taken the brunt of the damage from the fall. A stabbing sensation when he inhaled confirmed his suspicions that several ribs had broken in the tumult, though he would never have admitted to such pain in the presence of even those he trusted, let alone his enemies.

“—murdering hellspawn!” a cry came from somewhere above.

His head throbbed mightily as well, and he made no attempt to respond to the jeering of a thousand voices, all calling for his blood. Instead, his eyes fluttered shut as he focused his attention inwardly to drown out the mayhem around him. His presence of mind as strong as ever, he reminded himself that this pain and humiliation were not things to be feared or avoided, but the final and crucial strands in a magnificent web-work that he had patiently weaved for a decade and more. His present suffering would soon be over; payment would soon be due.

Chapter 4 : Dark Places

“On your belly, worm!” Serdigal shouted, pushing Vasper to the floor and leaning heavily on the defenseless Thane with an armoured knee stuck in the man’s back. The warrior yanked Vasper’s head back by his long black hair and pressed the edge of his sword against the pale skin of his throat. “How does it feel, devil, to know that at this particular moment your fate is entirely in my hands?"

"I fear that you flatter yourself,” Vasper managed to reply, choking on his ironic laughter.

Serdigal wrenched Vasper’s body back even farther, spewing his vitriol in the captive Thane’s ear. “I wouldn’t rile me, snake, for it would be an immense pleasure to bathe in your blood!”

“Enough, General,” Bey’s voice commanded. “I do not wish excessive damage to my prize if it can be helped. Surely this one has done nothing to earn the expediency in death that a blade to the throat would bring. There will be nothing so clean as that for him.” Both of them chuckled over this.

“Sanctimonious fools…” Vasper muttered, closing his eyes to chant in the otherworldly tongue.

“There’ll be none of that, sorcerer!” cried Bey, gesturing wildly to Serdigal. Stars danced suddenly in Vasper’s field of vision as the pommel of Serdigal’s sword smashed into the back of his head.

“Let him wander in the darkness for awhile,” Vasper heard Bey say before the lights went out.

* * *

Wandering in the darkness…

Rathamir led Vasper into the back offices of the tavern, to a small room far removed from the noisy belligerence of the common area. Vasper had visited this particular room several times in the past while hunting for some nameless secret that he felt sure to exist. None of his forays throughout the tavern’s back rooms had borne fruit, however.

“You have waited a long time for me to deem you ready to enter this place,” Rathamir began. “And, despite my most severe admonitions to the contrary, you have invested copious amounts of time attempting to find it for yourself—“

“You knew?” Vasper’s face reddened.

“Of course I knew. You are not nearly so proficient at subterfuge, yet, as to avoid my scrutiny, my young pupil. Besides which, I could hardly expect anything less out of the excessively inquisitive nature which you and I share.” He grinned. “And so, here we are. Your wait is at an end and the secret entrance into supremacy that you have so hardly sought is before you.” He gestured to the wall before them.

Vasper followed the gesture and saw nothing. “Entrance? Rathamir, are you feeling quite alright? I see nothing here but wall!” he exclaimed, looking dubiously at the teacher.

Rathamir simply smiled, “Sooner or later, doubting Vasper, you will have to learn the difference between what you see and what is. Look again.”

Vasper did so and now saw that where there had been, but a moment before, a solid wall of new brick and mortar, now stood an ancient-looking stone archway. Beyond this, an even more ancient-looking stairway spiraled into a black abyss. He looked back at Rathamir in amazement, “I don’t believe it! If I’ve been through this room once, I’ve been through it a thousand times – how could I have missed that?”

“I did not intend for you to find it, and thus you did not,” Rathamir replied. He nodded knowingly at Vasper’s further questioning expression, “How did I do this, you wish to know? Follow me and you will discover the answers to many questions far more interesting than that.”

With that, the robed tutor stepped through the archway and down the stairs. After but a moment’s hesitation Vasper quickly decided to do likewise and followed closely behind. At first he was afraid of being stuck in the dark, winding staircase without a lamp or torch for light, but his fear soon proved unnecessary. A hazy grey glow, whose source he could not identify, faintly lit the stairway, though it did little to reveal more than a few steps at a time. As they descended in silence, the Thane imagined that he was climbing down into the deep pits of the underworld, where the great furnaces burned day and night. Did the air seem to be growing warmer? He shivered despite what he hoped to be an imagined warmth creeping up through the stone underfoot.

After an indeterminate amount of time they reached the bottom of the stair, which ended abruptly at a flat walk interrupted by an iron door, plain enough looking and tightly shut and locked. Rathamir turned to his pupil, placing both hands upon Vasper’s shoulders and captured the other’s eyes with his.

“Beyond this door lies the entrance to a very different world, Vasper, and one in which, once you have entered, you can never leave,” Rathamir stated, gravely, not missing the thoroughly confused look on the boy’s face. “The Serpent’s Belly, which you have no doubt built up in your mind as some magical place of immeasurable power, is not what you think. There is power here, yes, but more than that, there is realization and revelation. Indeed, once you enter these halls, your perceptions of the world outside will be forever altered. Within these halls you shall be compelled to prove, to me and to others, your worthiness to be instructed in deeper truths and darker powers than most men can begin to imagine. The testing will be difficult and it will be painful, but I am confident that you will succeed.” He paused, looking entirely humourless, and asked the sobering question. “Do you wish to enter and be tested?”

Vasper responded with the resolute nodding of his head, “Yes, teacher, I wish to enter and be tested.”

Rathamir inclined his head in approval at the response and turned back to the door. Placing one hand upon it, he began uttering in an outlandish tongue whose words seemed to emanate forth not only from his own mouth but from the very bowels of the earth below.

”Gzh’Trga Ydzl’gzh Frdzh’guul Ak’taan!”

At once the plain iron door seemed to melt away, revealing grand double-doors of jet black onyx. Dark and ominous they stood, and in their centre a crudely painted sigil shone starkly crimson against their blackness. Angular and cruel, the symbol was instantly recognizable: three interlocking triangles formed the bulk of it, one larger and broader, pointing downwards for a head. The other two perched atop the other, pointing upwards, the horns of a great and terrible beast. Though his eyes registered recognition and dread, Vasper said nothing and waited for his tutor to speak.

“I see you recognize the great beast sigil, and you are correct in what you surmise. Though you heard tell of whom or what might be hiding here, you did not believe the worst of those rumours. Not until now,” said Rathamir. He reached out with his fingers, reverently caressing the image. “The Serpent’s Belly is lair to something much more beautiful and terrible than the vague, simple evils inhabiting most men’s simplistic superstitions. Nor is it merely a storehouse of illicit knowledge as others believe.

“Beyond this door, as you have guessed, lies the dungeon Drakhalteyon, high hall of the Black Guild.”

Vasper visibly shivered and leaned heavily against the wall, as though unable to hold himself up under the weight of current events. He eyed the volcanic-rock door warily before shifting his wide-eyed glance back toward his mentor. “The Black Guild. Drakhalteyon,” he sighed, almost whispering the names. “One hears about such things in whispers and stories, but this—“ he trailed off uncertainly. “To be here, I mean. I can scarcely credit it. Why am I here, Rathamir? Why have you brought me to this place?”

“Because I deem you worthy to share in the truth, my son,” Rathamir replied. Vasper looked questioningly into his teacher’s eyes; never before had Rathamir called him his son. “Worthy to share in the incredible power of enlightenment that dwells here. It is a power that cannot be taught, but must be claimed, conquered. But be warned, young Thane, that the world that is operates far differently than the world which you have been taught to accept. All the stories you have been told about the great and noble conflict of good and evil are just that – stories. Ever has the real truth – the deeper truth – been known only to those deemed worthy to serve those who hold the reins of power in Giliathor.

“So it has been from the start, when the brightest of all the burning stars in the sky took hold of his power and chose his servants from among the strongest and wisest in our world. And, gathering his chosen servants together, he formed the great guild in whose service I pledged my life at the same age you are now.”

“I understand, Rathamir. I am ready,” Vasper declared, determined not to let down the only person in his life who had ever shown him more than perfunctory care. “I trust you more than anyone.”

“Such trust comes easily to you, now,” said Rathamir, grimly. “Not so, later on, I think. Evolution is never easy, and once you pass into that domain you cannot return unchanged. Here you will learn of things that will freeze the blood in your veins, or boil it, or both. You will reject what is revealed to you, as I did, and you will have to be shown the truth, as I also was. In the end you will accept and be found worthy to embrace the responsibility. Or, by other’s hands or your own, you will die. Now, Vasper, son of Jirith and Thane of all Serapis, I ask again, are you ready?”

Shaking too violently to form words, Vasper merely nodded his assent. Rathamir merely blinked in response and the black door ceased to be. Stretching out beyond the threshold ran a long corridor, encased in walls and ceiling of the same polished stone as that of the door. Taking a deep breath, Vasper followed his mentor through the entryway. After a few paces he turned to look behind him, suddenly worried that someone might find the door open and follow them through. But where the door had been, none now was, nor any indication of an entrance. Vasper’s quizzical expression elicited gentle laughter from his guide, “All is not as it appears here, young one. Be mindful.”

They strode on determinedly along a hallway long and dark and seemingly endless, toward what destination Vasper could not guess. They had been traveling thus for several minutes when Vasper glimpsed something odd out of the corner of his eye, like the hint of an out-of-place shape in the shadows. Perhaps they were not alone as he had assumed; a chilling prospect. But when the hinted-at shape had passed by without incident, Vasper decided it to be a product of his nervous imagination, and dismissed it as a trick of the strange light in the place, walking on.
Vexed by a nervous edginess, it was not long before he felt the need to see something other than the monotonous road stretching unchangingly from the gloom behind to the gloom ahead.

Desperate for some kind of diversion, he turned his head to examine the stone walls of the hallway, having earlier taken note of some interesting glyph-shapes carved along their length. Instead of the foreign symbols he had expected to see, he caught sight of something very like the odd thing from before, though this time around he was able to discern a distinct man-shape crouched down inside a sort of dark void in the wall. Catching the hint of something to the other side, he turned to see a matching void in the opposite wall, and a matching man-shape crouched inside it. He was about to mention what he had seen to Rathamir but thought better of it, having been taught to rely upon his own senses and observations before seeking out the knowledge of others. In any case, the red-headed teacher seemed quite unconcerned, if the unwavering footfalls were any indication.

Now knowing what to look for, Vasper watched the walls to catch the next anomaly before he was past it. Armed with that knowledge, he could clearly see the next small compartment facing inward from wall, along with its counterpart on the opposite side. Inside each opening knelt – not crouched – a figure robed and cowled in shades of black and grey, silent and stock-still. Dark eyes, intensely aware, sparkled from within shadowed faces. Sentries, Vasper realized, suddenly glad he had not managed to discover the secret way on his own, without Rathamir for escort.

After passing by several more of the darkly clad guards, they came to the corridor’s sudden end. By now, Vasper’s sense of spatial awareness was thoroughly confused; he had not at all seen the end coming and yet there it was, appearing in front of him in the form of a low archway. Before the arch stood, or perhaps floated, three figures. They were clad similarly to the sentries along the way except that the garments they wore seemed tailored with shadow where there should have been cloth.

Seeing Rathamir and student approach, the figures knelt down, bowing low – worshipfully, Vasper thought – each with a hand stretched out in offering. It was an expression very much akin to something Vasper had seen passing between the royal palace guards in Unverferth and the king, though the dim grey light of the corridor seemed an exceedingly odd setting for such gestures.

Upon each of the shadowy figures’ upraised palms was lain a key, each of the three as different and unique from the others as fire is from water and water from air. The hand on the left held a large key of polished steel. Plainly wrought but strong it seemed, with a long handle, undecorated save from an engraving of a hammer and sword crossed, as if in battle. Another key, this one in the hand of the rightmost figure, was a delicate bauble, carved delicately out of clear blue crystal with a handle that curved gracefully into the elegant shape of a raindrop, shimmering alluringly. The last of the keys, held between the others, was of nondescript shape and size but black as pitch. It was made of a curious material, neither metal, nor wood but with a porous texture, as though carved from the charred arm-bone of some ancient dead thing.

Vasper looked at the three figures with their keys, and back at Rathamir, clearly confused about what was required of him.

“The way lies before you, Vasper,” his mentor directed. “Choose your path carefully, only one way leads to enlightenment. The other paths lead to torments that are, as yet, unimaginable to you.”

Despite the questions forming in his mind, Vasper did not speak them out but reached out confidently to grasp each key in turn, somehow knowing, with absolute confidence, what to do. An important choice loomed before him – one which would determine more than simply whether he would live or die. The choice could not be rushed, and yet he also knew that indecisiveness was a luxury he could not afford – not now, not ever.

At the barest brushing of his fingers over the keys, each, in turn, called out to him in a voice distinctly unique in essence and tone.

The voice of steel was loud and furious, edged in unrestrained rage and anger, and an overwhelming urge to satisfy those feelings with the outpouring of violence, pure and raw. Oh, what marvelous release it would be to feel a life choking away between his fingers, or bleeding out on the end of his blade. But after the violent thoughts had faded he was left void and unfulfilled. He had never been taken to the idea of physical assault – it had always seemed somehow beneath him. So he put down the steel key and moved on.

The crystal voice brought with it a sense of fluidity and flow – harmony with the very elements of nature: earth, air, fire and water. It was a slow voice, a quiet voice of subtle power over all the long processes and the collective knowledge of the natural world. Such wisdom, he knew, would be an invaluable asset, but as much as he was not given to physicality, neither was he a man of peace and contemplation. So he put down the crystal and moved on once more.

The dark voice echoed something different, indeed. Empty and shapeless, it was the slow creeping of shadow into a sunlit room, choking the inhabitants with its patient poison – a subtle whisper, killing without a sound. It was dark as light, deception as truth and death as life. In a word: perfect.

Vasper’s decision came quickly, and he grasped the black key tightly to his chest, unwilling that any harm should come to it. As he did so all that had been behind him – corridor, ceiling and walls – blurred and faded from existence, leaving him standing on a road that went only forward, suspended in an infinite field of black. Clearly, there could be no going back; the only thing that remained was to move ahead, through the arch. Destiny awaited.

The first person to move was the middle figure, now empty-handed. Expressionless, it ducked under the arch, followed by its fellows, still holding their keys. Rathamir gestured for Vasper to proceed next, and the Thane did as he was bidden. Beyond the arch he saw three doors, and beside each stood one of the shadowy figures.

The figure with the steel key turned to his door of polished steel that glittered brightly, even in the low light of the passage. Adorning this door, a likeness was hung of a mail-clad fist, forged in gold and silver. The matching key turned easily in the great door’s keyhole and the door swung open, bright sunlight streaming through it. Through the door was a great field of battle, upon which stood a grim army, weapons at the ready. The key-holder stepped through and became changed: a great warrior it was, dressed in a brightly polished suit of heavy armour. As the dark army surged forward in attack the warrior grew in size until it towered over the swarming combatants, dispatching dozens of its enemies with each swing of the great mace it wielded. The warrior grew larger with every man that it felled, but so also did the sun hanging over the battlefield, until its deadly fires could be held back no longer and fell to earth with a mighty roar, consuming army, warrior and the entire world with its fury.

The steel door shut hard against that all-consuming fire, bursting, itself, into flame and disappearing into the blackness.

To the crystal key belonged a wooden door, plainly but sturdily made of some rich, dark timber. Upon the wooden door was carved an image of a great tree holding the sun, moon and stars in its outstretched branches. The figure with the crystal key unlocked the door and stepped through, into a garden, beautiful and serene. A great tree it became whose branches reached into the heavens while its roots spread through the earth, drinking in the knowledge and power of all nature’s creatures, flora and fauna alike. A thousand peaceful years flashed by in an instant, and the power and beauty of the tree waxed along with its kingdom, the garden. In the blink of an eye the bright sun turned dark and the garden fell into decay. Great thorny vines invaded the garden, overgrowing all in their path and devouring the once mighty tree, continuing to expand until they had choked the very life from the earth from whence the tree had sprung.

The wooden door closed upon a world of chaotic vegetation whose creepers grew through the cracks to encompass the door with their weedy malignance.

One way, only, remained, a dark iron grate of worn vertical bars that might have just as easily belonged in the cruelest of dungeons. Undecorated, save for a sturdy lock, the grate was heavily soiled with the filthy grime one might expect to find collecting in the kind of dank prison cell wholly too familiar with the presence of death. From out of the darkness beyond, a light draught blew, wafting along with it odious hints of the unwholesome air within.

The Thane stepped forward, clear of purpose, knowing that he could go no other way but forward. He inserted the key and twisted hard, expecting to meet resistance from decades, or perhaps centuries, of disuse. To his surprise, the key turned easily and the door swung open of its own accord.

Rathamir came forward, looking deeply into his student’s eyes. “Cross the threshold, my son. Destiny awaits.”

* * *

“I’ll not hear talk of destiny from a fork-tongued snake!” shouted the baneful voice of Serapis’ new Thane-apparent to the cheering mass of his followers. Vasper cried out as the whip lashed against him, another welt joining the growing collection of angry red gashes already striping his bare back. Kast let out a frustrated growl from his place on the dais, among his few remaining men. Though he wanted nothing more than to go down, taking as many of the rebellious filth with him before he died, he knew any such action would prove deadly to his Thane, so he stayed put.

Bey, meanwhile, had been very specific in his treatment of the outgoing Thane: First he had been stripped down to his skivvies, then beaten and dragged around the hall by a rope around his neck to receive the callous kicks and blows of the combined rebel force. Finally he had been strung up by his wrists and subjected to a drawn-out flogging, the brutality of which had been seldom encountered in civilized lands. While Serdigal’s hands held the whip, Bey gloated over his trophy.

“You have inflicted much pain upon your victims, most of them helpless women, the base carrion creeper than you are. But I notice that you have no scars to call your own!” The crowd booed loudly then cheered as their chosen Thane continued his tirade. “Hardly fitting for a leader of your outstanding character, wouldn’t you say? What do you say we change that?” Bey postured dramatically for his audience, eliciting a steady cadence of clapping hands from the nobility and stomping feet from the soldiers. Serdigal brought the whip back once more.

“It’s time you had a lesson in pain!”

* * *

In the darkness of an adolescent mind, the young Thane wondered if the incessant screaming was ever going to stop. It had been going on, seemingly, for days without ceasing, and he feared that he would lose his mind if the infernal keening did not end soon.

If the coward has to suffer, at least he could do it in silence and save me the headache!

That it was his own cries of pain that filled the air did not make the sound of it any less perturbing. Somewhere in his adolescent mind, he had separated the combined immensity of his torment into its separate elements, each piece wholly independent from the others. Somewhere in his adolescent mind, he had imagined that if only he concentrated hard enough upon the irritating sounds of his torture, he might not feel the pain.

He was wrong, of course; the various men and women of the guild who came and went from his torture chamber took special pride and skill in playing the role of tormentor. And, while techniques varied from practitioner to practitioner, all the torturers shared one thing in common: their master, the master of the Black Guild. Or, as he had introduced himself to Vasper, Drakhal, highest servant of Giliathor’s true gods. Gods who, unlike the heroic characters celebrated by countless generations of religious observance and tradition, were neither benevolent nor virtuous as their mythical counterparts were claimed to be.

“I know your mind, son of Jirith,” spoke the slithering voice of Drakhal from behind the iron masque he worse for a face. Vasper had assumed it was a he behind the grotesquely cast features, though he could not have said for sure. “Despite everything that has been done to you, you cling to the vain belief that you are above all of this. That the blackness in your heart is not so black as mine and your murders not so dire. Is that not so?”

Vasper cleared the blood from the back of his throat and spat it weakly, missing the cowled figure by some distance.

“It is difficult for such a mind as yours to accept that evil remains evil regardless of motive or rationale. In your mind you have built up the notion that your crimes are of more noble purpose, because they have been committed in the name of convenience, rather than intention, and with indifference rather than relish. So committed are you to freeing yourself from being bound to another’s will that you would forsake your station as an honoured servant to the lords of Giliathor in favour of becoming their slave, instead.”

Vasper thrashed, suddenly, flailing against the chains that bound him. “I am no slave!” he tried to shout, coming out more as ragged gasps that gurgled from lips stained red with blood.

“No. Not a slave,” said Drakhal, no longer standing at Vasper’s feet, but crouching down to whisper in his ear. “You were not brought into this place only to be left the slave who entered. You came to me to be indoctrinated into the greatness and power that only the gift of Anak can bestow. For it is to him that the gods owe their allegiance, and it was he who first gave them the names by which they are commonly known and worshipped: Tergo the Resurrector, Dorlan the Hunter, Kirthdal the Animator, Idsilion the Maiden of Peace, Gurlon’Tal the Warrior’s Patron, Ferius the Warden of the Afterlife, Caylen Tael the Goddess of Beauty and Pleasure, Larken Mal-Ek-Mal the Righteous Judge of the Dead, and Orsong Tiras the god of fire and forge.

“All of these, who inhabit the highest circle of the holy court, and the myriad spirits beneath them, belong to Anak and always have. Their true names are ancient and powerful, known by only a privileged few among the guild, and of those few, only Drakhal knows them all.”

Vasper lay silently, though his thoughts raced. Tergo had been his family’s patron god for generations without number and, indeed, the house chapel which occupied the entire top floor of the Thane’s manor was wholly devoted to the traditionally celebrated deity. That his family had been worshipping a lie all this time gnawed at his pride. Yet he knew somehow that it was all true, and he could no longer deny that fact. More troublesome was the realization growing in him that if the holy court of gods was based on such untruth, so then were his allusions to a higher calling.

“To be joined to the Black Guild,” Drakhal intoned, standing over his captive once more, “means acceptance of truths so unspeakable, revelations so shocking, that only the strongest or most malleable of minds can learn of them and not break, utterly. It means submission to Principalities so lofty and cruel that all life in Giliathor serves as little more than fodder for their insatiable appetites, or pawns to their inexorable will. And it means fulfillment of your role as harvester and mentor, leading sheep to the slaughterhouse and slaves to their shackles. Or as petitioner, offering up the pain of the innocent as a sacrificial offering to the unholy pantheon in exchange for the lending of their power.”

Ironic, thought Vasper, that he now found himself the object of just such a sacrifice. That for all he had thought to resist being ruled by the will of others, he had accomplished just the opposite.

“Are you yet convinced, young Vasper?” the iron-masked voice lilted seductively, “are you content to be numbered among the multitudes – the sheep – of Giliathor, or will you take your place as a servant-king under the rule and protection of the Prince of gods?”

Drakhal stood at Vasper’s side, the two of them suddenly encircled by all those who had enacted torture upon the once-handsome, now-disfigured boy, each with the preferred implement of their individual crafts. When they had arrived, Vasper could not tell; he had been alone in the cell, aside from the hideously masqued Guildmaster a moment before. They moved in slowly, apparently unaware of their master’s presence in their midst. The certainty of their bloodlust hung palpably in the air like a thick haze.

“The time for games is over,” Drakhal hissed, “my thralls have come to end a worthless slave whose long parole has finally expired. Your life is forfeit, but Anak offers your pardon in exchange for service done in his name. Only he can save you now! Merely reach out and take my hand, and you will achieve all that you have ever hoped for. The decision is yours for the making.” The horrific iron gaze took in the approaching guildsmen, clearly resolved to their task. “But, you should not delay over long, I think.”

Vasper looked at the outstretched hand and felt a release of pressure as his shackles came open of their own accord. To accept Drakhal’s offer would change things, to be sure, but Thane’s lofty idols had long since been replaced with thoughts of the cold, cruel revenge he would bring upon the heads of his tormentors.

Oh, how he hated them, and how that hatred gave rise to darker things within. He had quenched their thirst with the blood seeping from his many wounds to form sticky pools on the dirty floor below, fed their hunger with flesh stripped from his ravaged body by devilish scourges woven with the jagged shards of his own broken bones. Worst of all, he had sated their perverse pleasures with his cries, revealing weakness in himself that he could not excuse. And Drakhal was the worst of them all, watching while the guildsman had carried out his every word and command.

But now was not the time for such thoughts. Now was the time to do what one must to survive to see the next day, and to claim the protection and power of the gods, whatever their nature may be, no less. Perhaps, once he had built favour enough for himself with the dark powers he must serve, he would repay Drakhal’s hospitality, kindness for bloody kindness.

A serpentine voice slithered around the edges of his comprehension. Hold onto your wrath, favoured one, for but a little while, and you shall be made greater even than he.

Vasper laughed, knowing well whose voice it was echoing in his thoughts. Hold onto my wrath? Indeed, I shall never let it go.

Eyes dancing, he reached out and took the offered hand. A sinister power of darkness was set loose in the touch, that sucked at the very fabric of the shadows, pulling in the silky black stuff, gathering it, concentrating it, and forcing out the light. Time seemed to slow, sound to diminish, for a few fleeting seconds. The moments that followed were filled with the screaming deaths of a score of the guild’s finest torturers, eviscerated by an explosion of merciless writhing tentacles of living darkness formed by the malevolence of the guildmaster’s will.

When the shadowy deed had been done, and the torture chamber was thoroughly painted in guildsman blood, the darkness began to expand once more, rolling over Vasper in silent waves of nothingness. Light turned to dark as all reckoning of space and time was swiftly swept away.

Sense returned slowly, giving no account of the passage of time. Gone was the repugnant squalor of the torture chamber, replaced by a grand audience hall of smooth onyx, polished to a shine. His first sight was of an evilly cast face, the same previously worn by Drakhal, but now belonging to the graven image of a man, which was the large room’s central feature. The rest of the statue’s horned head stood atop a majestically poised body, perfectly proportioned and robed in a long cape, signifying royalty. In the figure’s clawed right hand was clutched a heart, twain in two, and in the other a long, twisted dagger. To either side, kneeling in submission to the horrible chief monument were a uniquely frightful pair of figures, a male and a female, authoritatively and hideously carved, yet clearly subservient to the other.

“Lord Anak in the glory of his youth, on the day that the twin deities Xizixizix and Yidsn pledged themselves to his rebellion against an impotent master,” said a familiar voice from the shadows nearby.

“Devourer … Devil …” Vasper replied breathlessly. He was suddenly aware that his myriad wounds of blade, scourge, and fire had disappeared without any hint of mark or scar.

“Ignorant titles granted by unenlightened men to a being they could not possibly comprehend,” answered the voice. “Surely even you must now acknowledge that he is a king among gods.”

Vasper nodded, flexing his newly restored fingers in disbelief.

“And your hurts, though a necessary element of your own enlightenment, have been healed to your satisfaction?”

“They have, Guildmaster,” he responded. The voice belonged to Drakhal, Vasper decided, however there was something more familiar in it that he had not detected previously.

“Do you now find yourself able to enlist your soul to the service of Anak, and his Principalities?” the pointed question was asked.

Vasper grinned, “With everything that is in me, master.”

A smooth hand gripped his shoulder. “For your trials you have earned the right to stand by my side, as the son I never had, but shall now guide to his destined station.” The voice was proud, triumphant. “Stand, then, honoured son, and look upon your new father.”

Vasper did as he was bidden and looked into a face almost more familiar to him than his own – the face of one who would never hurt him? “Rathamir..? But—“

“In the world of men I am known to you as Rathamir, teacher and advisor to the Thane of Serapis,” the red-haired man cut in, silencing his apprentice with an upraised palm. “There, a Thane shall learn of governance, diplomacy, warfare and other such things befitting his station in that world. But here, in Drakhalteyon, Anak’s hall, I will be known to you as Drakhal, master and father to Anak’s newest servant. Here, a Black Guildsman shall enter into communion with the cruel spirits who turn the wheels of Giliathor, and their power shall be his for the asking so long as he remains in their favour.”

Vasper’s long hair brushed the glassy surface of the black stone floor as he knelt down to Anak’s image. “Tell me what I must do, master,” he breathed reverently.

Rathamir’s hand rested gently upon the boy’s head, smoothing ruffled hairs, “You must make your first offering to the gods. Only then shall you receive the blessing of their regard.”

Vasper looked up, gleefully sinister, and reached into the loose-fitting garment he had been dressed in to retrieve the jagged knife he knew he would find. “Bring me an innocent life and I shall dedicate its pain to my lords, with pleasure.”

Rathamir shook his head, “No, my son, the first time is never so easy as that. A stranger’s suffering may be a sufficient gift from one already dedicated, but not for you. Not now.”

Vasper’s head jerked up, a signal of the uncertainly that suddenly gripped him, “Then what must I do?” The question came with trepidation.

“You must make a difficult choice,” declared the master. “To serve Anak fully is to divorce yourself from all the things of your former life that hold meaning to you. You must show your willingness to discard such things with passion and with pleasure, and in so doing, free yourself from the constraints of morality and conscience. You must offer up the pain not only of the victim, but of the gift itself and with the savour of that pain you shall be made worthy.”

The revelation of what must be done struck Vasper dumb with dread as he leaned away from Vasper’s black-tinged stare. To inflict such torment upon a stranger was one thing, but to commit such deeds as his master was suggesting was abhorrent, unthinkable.

“No! How can you.. I cannot—“

Vasper’s voice was cut off along with his breath by the Drakhal’s supernaturally strong hand closing off his wind-pipe and lifting him into the air, then slamming him roughly to the ground. “You will do as I command you, or die squealing for mercy, whelp! You belong to Anak now, and you will not disgrace me by failing to live up to your potential.”

The pressure eased, and the teenager’s breath was allowed to return with much gasping and coughing. The fire had gone out of Rathamir’s eyes and he helped the boy to his feet. “But do not despair, for I shall do what I can to make the choice easier for you than it might have been.”

“How do you think to make such a thing easier?” Vasper demanded.

“By giving you the answer to a question asked long ago, which you have agonized over for long enough,” said Rathamir.

“You mean… my father’s—?“ Vasper started, eagerly.

“Yes, my son, that very thing.”

Adiron Narinsyl Character Sketch

Copyright 2006 - Roman Ismailov / Ryan Stringer

Prad Darkbane Character Sketches

Copyright 2006 Roman Ismailov / Ryan Stringer

Update - November 24, 2005

Well, the next chapter of Shadow of Death is up. As usual I wrote more than I planned, thus what had been planned to be just Chapter 3 will now become Chapter 3 and 4. The good part about this is that I am a large chunk of the way through Chapter 4 already.

I am changing the way I do things around here - I won't be posting in little segments anymore, but will post whole chapters. This way, the continuity isn't so broken up as it has been previously.

I also highly reccomend visiting my Elfwood Library - the community of writers and readers there is absolutely amazing and the amount of comments and feedback I have received is nothing short of spectacular! Anyone who enjoys (or might enjoy) doing fantasy / sci-fi art or writing would be well-advised to sign up on Elfwood as well. Anyway, enjoy Chapter 3, and as usual, leave some friggin' comments!

Chapter 3 : Fertile Soil

‘Evil seeds, once planted, grow without hesitancy or remorse. Be always on your guard against the wiles of the evil one, lest your soul be ensnared by his cunning.’

-Excerpt from the Book of Life, as spoken by Yordinari Ye’reshua, the Champion of Truestar.


* * *

...Memories stirred in a mind long since twisted with madness. They were memories of pain – both of giving and receiving. They were memories to cherish.


* * *

The thane is dead! Long live the thane!

The cry had gone up like a clap of thunder, announcing the death of a great and terrible man. All of his adult life, Jirith had been the envy of everyone around him; men wanted to be him, women wanted to be with him. And now the grey-hued body lying on the funeral pyre (so still, it seemed) played games with the mind of a diminutive eleven year-old boy who knelt to one side, stiffly dressed in the finest royal livery. They seemed like rags to him.

“I bestow upon you – Vasper, son of Jirith - the title of Thane of Serapis and all the powers and responsibilities that go along with it. May the gods of your patronage guide your steps and strengthen your hands.” The king intoned, appropriately reserved for the somberness of the occasion. He laid his hand lightly upon the young thane’s head, a gesture of approval and sympathy both. “You may rise, Thane.”

The boy rose to roaring applause, his new subjects joyously celebrating his ascension as the pyre was lit in graphic demonstration of the transfer of power from father to son. Jirith’s heir was the picture of restraint; expressionless and emotionless even as he watched his father’s body consumed by the flames. Never cry, his father had taught him. He was determined not to disappoint his father’s memory.

With the ritual of ascension complete, the rest of the ceremony began; a whirlwind of feasting and celebration that the guest of honour remembered only as a dismal blur in an exceedingly black day. Sooner or later, the guests had all taken their leave and the boy’s mother had absconded to the family chapel to mourn her husband’s loss. He was alone in what was now his throne room, sitting in the thane’s high seat – his father’s seat. If he had even spoken a word since taking the vows of his office, he could not remember it.

Yellow torchlight briefly flooded into the moonlit chamber as someone entered through the eastern doorway, quickly banished once more with the door’s closing. Soft and deliberate footfalls padded across the room, in no apparent hurry. Vasper looked up to see a darkly robed figure approaching through the dismal twilight. It took a few seconds to recognize the shock of orange hair that was somehow frizzy, despite being cropped short, and the sunken grey eyes and sparse goatee that accompanied it. He had never been told the man’s name, but remembered seeing him with his father, always speaking in low tones that no one else could hear. Curiosity pricked at his mind, the first sensation he could remember feeling since his father’s death. What does the man want? He wondered.

“My lord thane,” the man said softly, bowing before the throne, “I am called Rathamir Darguhl’dar. I was your father’s humble servant, and now I am yours. My life and my service belong to you and you alone.” The voice was rather high and nasal, but carried an unmistakable and almost unsettling authority. The man knew himself to be of great importance, though his simple appearance suggested otherwise. Vasper had to admit he was intrigued by the mystery.

“The thane accepts your service, Rathamir Darghul’dar, and offers these promises to his servant: For obedience - just rewards, for loyalty - trust, and for efficacy - praise.” He spoke the words he had heard his father say in such situations and reached out to tentatively place his hand on the shoulder of his newly sworn supplicant. In turn, Rathamir placed his opposite hand on the thane’s shoulder and nodded his head in submission, completing the ritual of the vows.

With that done, the man stood, folding his hands in front of his face, to scrutinize the young thane who was clearly confused about how to proceed.

“You have questions, thane.” He said, matter-of-factly, a shrewd grin on his face. “Ask whatever you wish. A wise man knows his servants as well as they know themselves. Or better.”

The boy nodded his head slowly and decided to start with something easy. “Your name is different than most I’ve heard. You’re not from Unver, are you?”

“Ah, you are an observant one. That’s good.” Rathamir replied. “You are correct, I am not Unverian. I come from Vogrod, a country far to the east.”

“I have heard of this place,” said the boy, “they say it’s very cold there all year around; as cold as here, maybe.”

“You are quite correct, my lord,” answered the robed man. “The cold in Vogrod is quite deathly for the unprepared. Throughout the ages, conquering armies without number have broken themselves against the fury of the Vogrodian winter. It is a merciless foe; though one I have not had the occasion to battle in a very long time. I have lived in Serapis for many years and most of those I have spent in service to your father.”

“Speaking of my father,” the boy began, almost reluctantly, “how exactly did you serve him? I’ve seen you with him before, but he never introduced us.”

“The time was not right for us to meet, young one.” came the reply. “Not until you were thane, instead of merely his son. As for the answer to your question, that is a thing that cannot be answered simply. It is something you must ultimately experience for yourself to understand, though I will try to give your query at least a fleeting satisfaction.”

The young thane was not sure he understood what his increasingly mysterious servant meant, but he gestured for the man to continue, nonetheless.

“On some matters, I served as an advisor to your father. He would sometimes ask me to involve myself in certain important affairs of state, and would have been when you had seen us together. This accounted for only the smallest portion of my service, and merely served as my public face in front of questioning eyes. Though my official title has ever been that of Advisor to the Thane, the larger portion of my work was something only known to your father and myself. For reasons I will not reveal to you now, it was important that others did not learn of the true nature of our relationship.” He paused to see the look of dawning comprehension on the boy’s face and continued.

“I tell you this so that you will understand the necessity of secrecy in our dealings together. No one must know what passes between us – not your closest friends, not your favourite aunt and uncle, nor even your dear mother. The things I will teach you are for you alone, as you alone will hold sway over Serapis.”

“The things you are going to teach me?” asked Vasper, suddenly more than simply curious.

“Yes, my young thane, for that was my primary service to your father. Teacher and mentor, advisor and confidante – I taught him to wield true power, to make full use of the resources at his command. It is unfortunate that our time was cut short in such untimely fashion, there was so much more I wanted to teach him.”

“What do you mean, ‘untimely’?” the boy queried, “My father died of natural causes.”

“Think you so, young one? Was your father a very old man?”

“No, not very old. No more than fifty years.”

“Was he very sickly, then?”

The boy shook his head. “He was strong and healthy, as far as I could tell. But the surgeons said his heart just stopped, and that was all.” Tears threatened to well up, but the young thane fought them back.

Rathamir chuckled, grimly. “Nobody’s heart ever ‘just stopped’. When a heart stops there is a reason. For some it is old age, for others sickness or injury, but there is always a cause.” The teacher laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder to calm him, as if he sensed that the young heartbeat had quickened. “I happen to know beyond doubt that Jirith was an exceptionally healthy man - that was another thing that I taught him. Someone was involved in your father’s premature death; someone who hated him quite passionately.”

Realization dawned on the young thane’s face, “You know who it was, don’t you?”

“Perhaps I do. But you are not ready to properly handle that kind of knowledge, just yet.”

The boy stood, furious. “Rathamir, I command you – if you know who killed my father you must tell me!” Tears that could no longer be quelled ran down his cheeks. “I must know who did it!”

The teacher put his hands up to calm the young boy. “My thane, you must trust that I know what is best right now. In time, you will know everything you need to know, but first you must learn to master the power you have at your command. Once you do that, there will be nothing to stand in your way.”

The child blinked away his tears and looked deeply into the older man’s deep-set eyes. “I will be stronger than my father - he still died, even with all of his teaching. Promise it, Rathamir. Promise that I will be better than he was!”

Rathamir nodded, large smile on his face. “My promise you have, my lord. My tutelage with you will have an important advantage over your father - youth. You are the son of a great and powerful man, but you will be far the greater. This I promise. This I have foreseen.”

* * *

The first lesson was to take place the next evening, after a long day spent hearing complaints and proposals from various commoners and minor nobles. It was a very dull way for an eleven year-old to spend the day, and he discovered all too soon that the high-seat, which was obviously made to be occupied by someone rather larger than himself, was none too comfortable a place to spend so many hours. Most of the overly complicated dialogue went far above the young thane’s head, and by the end of the day he had become quite proficient at deferring to the virtual legion of advisors and counselors that stood by to assist him.

By the time his responsibilities were finished for the day it was all Vasper could do to stop himself from breaking into an undignified trot as he made his way through the manor’s labyrinth-like private wing to his own lavishly-decorated bed-chambers. With every step, his excitement rose in anticipation of what he might learn that night. After what seemed like a small eternity, he reached his destination and threw the doors open with abandon to stumble inside.

“You made a fool of yourself, today.” Rathamir’s voice echoed sharply from the darkness. The boy turned to see the humbly robed form standing in the shadows to the hinged side of the heavy doorframe. “If your father had seen your performance, he would be rolling over in his grave.”

“What do you mean? What could I..? What did I do wrong?” the boy managed to sputter, embarrassed and indignant at the same time.

“Think like a thane, boy!” Rathamir strode forward suddenly and stepped into the light, tapping the side of his head with his fingers. “Never allow someone else to do your thinking for you! The ability to think for oneself is one of the few real gifts that anyone truly possesses, whether the lowliest shamble of humanity wasting away in a prison cell, or the highest king sitting on his throne. Give away that gift and you abdicate all your power along with it, which may have little enough meaning for the prisoner, but for the king, means everything. Hold onto your power, Thane, and never let go, or you will soon find yourself the puppet of smarter men, or worm fodder like your father.”

“What was I supposed to do?” the eleven-year-old cried, “I don’t know anything about how much tax an innkeeper should pay, or where to build a farm to get the best yield of barley, or the proper placement of a flying buttress! Tergo’s beard, I don’t even know what a flying buttress is, and the very sound of it makes me want to burst out in laughter!”

Rathamir quietly took a seat on one of the straight-backed chairs around the expensive ebony table that took centre-stage the spacious antechamber. The chair had been intricately carved out of a single block of the hardest ironwood and was richly lacquered with a shiny black finish. Fine gilding frosted the edges, speaking volumes about its value; it was one of the plainer pieces of furniture in the room.

“It is perfectly normal for you not to understand these things at your age,” the teacher said softly, gesturing for his pupil to sit across from him, “However, it is imperative that you learn. The next time you feel the need to defer to your advisors, have them educate you on the subject instead, and then – “

“Make my own decision.”

“Exactly - solidify your authority and increase your knowledge at the same time. That, my young friend, is the beginning of power.”

“Then I’ll do better tomorrow, I promise.” said the boy.

“You are learning already,” Rathamir smiled. “And that is only the beginning of all that you shall learn. But I am not here to teach you about the technicalities of government, or economics, or even warfare - you have council-appointed tutors enough to cover those sorts of mundane subjects. You will find my lessons to be of infinitely more value than any of the day-to-day things that most men, rulers or otherwise, learn.

“The first thing you must master, if you hope to succeed as a thane, is people. First you must become the master of your own people – those who serve you. These are the easiest to gain influence over, as they already think of you as their leader. Eventually, you will learn how to master those whose station is above yours – people that you are meant to serve, such as the King. But when you have achieved the ultimate mastery, when you command the secret thoughts not only of your friends, your allies and your superiors, but also of your enemies and rivals, then you will know that true power is yours.”

“What kind of power do you mean?”

“The power to know both your friends and your enemies better even than they know themselves. The power to inspire loyalty, fear and even worship, even in those who are hardest set against you. The power to dominate the weak, and manipulate the strong to do your bidding. In time, your power will make it possible even to forge the very destiny of a person – any person, anywhere, anytime.”

As the tutor spoke, the darkness began to deepen in the room until all light seemed to have been banished, save what radiated from the teacher’s darkly cloaked form, illuminated with an ominous glow that burned itself so powerfully into the young thane’s mind that even into his adult years its impression would return to him from time to time when he closed his eyes. Ever, though, did the colour of that light elude his memory.

“Someday,” spoke the master, all aglow with the dark and mysterious energy, “when your power has come into its ultimate completion, you shall become the mighty star around whom the fates of all the great and small in Serapis, Unver and Giliathor beyond, shall orbit. When that day comes you will have only to reach out your hand to the Dalgo board and move the pieces where you will. In that moment, you could challenge the gods themselves.”

The unnatural light disappeared suddenly, leaving an utter normalcy in its going that made the strange lightshow seem an event of pure fancy. It was an unsettling feeling, to say the least, as neither room nor teacher displayed the slightest hint of anything out of the ordinary.

“But, first things first,” said Rathamir, pointedly, “are you ready to begin your journey to greatness?”

The child jumped eagerly to his feet, keen intensity on his face. “I am ready!” he cried.

“Then we shall begin.” Declared the teacher.


* * *

The time has come for you to enter the next level of your teaching. I await you in the serpent’s belly. Come quickly.

Rathamir’s note was typically simple and to the point, written in the precisely cursive script that the Thane recognized as belonging to his tutor.

Although it pained him, in a way, Vasper had to admit that Rathamir had become much more than simply a teacher – he was also a friend, a mentor, even a father in many ways. More of a father than his actual father had been, at any rate. Strange as it may have seemed to him, it made perfect sense; even while the former Thane had been alive, there had been little time to spend with his son. The boy had spent more time with Rathamir in the past six years – every day, without fail – than he could have hoped to spend in an entire lifetime with his barely-there specter of a father.

In the years since Jirith’s death, Vasper had spent his days acting as much the part of the Thane as he could muster, despite the restraints put on him by the intermediary council. The council was an ever-present thorn in his side, scrutinizing his every act and holding final authority over Serapis until the Thane’s coming-of-age, which was a day that would not come yet for far too many years. In the meantime, his decisions were at their mercy. His nights had been spent exclusively with Rathamir, from whom he learned more about the arts of manipulation and subtlety than could be considered strictly benign. To the student’s credit, his teacher seemed quite impressed at how little time he had needed to wrap most of the councilors around his little finger.

He thought it strange that his tutor would summon him in the middle of the day; he couldn’t recall ever having been in Rathamir’s presence except in the dark of night. He knew there would be a good reason, but the departure from his normal routine made the young thane anxious. Without a moment’s further delay, he swept his long riding cloak over expensive robes and headed down the hallway, locking the chamber doors securely behind him.

“Go fetch my horse,” he commanded the servant who met him in the corridor, “I will be walking to the outer courtyard - I expect it to be saddled and ready at the bottom of the terrace steps when I arrive.”

The servant bowed low, seeming mildly alarmed at his master’s request. “Will you be stopping along the way, your lordship?” came the sheepish reply.

“No, I will not.” Vasper responded loudly, “I will be taking the most direct route possible, as I have important business to attend to and I will not tolerate any delays!” The servant stood motionless for a moment, as if trying to calculate how much time he had.

“In case I miss my guess – and I rarely do – you have less than five minutes to carry out my orders. I suggest you run.” The servant took the suggestion, having been witness, over the years, to his master’s wrath directed toward more than one unfortunate soul.

“And make sure the straps are tight, or the kudghz will have an extra portion of protein in their supper tonight – and not just from the horse!” Vasper yelled after him.

Fear had proven to be an effective tool for motivating the Thane’s servants, a fact that he had quite enjoyed exploiting. Every so often, he made sure to arrange for one of the staff to experience an ‘accident’, usually of the grisly variety. Aside from being a source of amusement for the Thane, these incidents also served as graphic reminders of the sorts of occupational hazards the servants might encounter, if not careful.

A second servant met the Thane as he approached the doorway to the outer terrace steps. He also bowed low before trailing just behind his walking master. “I was informed you would be riding to the city, my lord. Shall I arrange an escort?”

“No escort is required. I will be riding solo, as usual.” Vasper replied.

“As you wish, my lord. May I remind you that the council does not look favourably upon your being in Verdistat without protection?”

“I’ve been doing such for the last three years. If the council wants to make an issue out of it at this point, they have my permission to indulge themselves in an excruciating death. Preferably somewhere out of my earshot.” He laughed.

Vasper stepped out onto the terrace, breathing in the mid-day breeze. There was a crispness about the air in Serapis that he had always enjoyed; it was cold and unforgiving, like he was. Pulling the cloak tighter around his body to shield him from the elements, he stepped onto the stairway, noting, with satisfaction, that his horse was waiting for him at the bottom. The servant stopped his busy fussing with the saddle-straps the instant the Thane stepped down from the steps and bowed low, offering his master the reigns. The Thane took them, wordlessly, and gracefully mounted the muscular beast.

“When shall I tell the guards to expect you back, my lord?” asked the servant.

“When I arrive, obviously. If I am not present for council tomorrow, you have my permission to send out a search party.” With that, the Thane spurred on his horse and rode speedily out the manor gates.

Starting at the high manor walls was a wide, paved road that ran through snowy foothills and rocky outcroppings as it twisted and curved its way down the Manor-Hill towards the outer walls of Verdistat-proper. Manor-Hill itself commanded a breath-taking view of Serapis’ capital, which, though not as large a city as Unverferth or Feragill, was afforded the formidable natural fortification of the Verdsilion Mountains that surrounded it. The Thane had traveled down that road untold hundreds of times at every possible time of day and in every imaginable type of weather. He knew every one of the myriad twists and turns by heart and, were it to be necessary, was sure he could make it safely to the city with his eyes closed.

After climbing down Manor-Hill, the road ran a somewhat straighter course through ruling house fief-lands, most of which were occupied by vineyards, orchards and crop fields of varying types. The peasants of the ruling house knew better than to look up from their labours to identify the hoof beats that thundered past. It was a lesson they had been quick to learn since a number of thatched-roof cottages had been burned to the ground. At the end of the Manor-Hill road stood Verdistat’s towering outer wall, into which was built the Thane’s Arch, serving as a portal between Manor-lands and city. Traditionally the Arch gate had been kept open to allow free travel from the city to the thane’s seat. The previous thane, however, had put an end to this tradition in the later years of his rule. The gate had been kept locked ever since.

The Thane, of course, could not use such an obvious entrance without being immediately recognized. Leaving the road, he trotted into the surrounding woods, following the line of the wall. After a ten-minute foray through the trees, he arrived at a brick lined ditch that sloped beneath the city wall. Constructed in secret, the tunnel appeared as nothing more than one of the many drainage culverts set about the walls to let out water during heavy rains. Through this tunnel, however, no water would drain, and the storm-grate was actually a cleverly disguised gate that would only open for someone who knew which of the lining bricks to press, and in what order.

The culvert came out inside the walls into a seldom-visited alley in the foreign quarter. After checking that the exit was clear, Vasper pulled the deep hood of his cloak overhead to hide his identity, and rode out into the city. A short ride brought him to the dilapidated tavern that was his destination. Loose shutters made a half-hearted attempt to hide the poorly lit interior from passers-by, and a badly worn sign hung precariously over the single, small doorway. The name of the tavern – The Wyrm’s Revenge - was barely legible and most of the paint on the vaguely serpentine shape had long since worn away. Rathamir had taken to referring to the place simply as ‘the serpent’.

Once inside the tavern, Vasper was greeted by the slickly patronizing voice of the proprietor, whose light-green tinted skin, lanky frame and greasy black hair, along with his long and slender fingers – seven on each hand – had never failed to produce images of lizards or salamanders in the young thane’s mind.

“Greetings, Thane. You are well today, I trust. You are looking for your Vogrodian friend, yes? I believe he said he would be about shortly – you may as well pull up a stool.”

A raucous shout boomed from a patron in another part of the gloomy common area. “Oye, Terrgill! Get yer ugly, pointed ears over here with some more ale, ye cursed Nyxi bastard!”

Terrgill smiled serenely and walked into the other room with a tankard full of a murkily unwholesome-looking liquid.

“I had always heard that Nyxi were terribly sensitive about their ears.” Vasper told the smirking tavern-keeper upon his return.

“Oh yes, very sensitive indeed.” Terrgill answered, gesturing wildly with his rangy hands. “For, on the first day, the creator looked down upon all he had made and chose, as his most favoured children, the Nyxi and the Elves. Upon them, he made a mark to show the special care and blessing he had given them, and so the ears of Nyxi and Elf lengthened and pointed. But, upon the Nyxi he bestowed the larger portion of his blessing, and so their ears were made longer still, and even more beautiful than those of their Elven cousins.

“So it is, you see, that there is no graver offense that one can make against a Nyxi than to insult his ears. In ancient times, before the rending of our homeland, great wars were waged and races ended, over such offenses.”

The Thane looked skeptical, “You certainly don’t seem overly upset about it.”

“I’m sure it would bother me more, if I hadn’t poisoned the drink.” The Nyxi said, matter-of-factly.

“No wonder I never drink here.” The Thane grinned. Terrgill’s stock had just gone up.

He respected the tavern-keeper in a grudging kind of way, race aside. The Nyxi had been refugees, originally, or so the stories told. Once a proud and powerful people, they had abandoned a mighty kingdom in the face of some cataclysm that had destroyed their homeland; accounts varied on this point. Whatever their reasons, they had been living among humans for two-hundred years or more, and could be found thriving in all but the most intolerant nations.

In Serapis, however, cultural divisions ran deep. The Nyxi in Verdistat kept almost exclusively to themselves, hiding behind the fences of the city’s Nyxi quarter. Terrgill was an exceedingly rare breed, venturing into other parts of the city, not only out of necessity, but to run a tavern in the foreign quarter, where his kind were particularly reviled. Vasper wondered what Rathamir’s involvement was with the tavern-keeper; he was more hateful of Nyxi than anyone the young Thane had ever met.

The tutor’s voice, coming from behind, snapped Vasper out of his reverie.

“The serpent’s belly awaits you, Thane.”

Chapter 2 : Long Live the Thane! (Part 3)

Vasper stormed furiously into the hall trailed by Kast, who had the noble captive securely in tow. A few guests looked over at the commotion and gaped in unbelief at the illustrious figure of Count Bey being manhandled by the burly bodyguard. Their curiosity was quickly diverted, however, by fifty of Vasper’s elite guard who descended upon the House Bey table with startling alacrity and held the thirty or so occupants at spear-point. More guardsmen appeared and began clearing the table by haphazardly flinging aside expensive silver platters and dishes that clattered noisily onto the floor. Even more shocking was the sight of the most prominent noble of Serapis, who was dragged over to the table by his monstrous captor and violently thrown on top, knife to throat. The festivities ended abruptly as musicians and dancers alike abandoned their instruments and props and ran to join the throng of indignant party guests who stood, loudly clamouring for an explanation.

“Pay heed to the thane! Sit and be silent!” Kast commanded the unruly guests. The mob quieted down and sat (for the most part) back in their seats, eyes set squarely on Vasper who had climbed on top of Bey’s table and stood staring down at the powerless rival who lay, forcibly held down, upon the table.

“Treason has been committed!” Vasper’s head popped up and he shouted at the intently watching crowd. “This man – this tactless gutter-dog - has taken it upon himself to overthrow me!” His voice became subtly quieter, but shrewder. What he lost in volume he more than made up for with an air of irresistible discernment, taking on an unsettling quality that compelled the listener to want to confess to all manner of crime, real or imagined. “The traitorous wretch did not work alone – he had help from the rest of his house, which is to be expected – but other houses, too, shared the adulterous marriage bed of his conspiracy. Of this I am certain – the only question is, who?” His eyes probed the low-lit room, searching the throng as though able to detect traitors by mere sight alone. Shadows danced around the walls of the great, round room, ominously scattered about by the flickering light of lanterns and torches. Cast against the supernatural awareness of the accuser they seemed a legion of evanescent spies, flitting here and there to find out secrets.

“By now my agents have proven their ability to protect me from poorly contrived plots - a lesson you would all do well to remember. For now I shall be content in knowing that you all will have witnessed the dispensation of my wrath upon the house of Bey, so that you will now know with certainty that your thane is neither a fool to be plotted against nor a milk-sop to be cowed.”

He paused to allow the high-born assemblage to consider his accusations before pronouncing judgment upon the fallen house. “House Bey shall be stripped of noble title and its name forever held in the contempt and dishonour it has earned. All lands and holdings shall become the property of the governing house of Serapis – that is to say, mine. Male courtiers and retainers shall be condemned to indentured labour in the iron mines of Hesseth Anun in the far north of Serapis and females shall also be considered property of house Vasper, to be used, traded or discarded from one generation of beggarly bastards to the next, at my discretion and that of my heirs, until the family line should be bred into its final and utter ruination.”

Vasper quickly quashed the shocked murmur that had risen in response, and made skillful use of his hall’s unique acoustic properties to amplify his voice and his vitriolic tone.

“As for the former count and all those in attendance with him here, I judge these to be the direct and dominantly complicit parties in the attempted assassination and plotted overthrow of a royally ordained thane of a province which is held in dominion by the royal princedom of Unver. These men and women are guilty of no less than high treason against the ruling house of this country, and against Prince Fedyk himself.” Gauging the general reaction in the room, it was clear that his guests were by no means entirely in agreement with his assessment, but that no longer mattered. “I cannot ignore the seriousness of these crimes, nor will I. To expedite the prince’s justice, and to serve as a lasting reminder to those of you who have shared in their treachery, these traitors are to be summarily and immediately put to death.”

He stepped down from the tabletop and motioned to the guardsmen, who stood with the points of their spears against the throats of Bey’s coterie, ready to commence the execution. Kast’s blade pressed into the skin around Bey’s precious throat, but the large man seemed preoccupied and grew increasingly frustrated as he looked over the prisoners.

“Someone is missing!” he exclaimed. Vasper looked over at him, quizzically. “I can’t explain it, my lord, but thirty-five people came in with the gutter-rat and only thirty-four are here now. I gave the men very clear orders that everyone at this table was to be watched at all times. I don’t know how this could have happened.”

“It was the servant – the one dressed in rags.” Vasper replied. “Clearly he was something more than he appeared.”

“The failure is mine, my lord – I will accept the blame.” He kneeled before his master, head bowed.

“Do not be troubled, my friend,” Vasper laid a gentle hand on his servant’s head, a token of forgiveness. “You did not fail. Now rise and do your duty.”

Kast rose proudly, bowing to his master. He gave the command and guardsmen on either side of the captive Bey grasped an arm and forced his back flat against the table. Vasper slid a slim blade into the top of Bey’s expensive tunic and slit the garment from neck to hem, then pulled it open to reveal the pale torso beneath. He leaned in to whisper in the count’s ear, “I hope you are ready to meet the tormentor, to whom I will now send you, mutinous fool. A pity that I am not afforded the luxury of extending the sending, but it would not do for the others to see such things.”

Vasper pulled the long dagger back, lining up the point with Bey’s rapidly beating heart. The blade was freshly sharpened and seemed thirsty for blood. Kast gripped Bey’s chin and forced the head back to expose the soft flesh underneath. “Better to go for the throat, lord. Death would be sure still, but longer in the coming,” offered the bodyguard. Vasper grinned as he adjusted the angle of the knife and prepared to thrust.

A sudden commotion broke out all over the hall, accompanied by the tell-tale sound of four-hundred sword-blades being slid from their scabbards. Vasper paused the death-stroke long enough to look up and see four-hundred noble guests standing defiantly, each with a naked blade in hand.

“A little careful prodding in the right places and the conspiracy is revealed, just as I said!” Vasper laughed triumphantly to his most trusted servant, “consider this a part of your continued education, captain. To effect the gradual attrition of one’s enemies is a more subtle and often wiser approach,” he explained, “but there are also times when one must act more boldly! Draw your foes into the open all at once, and level the hammer of destruction upon them with one definitive act.”

Baron Madray yelled across the hall, demanding that count Bey be released and Vasper’s forces surrender immediately or die.

“Perhaps you and your pitiful band of ‘fighters’ would like to come and retrieve your precious leader.” Vasper responded shrewdly. “I would warn you, though, that you will find me more than adequately prepared to put down a bunch of spoiled aristocrats who, were one to combine the sum total of all their labours throughout sheltered jokes that are their lives, could not equal one slow day from one of the lesser slaves of my house. By all means, come and get him!”

A hundred armoured guardsmen appeared almost instantly at his unspoken signal, filing out of a hidden chamber beneath the floor to link up with an equal number of their compatriots that were already in the hall. Altogether Vasper’s forces amounted to less than half that of the opposition; it was more than enough to decimate the poorly organized resistance presented by the inexperienced rebel nobility. Hollered commands issued from Kast’s mouth and the guardsmen advanced, hastily throwing party décor aside as they marched through, spears at the ready. The nobles, meanwhile, bunched clumsily together like so much spear fodder.

The fate of the overmatched nobles was sealed; slaughter was approaching on the ends of Vasper’s spears.

The turning of the tide came swiftly, accompanied by a decidedly authoritative male voice that echoed from behind the rebel line.

“Stand down!” the voice cried, accompanied by the twang of a bowstring whose arrow bloomed in the chest of a high-ranking guardsman who had been standing directly to Vasper’s right side. The guardsmen’s advance halted immediately and several of them moved in to cover thane and captain from harm.

Kast pushed his men aside to scan the room and identified the lone assailant who stood near the hall entrance, bow in hand. He cursed loudly, recognizing the servant’s rags that clothed the killer from head to toe. “Only a slippery puddle of kudgh dung hides behind the weak! Come and face me with honour, coward, or I swear by Yidsn’s empty eye-sockets, I will mount your head in the jacks-pit with its mouth open for me and my men to relieve ourselves into!”

The only response was another twang of the bowstring followed by a loud groan as a second high-ranking guard went down, to Vasper’s left side. Fury split Kast’s face practically in half, his teeth bared in a snarling rictus. Enraged, he smashed a table with his fists and then heaved a large chair, one handed, toward the silent attacker and felt a strange kind of satisfaction about his rageful futility. “Identify yourself immediately so that I may hang a sign over top of the sludge-hole I shall dig you for a grave!”

Vasper waved his guard to silence, having recognized the attacker’s voice. “General Serdigal, I would have thought you would be keeping watch over the garrison in the northern marches, where I sent you. I cannot help but wonder why I find you here, neglecting your duties at a feast to which you were not invited.”

Thick fingers pulled back the servant’s cowl to reveal a silver-headed face, care-worn, ruddy and criss-crossed with scars of varying sizes. The nobles moved en masse between their commander and the enemy, making an effective human shield.

The voice that responded was deep and raspy, as if the speaker’s throat had been scraped raw, or perhaps frost bitten. “I’m doing what neither you nor this noble rabble can do without me – leading your army. Or perhaps I should say I am leading my army!” The nobles responded by whooping and hollering, banging sword-butt’s on tables and stomping their feet in reverence to their commander.

Vasper’s cool expression belied any displeasure at the unfolding of events. He waited patiently for the noise to abate, whispering something inaudibly to Kast. The big man nodded assent and left his master’s side, disappearing among the men. Vasper stepped forward and locked eyes with Serdigal, daring his errant servant to make a move.

“Many years ago you swore to protect and defend me even to the death – what of your oath, general? Is your word worth so little?” Vasper practically whispered the question, yet it was loud enough for all to hear.

“Do not speak to me of oaths.” Serdigal responded, “How many oaths have I abandoned in your service, Vasper? Do you even remember, or have you lost count as I have? Do you remember the first time I broke an oath for you? I swear never to use the power or authority invested in me, as a soldier in the royal house of Serapis, province of Unver, to knowingly harm the innocent, on pain of death. I was kneeling before the king when I made that vow. You promised to raise me up among the great in Serapis if I would forget it.

Serdigal changed his voice, mocking Vasper’s tone, “‘Do not be concerned about the innocent’ you said to me, ‘Who are they? Can you show me a person who has never lied or cheated in some way? Can you show me a person who has never taken unfair advantage over another, or sold out ideals for personal gain? You cannot, so do not try. Do as I command of you, and be concerned only with reaping your reward. I will worry about deciding who is innocent and who is guilty.’” The voice became Serdigal’s, once again.

“It was you who taught me how to interpret my vows to suit my purposes, and you who took full advantage of my willingness to serve your will, no matter dark and debased you became. You enlisted my services, sure enough, but forgot to pay the reckoning.”

“Strange sentiments,” Vasper interrupted, “from one who has been more than adequately rewarded for his service. Did I not keep my promise to raise you up among the great?”

Serdigal paused briefly to collect his thoughts. “I believed that, at first. You raised me up to be your general – the commander of your royal army. You made me great among the warriors of Serapis and the world beyond. You gave me status and authority – soldiers to command and wars to fight. For a time I thought I had achieved everything I had ever wanted – glory in battle, honour in command and renown in all the nations of the Combine.” He spat disgustedly, pacing erratically as his ranting continued.

“Eventually, it would seem, I outlived my usefulness to you. One by one, all your rivals and enemies had met their fate at the end of my lance, until none were left, and suddenly you were a diplomat, not a warlord. It wouldn’t do for you kill your champion outright, but it was necessary to distance yourself from all your killing and all your wars. So it has been my lot to spend the last five years of my life pissing icicles and searching for new ways to avoid freezing to death, with no women and no one but a ragged rabble of a garrison for company. It is my task to protect the frozen wasteland that you call the northern marches from the dangerous wildlife and snow drifts that threaten to descend upon Serapis-proper in conquest at any moment! What a mighty threat we face from the tiny, furry creatures that live along the northern borders, which only the mighty commander of the Royal Army can allay!”

“You’ve been using me like a two-ranna harlot in the back-alleys of Verdistat, and I’ve had enough. My service to you ends, now - you might say I’ve had a better offer. I will keep the oath to my thane in the spirit in which you taught me – long live Thane Bey! Death to the tyrant! Let your demise be slow and—“

Serdigal’s speech was cut short by stealthy movements from the long cast shadows on either side of the hall’s two great, silver doors. Four men, two on either side, burst from the surrounding darkness, long blades gleaming in the torchlight, and ran toward the general, closing the trap. Serdigal reacted instantly to the threat, moving far more quickly than his short and stocky frame would seem to allow, the long, two-handed sword appearing so quickly it seemed almost to have sprung into his hands of its own accord. Serdigal wasted no time in engaging the enemy and leapt toward his nearest opponent almost gleefully, blade swinging in expertly placed strokes that knocked the first attacker’s sword from his hand, following with a quick and fatal thrust through the belly. The second attacker was somewhat more skillful but his masterful defense was easily swept away, allowing the general’s blade to part head from neck.

The second pair of assailants reached their quarry a split-second later – barely enough time to register the fate of their dead counterparts. Serdigal wheeled around as they approached, unleashing a flurry of blows that threw one attacker off-balance long enough to engage the other, switching skillfully between the two combatants until both men lay dead at his feet.

Serdigal raised his sword into the air, basking in the exultant praise of four-hundred nobles banging weapons on tables and stomping their feet, amid joyous shouts of BEY AND SERDIGAL! THANE AND CHAMPION! DOWN WITH THE TYRANT! Serdigal laughed in the face of the enemy and shouted a command to advance. For a moment there was no response and it seemed as though the nobles had ignored their commander’s orders. The orders, however, were not for the nobles at all.

With a deafening crash, the great hall doors burst open and rank upon rank of Serapis’ royal soldiers poured into the hall, marching through the noble line that opened itself to let them through, to engulf the overmatched guardsmen. The battle was over in a heartbeat as the loyalist line gave way before the rebel troops who outnumbered them ten-fold. Organized columns of fighting men dissolved into a disorganized chaos of dying.

The thane has fallen! Long live the thane!

Chapter 2 : Long Live the Thane! (Part 2)

“You must think yourself exceedingly clever for putting all of this together,” Vasper said, “but in the end, after all is said and done you still have not learned a thing. Ever the petty little usurper who stole his daddy’s throne.” The shadows surged around Vasper, making him seem all the more ominous and intimidating, while Bey appeared to shrink before him. “Even were you to succeed in your little plot you would have neither the wit nor the potency to take my place. And now that your treachery is revealed, I call your life forfeit.”

“You won’t scare me so easily, Vasper,” Bey retorted, “I have one up on you this time in the form of all the evidence I could ever hope for of your villainy! When the nobles learn of what you’ve done they will rip you to pieces!”

“You bring up a valid point,” Vasper nodded, an ironic smirk on his face, “and on another day, under different circumstances, I might be concerned. Tonight, however, I will rest easy as you will not be allowed to leave my estate to retrieve your evidence, or for any other reason, while you still draw breath. The nobles will certainly be reluctant to cause me any further trouble after they witness you being torn to shreds along with the entirety of your house, before their very eyes.” He turned to walk back down the walkway toward the door. “I imagine I should have little difficulty controlling the houses after a spectacle of that magnitude. I certainly hope you are proud of yourself.”

Bey followed, green cloak flapping in the wind and called after the thane, “Don’t walk away from me, Vasper! I’ll take what I want from your corpse if I have to!”

Vasper ignored the murderous count and continued toward the door with a casual and unhurried gait. With the silent confidence of highly trained assassins, four men stepped quietly from the shadows, covered from head to toe in black plate mail that contrasted starkly with the pale moonlight. Without so much as an inadvertent crunch of the powdery snow strewn about the walkway, the armoured men formed a loose semi-circle formation around their target.

Though unable to see the men’s faces through their dark face-guards it was clear from the set of crossbows aimed expressly at Vasper’s heart that their intentions were somewhat less than benign. The stylized wolf’s-head insignia on the intruders’ corselets confirmed Vasper’s suspicions that these were in fact the legendary Black Wolf assassins of House Bey - possibly the most feared executioners in all of Unver. And here they were, standing in the naked moonlight with their sights set on him. It was enough to make most men soil themselves, but Vasper regarded each of them calmly in his turn, taking in every detail before moving on to examine the next.

Bey walked up from behind, an air of nonchalant triumph in his voice, “I really am sorry it had to come to this, Vasper. I had hoped to trap you with somewhat more subtlety and avoid bringing brute force to bear, but we use what tools we may, I suppose.”

Vasper took a last look at the count’s darkly clad servants who were now partially concealed by the shadows that crept up from behind. Seemingly satisfied, Vasper turned his back to the assassins as if to announce these fools no longer concern me. He looked Bey steadily in the eyes.

“Yes,” he said levelly, “we use what tools we may.”

A large shape loomed in the shadows that now almost completely surrounded Vasper’s would-be assailants. A subtle movement of black on black, unnoticed by the dark clad men whose single-minded focus on what was before them had blinded them to what was behind. For a brief moment the shape seemed still and contemplative before moving silently behind the nearest of the unsuspecting assassins who stood perhaps the tiniest hair out of line with the rest of the formation.

It seemed to happen in the blink of an eye, though in retrospect half of one minute may have passed from start to finished.

The shadow shifted almost imperceptibly, tightening up like a predator tensing before the strike, then coalescing into the menacing shape of a man or perhaps the shadow of a man, who was, in either case, a killer. Noticing the subtle movement a moment too late, the unwitting assassin managed no more than a strangled cry as a powerful hand wrenched his head to one side in perfect concert with the other hand that plunged a long dagger into the exposed side of his neck. Without hesitating the shadow/killer pulled back the knife and circled toward the man to his right, thrusting the dagger with mechanical ferocity underneath his second victim’s chin, effectively severing his ability to yell for help. Before the stunned assassin could summon enough wits to realize that the dark shape was something more than simple shadow his corpse lay on the ground with a blade stuck firmly in its throat.

The two remaining black wolves had finally recovered sufficiently from their initial shock to get weapons pointed in the shadow/killer’s general direction, a moment too late. The darkly-cloaked figure had wasted no time in crossing the distance and in one smooth motion wrapped his thickly muscled arm around the nearest assassin’s neck, pulling him down to his knees while ripping the crossbow from his grasp and leveling it one-handed at the last attacker still standing, whose high-peaked helmet identified him as the leader.

Lupan, master-assassin and captain of the Black Wolves, raised his weapon – a motion he had made a thousand times and more – to meet that of his target. In the split-second between thought and action the professional in him knew with utter finality that the next shot would also be the last, either to save his own life or to end it. With a cool confidence bought with the lives of countless men, women and children whose blood was on the black wolf’s hands, he aimed his quarrel at the glint of moonlight reflected in the whites of the shadow/killer’s eyes – the only part not shrouded in darkness – and fingered the trigger.

The final shot was loosed. Lupan fell, shaft protruding conspicuously from his helmet. The shadow/killer’s bolt, shot with impossible precision, had made its way through the tiny left eyelet in Lupan’s visor and ended the assassin’s struggles forever.

A loud crunch echoed from the darkness and the last of the black wolves fell from the shadow/killer’s embrace, neck bent at the kind of impossible angle that heralded a quick and merciless death. Kast stepped into the pale light of the moon, shadowy cloak melting into the night.

Having watched in abject horror as his deadliest servants met their ends, Bey decided it wsa time to leave and started to back away as quickly as he could without making any noise and hoped Vasper and his hulking bodyguard would be too distracted to notice that he had quietly slipped away. Hope failed as the fleeing count, clumsy from panic, slipped on a patch of ice and made loud commotion out of recovering his feet. Vasper turned in Bey’s direction, whispering syllables steeped in a dark malignance and the count fell, feet torn from underneath, sprawling backwards as though he had tripped over some invisible cord suspended across his path. Bey hit the ground hard and sat stunned for a moment before scrambling to his hands and knees and skittering frenziedly to the wall where he clawed his way desperately to his feet and made a run for the door.

“NZH AKH PHRGZH!” Vasper hissed - evil words of command spoken in an evil tongue. The very fabric of the night itself answered his call, surrounding its master in a skin of devious sedition that draped itself around him in a shadowy nimbus born of maleficent domination and malicious hate. A single hand, wreathed in umbral tongues of gloomy shade, reached out toward Bey’s fleeting form as if to snag the absconding nobleman through the air. “THRM A KRIEZH!” Vasper’s outstretched fingers clenched into a claw, grasping at the dark energies that came into being at the sorcerer’s call. Bey let out a muffled groan as something not quite visible slammed into him from behind, throwing him to his knees as a fluid mass of writhing tendrils seemed to spring from the fabric of the shadows, wrapping themselves around his feet and ankles. Tendrils spiraled upwards, the groping fingers of a dark and twisted mind, binding legs, torso and arms in an inky blackness that seemed no more tangible than a wisp of smoke yet held him more tightly than steel.

The count’s desperate struggles only made his situation worse as the evil bonds tightened the more he fought against them. Within moments Bey was left fastened to the floor, unable to move or indeed take more than the smallest breath.
“You should look me in the eyes when I speak to you, count. Or did your father not teach you that before you snuffed him out in his sleep?” Vasper said, filling Bey’s limited field of vision with his darkly booted feet. “I guess it is up to me to help you with that.”

Vasper made a subtle gesture with his outstretched hand and Bey’s body was snapped suddenly upright and pulled against the nearby wall with a dull thud. Fastened tightly to the wall with his arms across his chest, it was all the beleaguered count could do to lift his head; moving the rest of his body was clearly out of the question. Bey looked into the face of his nemesis and found his vision irresistibly captured by eyes possessed of a darkly supernatural power that radiated outward in spidery black lines from iris to sclera. Kast stood beside his master; a figure made no less intimidating for all that the thane overshadowed him.

“Devilry of Anak!” Bey cried, spitting in Vasper’s face, “gods-damn the both of you!”

Kast’s steel-clad fist struck the hapless count backhandedly across the face, driving the breath from his lungs and spattering blood on the wall beside him. “You won’t get away with this, Vasper, “ Bey said through bloody teeth, head hanging limply to the side, “you’ll reap the reward you’re due, mark me.”

Vasper grasped Bey by the hair and lifted up his rapidly bruising face, “Despite my best efforts to shut you up, you just will not stop talking.” He let his captive’s head fall back onto his chest. “Well if you insist on prattling on you can at least say something useful. You can start by telling me whom you are working with. Is it Madray? And Vizina, perhaps? Who else is a part of this impotent little conspiracy?”

Bey looked defiantly at Vasper and clamped his mouth tightly shut.

Far from being angry, Vasper seemed amused at Bey’s resistance and gave his bodyguard a knowing look before responding. “If I interpret your silence correctly, this is your way of saying that there is no way I will ever get you to open your mouth. Am I correct?” Bey continued to glare but said nothing. “How entirely predictable you are, my dear count. I am almost disappointed.”

Vasper’s shadowy covering slithered over him, hideously serpent-like, making his seditious smile seem all the more dark and depraved. If the captive count shivered in disgust – at least he would have, were he capable of movement.

“What was it you said before? That I should bow to my master? It is long since time that you were educated about the true gravity of the position you now find yourself in.” Vasper said, half whispering and half hissing in Bey’s ear. “I will show you who the real master is.”

Vasper raised his right hand and waved the clenched fingers upwards, beckoning the shadows to rise. He spoke under his breath in a tone that was soft, though the words were evil. Black coils of shadow curled about the helpless count’s neck and pulled his head upright, converging over his mouth. Bey’s eyes widened in unbelief as the evil fingers pried at his lips, forcing their way inside. He struggled with all his might, shaking his head frantically from side to side trying desperately to dislodge the searching tendrils. After a brief struggle Bey’s jaws could fight no more and came violently open, accompanied by a sharp gasp. The shadows insinuated themselves viscously into the frightened man’s mouth and pulled it open it open wide.

Vasper took the long dagger from his bodyguard’s hand and slid the blade smoothly between Bey’s disjointed jaws, the razor-sharp edge nestled between the front teeth and keen tip all but tickling the back of his throat. Bey’s eyes widened in unabashed terror, knowing that his very fate now rested on the whim of an evil madman who could end his life with a simple of jerk of the wrist.

Vasper grinned cruelly. “I was thinking,” said the madman, “seeing how you have invested so much of your time and energy into learning about my private affairs through second-hand sources, that perhaps what you need to truly understand your foe is a little first-hand experience. Would you like that?” The count’s sudden pallor indicated that he would not.

Vasper licked his lips in anticipation of the fulfillment of some perverse desire and leaned in to whisper in Bey’s ear. “You know I can almost feel it in my mind – the abominable depths of your despair and excruciating heights of your pain as I dedicate your suffering to the indulgences of the one who commands the principalities of the underworld.” The shadowy bonds pulsated over their prisoner’s body, contracting and relaxing in a repugnant caress. Bey felt sick and felt bile rising in his throat. If the requisite organs had been able to perform their function he would have emptied his stomach and been glad of it.

“Roughly would I bind you to Anak’s altar, where you would learn the true meanings of agony and isolation. The singing of the blade severing tendon and bone would be the sweetest of music to his ears - your ceaseless cries a symphony of delight.” The grin became a twisted scowl, rife with sinister intent. Bey shut his eyes, happy at that moment to be paralyzed lest the violence of his trembling should drive home the blade.

“But there are more subtle ways to torture a person.” Vasper continued, “Ways not only to inflict pain and fear, but to inspire hopelessness, desolation, self-loathing. For it is in these things that lord Anak truly thrives. And after the cutting and the breaking and the maiming were complete, you would be left to rot upon the cold, moist floor – formless shamble of humanity left without a leg to stand on or an arm with which to drag yourself – long drawn meal for the slimy crawling things that live in the cracks and crags beneath the lowest chambers of Anak’s chapel.

“And you would live, stubborn fool that you are, with nothing but the squalid dampness that gathers between the floor stones to sustain you. Then, when your hunger had reached its uttermost peak a table would be set beside you and laden with all manner of the savoury delicacies of home. Every day the feast would be laid anew to tempt you with its sights and smells while sitting just out of your reach. And so your torment would be the worse, until finally your body would succumb to the bitter grip of starvation or perhaps the loss of too much of your precious flesh to the hungry denizens of that dismal place.”

Vasper leaned back, hungry look in his eyes, to regard the pathetic visage of the count and allow time for his words to sink in. Bey now wished desperately for some way to regain some measure of movement so that he might concentrate all his will upon the end of Vasper’s dagger and so end the nightmare that had not yet even begun. He counted it true sorrow that no such relief was availing. Vasper’s grip on the knife tightened as he looked into the count’s eyes.

“It would be a fitting end for a pitiful schemer like you, nipping at the heels of greatness,” said the thane with an intensity that echoed in the squeezing of his shadowy servitors, forcing the breath out of their captive. After a moment, Vasper’s expression softened to convey a deep and regretful longing. He pulled back the blade from Bey’s mouth, which closed slackly as the shadows retracted.

“Count yourself lucky,” said Vasper, “that I have more pressing uses for you. More is the pity.” The clawed hand relaxed, releasing its power over the shadows and Bey was loosed from his uncaring bonds. He landed roughly on his feet and collapsed prostrate onto the ground unable to summon strength enough even to rise to his hands and knees while he retched.

Having retched until he could retch no more, the once-proud count was lifted unceremoniously to his feet by powerful hands and forced to move. “Start walking, dead man,” Kast growled, “or I’ll rip your bloody head off and sprinkle your blood on the corpses of your little ones.”

Vasper smiled back at Bey as he approached the door into the hall, “Time to make an example out of you.” He said triumphantly.

Chapter 2 : Long Live the Thane! (Part 1)

Vasper left the hall and went out onto the walkway that encircled the exterior of the hall and looked out upon Serapis’ capital city. Though it was a cold and snowy night, Vasper noted that it was much warmer and the snow fell with noticeably less gusto than was usual for this time of year. Most of the homes in Verdistat and the outlying areas had long since put out their lights and gone to sleep, though the city itself was still bright and alive with the sounds of late-night inn-goers and travelers. Verdistat was well known for its particularly active nightlife.

Bey was already standing there, looking out at the city as Vasper approached him. His icy tone was barely louder than a whisper.

“We have much to discuss, you and I.” Bey said, turning to stroll down the walkway.

“Of course,” Vasper walked alongside, adopting his most ingratiating tone, “I am honoured to have the opportunity to speak with you privately, Count Bey. You are, after all, a noble among nobles.”

If Bey’s tone changed it was only to become subtly cooler, which belied the venom in his words.

“I could stand here and trade pretended niceties with you, Thane, but the time for subtlety is at an end. Your feigned magnanimity is even shallower than your purposes in this tawdry affair,” he said, indicating the festivities going on inside. “Honestly, I’m amazed you actually had the audacity to do something so ludicrously obvious. I used to respect your cunning but I see now that you have become merely desperate and sad. You will have trouble controlling the nobles after this.”

Vasper seemed honestly hurt as he regarded his smug detractor with a sideways glance and responded.

“I see your manners have not improved, Count,” his voice crackled emotionally, “and I will not tolerate your petty diatribes. If you have a point to make then I suggest you make it quickly, before I lose my temper. These scurrilous accusations that you make against me are like a wound to the very soul of my being!”

“And which soul would that be, Vasper? The one you sold to Anak all those long years ago?” Bey smirked, “You think too little of me if you honestly expected me to be fooled. You’re hurt in the same way as a thief who is caught while sneaking out the back door with the treasure that will make him rich for a lifetime. Though it is clear I have struck something.”

“How dare you!" Vasper growled back.

"Knowledge is power, Thane. And if knowledge is power then you should bow before your master, for I could break you with all that I know. I know all about the women you snatch from their beds to bring to Anak's alter as offerings to his lust for torment and terror. The more terror and pain you produce in your victims, the greater you are rewarded. So you break them slowly, and savour every cry, every whimper.”

Vasper took a step back and looked at Bey, furious.

"This treason ends now, Bey. You have gone too far this time and I will see you burn! Your baseless accusations have put the seal on your coffin!"

Vasper turned on his heel and started to walk back toward the entrance to the hall. Bey's triumphant response was barely louder than a whisper.

"She came to me."

Vasper stopped in his tracks, back suddenly rigid. After a moment of silence he seemed to relax and cocked his head slightly in Bey's direction.

"I am afraid I do not know whom you mean."

"Don't play innocent with me," Bey whispered in Vasper's ear, "you know exactly who I mean. She's the only one who has ever managed to escape you with her limbs intact. More or less intact, anyway. The Kadorite girl – I believe her name is Mynara..?”

Vasper turned to speak, eyes wide in apparent unbelief, but seemed unable to form any words.

“I see you remember her.” Bey cut in, “That’s good – it was her wish that you should know who it was that helped bring you down. She’s a ferocious creature, that one. I would have brought her with me and let her tell you all this herself if she weren’t in such a sorry state, courtesy of your gentle treatment. When I first saw her collapsed on my doorstep she seemed nothing more than a bloody pile of burnt flesh; I was actually surprised to see her breathing. When she was finally able to speak she told me all about how her captor made her watch while other women were bludgeoned, scourged, burned, suffocated and maimed.”

“Eventually, she told me, if they were lucky they were torn apart or strangled and died relatively quickly. If unlucky they endured long enough to die from the pain or the terror. She endured days of continuous and increasingly horrible torture before her tormentor was interrupted and she was left locked in a small, dirty cell with the promise of his swift return. She didn’t remember much else, not that I could blame her.”

Vasper was silent, so Bey went on.

“For some time I listened intently to her story, exhilarated by the possibility that I had caught you in the midst of a truly horrible act but frustrated by the fact that I had no proof that you had done it. The girl didn’t know the identity of the tormentor, and while her descriptions gave me a clue there was nothing solid enough to bring down a thane. She also had no recollection of where she had escaped from or how she had ended up at my door. I was all but ready to give up and admit defeat until one day I noticed a small mark on the back of her neck that had been covered up before by bruises and scabs. Her captor wanted to remove all doubt that she belonged to him, so he burned his mark into her skin.”

Bey looked into Vasper’s eyes.

“You can’t imagine my joy when I first saw the insignia of House Vasper permanently etched in the helpless girl’s broken flesh. I couldn’t have produced that kind of evidence no matter how hard I’d have tried. The thing I love the most about it is I didn’t even have to do a thing; you provided me with the key to your own downfall.”

Vasper’s usually pale face seemed to have been even more totally drained of colour as he responded, miserably.

“What is it that you hope to gain from this?”

Bey made a pyramid with his fingers and turned to continue the casual stroll down the walkway, grinning victoriously.

“Your time as thane is over no matter what happens now, Vasper. You have only to choose the manner in which you will live out what remains of your life. Were the other houses to learn of what I know you would soon find yourself the victim of your own torments after which you would be painfully executed and the arduous task of selecting a new thane would begin.

“What I offer is the chance to avoid such a premature end by allowing you to step down of your own accord and then go free wherever fortune takes you. I honestly don’t care if you empty entire villages of their inhabitants and then raze everything to the ground to cover it up. All I ask is that you name me as your successor and leave Serapis forever. If you do this, Mynara will discreetly disappear and all of this will be our little secret. If not, I’ll feed you to the wolves.”

Chapter 1 : The Feast (Part 5)

By the time all of the performers were through and most of the guests had finished their second or third course of dessert the feast had been going on for several hours and the guests had been thoroughly involved in their revelry undisturbed for much of that time. Vasper took the opportunity to make use of one of the more unique features of the great hall by employing a special technique that he had discovered by accident several years earlier.

Sitting back in his chair, Vasper closed his eyes and willed his body into complete relaxation and internal silence. Immediately he was immersed from head to toe in a complex cacophony of noise – the result of a quirk in the room’s design that somehow gathered, amplified and perfectly relayed all the myriad sounds in the hall onto the very spot where Vasper now sat. Slowly, Vasper willed his mind to filter out all that was unnecessary – ambient noises that seemed to have no particular origin, the busy sounds of his servants as they went about their duties and even the gentle blowing of the snow that fell outside.

Vasper analyzed a hundred different conversations about nothing particularly important. At one table he recognized the raised voices of Lords Dalbro and Florav in heated debate about Unver’s controversial political alliances, while another table hosted a casual conversation about the state of farming in Serapis in which Baron Meris claimed that there were far too few cattle being raised in the northern marches and Lord Tiralan asserted this was because sheep were the only livestock worthy of Unverian farmland. Meanwhile Lady Treala was having a wonderful time gossiping with friends and acquaintances about various ladies of court that Prince Fedyk had supposedly gone to bed with.

Vasper flashed quickly from conversation to conversation, sorting useful information from useless information until he heard one of the voices he had been searching for. Willing himself to filter out every other sound in the room, Vasper concentrated all of his focus and attention on the whispered conversation:

“..should do it now!” Madray was clearly agitated.

“Cease your ridiculous prattling and use your brain for once,” came Bey’s response, “the thane is not defenseless.”

Madray sounded incredulous, “Be reasonable! Vasper’s pathetic band of guards against all of ours? We’d roll that miserable sack and his soldiers over in no time!”

Vizina’s sultry voice interjected, “The baron has a point, my lord. With all our supporters behind us we would certainly be victorious.”

“Oh indeed we would, my lady,” Bey replied sardonically, “and once the resulting bloodbath had subsided we would find ourselves the rulers of a large pile of noble's corpses.”

Vizina responded nonchalantly, “I could use my feminine wiles on the poor, lonely thane. No man has ever resisted--“

“--Absolutely not!” Madray was livid, “I will have to be dead before I'd let that greasy bone-bag touch you!”

“Be careful what you wish for, Madray. That kind of thing can be arranged.” Bey’s voice brought calm back to the conversation. “However it wouldn’t work anyway. The only weakness he has for the weaker sex is a penchant for maiming and torturing them – hardly productive.”

“Well what do you suggest then?” Madray asked.

“That we use his weaknesses against him. The key to Vasper’s undoing is a delicate thing and one that requires a certain finesse.” Bey lowered his voice to a barely perceptible whisper, “In a few minutes I am going to have a little talk with our thane, and the rest of you are going to --“

“--My lord-“

Vasper’s delicate concentration shattered at the sound of a servant’s voice in his ear.

“Count Bey requests a private audience with you to discuss matters of mutual benefit.”

Vasper took a moment to collect himself and then nodded his assent.

“Very well, tell the Count that I will meet him outside on the eastern walkway in a few minutes.”

“Yes my lord,” replied the servant before walking off toward Count Bey’s table.

Vasper gave instructions for the servants to continue dispersing food and drink as necessary and then stood to go to his audience with Count Bey. As he headed toward the stairs Vasper felt a strong grip on his arm and stopped to look back at the hulking and heavily armoured figure of his guard captain. Kast was easily the most physically capable man Vasper had ever met and was unflappably loyal to his lord – qualities that had allowed him to rise quickly through the ranks of Serapis’ royal army, into his current position as Vasper’s personal bodyguard. Vasper had taken pride in teaching his captain the arts of subtlety and perception, which Kast had picked up quickly despite his thuggish appearance.

“I don’t like you going out amongst the vultures without protection. I think it’s a very bad idea – as like as not to get you killed. Or worse.” Kast whispered as he gazed across the hall with a heavy lidded glare that would have caused most men to soil themselves, were it cast in their direction.

“I don’t doubt every one of these ignoble snakes has a fang or two up his sleeve with your name on it, especially Count Bey. I’ve been watching him all night and I’ll scourge myself for a week if he isn’t the most poisonous adder in the pack. Mark my words, my lord - if you go down there unguarded you’ll live to regret it. Or maybe you won’t live long enough for regrets.”

Vasper nodded knowingly and whispered in response.

“Your senses are quite correct, my friend – Bey is exactly what you suspect and more. But do not forget whom you are talking to. After all, was it not I who taught you to sense such things? Do not trouble yourself overly about the count. There is little that goes on in his mind that I do not already know about. Everything will go as planned, just be ready when I need you.”

Kast reluctantly let go of Vasper’s arm.

“As you command, my lord. I’ll be ready.” Kast watched as Vasper walked down the dais stairway and disappeared out the eastern doorway.

Chapter 2 : The Feast (Part 4)

A flurry of casual conversation (mostly perpetrated by members of the lesser houses, who apparently lacked the sophistication to recognize when their silence was expected) went on for a few minutes, sparked up by the latecomers’ dramatic entrance. Eventually those engaged in conversation realized their mistake and the scattered voices tapered off into silence. All eyes turned to the front of the great hall as the guests’ attention focused on the most important attendee of the mid-winter feast – the host.

Vasper looked over the nobles and smiled, confident in his plans for the evening. Time for the Thane to do what he does best.

The Thane rose from his high seat, the very embodiment of the kind of grace and composure that only the most noble of nobles could aspire to. He was a tall man whose normally thin frame had been even more emaciated than usual as of late. Tonight, however, the Thane appeared hale and vigorous, his size augmented by a luxurious, multi-layered robe that hung perfectly about his body, draping him in various shades of crimson. It was no coincidence that he had chosen to wear the colour of blood tonight. Long hair, jet black, boldly framed the pale, yet strangely darkened face of one who saw little of the sun, even on the odd occasion when it chose to shine upon the people of Unver’s frigid northern province. A long plaited goatee decorated the Thane’s chin and contrasted his deep set eyes, blue and bright as precious stones, which looked out from under a heavy brow and missed little that went on around them.

Vasper smiled serenely as he climbed down a short flight of steps to the very front of the dais, the speaker’s platform. Vasper stretched out his arms, palms toward the ceiling, in a stance that conveyed openness and welcome, and addressed the hall with a strikingly rich baritone voice that both soothed and compelled all who could hear.

“Welcome to my hall, noble houses of Serapis. You truly are the greatest and the mightiest of all that Unver has to offer – I stand before you, both honoured and delighted to have such mighty folk as my guests for tonight’s mid-winter feast!”

If the nobles had heard anything Vasper had said, they showed little enthusiasm aside from some scattered clapping near the back.

“Tonight we celebrate the early thawing of our cold and beautiful land. You have all proven, year after year, that you are not subject to the whims and fancies of winter, nor frightened of the ice and snow that covers your homes and threatens the very safety and provision of your great houses. You have all survived, and that is an admirable thing.”

At this, the guests perked up somewhat and responded with half-hearted cheering and clapping.

“The coming of such an early spring has not been seen in more than twenty years – how much more then should we celebrate such blessings! Indeed, though the snow gathers upon the ground outside, my heart is warmed to be in such dignified and honourable company.

“May your houses be graced with all the warmth, security and happiness that you all so richly deserve. I may be your Thane, but I count myself truly privileged and fortunate to be surrounded by so many loyal friends.”

A few of the more unsubtle guests coughed dryly at “loyal” and “friends”. It was painfully obvious that nobody here fit particularly well into either category.

Vasper looked bemused, “Left you all speechless have I? Can it be that you have never seen your Thane throw a party before?! Well let us rectify that now, my friends. I have only one command for you tonight – avail yourselves liberally of the hospitality of my hall!

“Here you will find every kind of delicacy and amusement one could possibly imagine – and if you can imagine something else, you have but to ask and it will be provided! One final thing – thank you all for honouring me with your presence tonight! Let the feast begin!”

With that final command a crew of servants who had seemed quite invisible moments before sprung into action, carrying large platters piled high with an assortment of delicious food offerings from distant and exotic locales that most of the guests had neither been to nor in many cases heard of. For the more daring tastes, foreign fare was in high demand. Particularly well received by many were the pungently spiced skewers of meat and vegetables, served alongside peppered brown rice and stuffed pastries whose complex flavours conjured up the arid desert country of Hadrok from which it came. Others found the savoury cuts of roasted meat with cheesy potatoes and thick gravy from Kiral Tor irresistible, or strips of delicately seasoned lamb wrapped in thick flat bread shells that was a specialty of the island of Myrdra.

Traditionalists were treated to all of their local Unverian favourites, especially anything involving the specially seasoned sausages, sharp onions and tangy cabbages that were staples in most Unverian homes. The Unverian ale was especially appreciated and was widely considered (by Unverians) to be the best ale in the known world. Those with a more refined palate (a characteristic that seemed in-born in most aristocratic families) preferred to nibble on an assortment of cheeses and breads from Sorenne, while sipping (and evaluating) a variety of fabulously expensive wines.

For dessert, the Thane’s master chefs had prepared a collection of exquisite pastries, creams, ices, cakes, pies and every other type of sweet one could imagine, all of which contained liberal amounts of Unver’s finest chocolate (also widely considered the best). Vasper had even had special insignia plaques made for all the noble houses, each carved from a solid block of the dark delight. Along with this was served a plethora of the juiciest, most delectable fruits from a number of different countries; Vasper himself had always been particularly fond of stuffed dates, specially sent to him from the desert orchards of the Hadrokene seti.

Of course, the true measure of a good feast is not only in its food, but its entertainment and Vasper had arranged to have the best of both. Starting with Unver’s finest fiddlers and harpists, the entertainment moved from act to act, each one progressively more exciting than the last. Drummers were followed by dancers who were followed by storytellers, jugglers, tumblers, fire-eaters, acrobats and sword fighters. All were building up to the climactic performance of Zool the magician, who awed the great hall with a thrilling mixture of illusion and fireworks, culminating in his final act – the disappearance (and subsequent reappearance on one prominent Duke’s head) of a gigantic festival turkey.

All in all, it was a lavish and grandiose affair that seemed a smashing success in Vasper’s eyes. The feast had come across exactly as he had planned it to come across – a shallow attempt by a desperate leader to appease the opponents mounting against him. Vasper knew quite well that with this last feat of manipulation his image in the eyes of the nobles was that of a pathetic, almost pitiable fool who had gotten into things over his head and was now clawing desperately to get out with his head attached. The nobles would pounce on such a perceived weakness as surely as a barracuda that smells blood in the water.

Chapter 1 : The Feast (Part 3)

By now most of the nobles and their parties had finished entering the great hall and were taking their seats around the feast tables. Vasper had decided not to assign seating for the feast; much insight could be gained about the various friendships and alliances between the noble houses by allowing them to make their own decisions about such matters.

There were few surprises; by the time seating had finished many of Vasper’s suspicions about such relationships had been confirmed. He had always had a talent for ferreting out information about people that they might prefer remained hidden.

By the time the festival bell rang to officially commence the Thane’s yearly feast, the leaders of three of the great houses had not yet arrived. Within moments of the bell, all three appeared, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they had not arrived on time. After several minutes of casually sauntering through the hall, stopping at various tables to speak to friends and acquaintances, all three parties took their seats at the heads of the three most prominent tables.

It was a calculated gesture of defiance on the part of the latecomers, meant to demonstrate their disdain for the Thane’s wishes and their refusal to be subject to his will. Vasper was not surprised in the least and had expected something of this sort from them. They were the three most influential nobles of the Thane’s court, and also the three who had first orchestrated his overthrow.

Baron Madray had been the first to enter after the festival bell. He had recently inherited the title from his uncle, the long-standing Baron of House Bertos, who had died under mysterious circumstances. Madray was young, impetuous and rash. He preferred action over diplomacy and once committed to the cause of overthrowing the Thane, had suggested an immediate and pre-emptive attack on the Thane’s estate.

Madray would have loved nothing more than a violent and bloody invasion in which his compatriots might valiantly fall in battle, leaving him to assume the high seat of command after personally taking the Thane’s head for a trophy. Vasper had looked into the young Baron’s heart and knew it was no coincidence that the old Baron had been poisoned soon after his four heirs had met their ends in various but equally suspicious ways. Madray had been the only male left in the line of succession.

The Baron was accompanied by a large entourage of personal friends that consisted mostly of little known lords and ladies from the kind of minor houses that Madray himself had come from before inheriting the barony. They walked with an air of arrogant petulance that reminded Vasper of the sort of schoolyard troublemaker that bullied other children while hiding in the shadow of a larger and meaner sibling. Vasper found it endlessly amusing that Madray still wore that same expression.

Behind Madray came the Lady Vizina, who carried the practiced detachment typical of one of Unver’s most aristocratic families, though she herself was little older than Madray. Vizina had been recently widowed when her significantly older husband, Viscount Gorbadon, had died of lung fever.

It was a curious death for such an affluent individual as Gorbadon; lung fever was rarely so severe and was easily treatable for anyone with enough money to buy the services of a surgeon or mage. There was no question that Gorbadon had had that kind of money.

Vasper knew from experience that a skillful thrust with a small blade of sufficient quality could create the illusion of lung fever. He was also aware that Vizina had secretly trained in the use of such weapons and rarely went anywhere without at least half a dozen tiny daggers hidden somewhere on her person.

Unbeknownst to old Gorbadon, Madray had often shared Vizina’s bed during her marriage. Now that both Madray’s uncle and Vizina’s husband were out of the way, the two had secretly planned to marry, and in doing so unite their two great houses into an even greater house that could rule over all the rest. Vasper had always found noble politics intriguing.

Vizina was accompanied mostly by bodyguards, as was her custom. She had always been somewhat paranoid about her personal safety, but especially now that her numerous male relations were all eager to become the next Viscount. Apart from bodyguards, Vizina brought with her several ladies-in-waiting who doted upon her with the utmost devotion and care (whether real or feigned; an aristocrat cared little so long as the servants did as they were told).

Last to enter the great hall was Count Bey, the oldest and most influential of the three. Apart from the Thane himself, Bey was considered to be the most powerful noble in Serapis. Were the nobles’ plans to succeed, Bey would likely become the next Thane. Vasper had never trusted him.

Bey had been the leader of his house for over 40 years. Indeed, on the surface he appeared to be a wise and venerable leader who exuded morality and noble intent. It was only when one dug deep into the soil of his past that Bey’s dark heart was revealed for what it was. Vasper excelled at such digging.

Vasper had long ago discovered that Bey’s sordid history was no freer of murder and deceit than Madray or Vizina. He had been the firstborn son and heir of Torbal, a cruel and manipulative Count who was much reviled by his contemporaries. At the age of sixteen Bey had decided that he would wait no longer for his inheritance and in one evil night single-handedly murdered his parents, siblings and several of his closer cousins, some of whom were not grown past infancy.

Bey had blamed the entire affair on the faithful manservant who had tended him since infancy. The servant had been publicly tortured to death in front of an audience as part of Bey’s inauguration ceremony and the Count had spent the last four decades burying his past beneath a lifetime of seemingly benevolent rule.

With a minimum of pomp, Bey took his seat, followed by his wife, several close advisors and various soldiers and guards. At the tail end of the group was a darkly robed and hooded individual who acted (unconvincingly) as though he were an indentured servant of some sort. Vasper wasn’t fooled, but he thought it best to play along for the time being.

From the high seat of the great hall, Vasper grinned inwardly.

All the players are set - The game is about to begin.

Chapter 1 : The Feast (Part 2)

From the high table, Vasper’s gaze moved to take in the great hall that would soon be full of rivals and conspirators. It was a visual tour that never failed to inspire feelings of security, pride and satisfaction – all for good reason.

Nothing about the hall was left to chance or coincidence. Every detail down to the tiniest fixture and decoration was arranged with exact precision and nothing in that room existed except by Vasper’s express purposes.

The room was absolutely perfect, which Vasper well knew, as the design was his own and had been executed with utter meticulousness by Prince Fedyk’s very own craftsmen. Their commissioning had cost him a rather large fortune, but had proven well worth the price; the work was flawless.

The room’s design itself was a work of dark genius, put together by a man who had spent many long years studying the subtle arts of persuasion, manipulation and coercion. The great hall had been the culmination of all Vasper’s art and skill and served its intended purpose ruthlessly and efficiently.

Enormous square stones lined the floor of the immense circular hall, arranged in powerful patterns that evoked strength, solidarity and trustworthiness in those the Thane wished to impress or inspire. Large sculpted murals built into the towering granite walls colourfully depicted grandiose scenes of victory and conquest from the lives of the Thane’s more legendary ascendants and served as a manifest reminder of the majesty and potency from which the Thane was descended. The ceiling of the great hall was an intricate collaboration of sharply angled vaults and smooth, grand arches that elegantly crowned the room in jet black ebony and left the visitor with a sense of being part of something much larger and grander than themselves.

To the unprepared visitor of this room, the Thane was a man who was noble and benevolent and larger than life. He was a man who could be depended on and trusted implicitly - a man who commanded respect and deserved fealty. Visitors to the mighty hall wanted desperately to please the Thane and earn his favour, a fact which he had exploited ruthlessly in many negotiations.

When dealing with rivals and opponents, Vasper’s subtle rearrangement of the great round room would produce a darker, more sinister effect. The same great floor tiles became the massive stepping-stones of a cruel, autocratic behemoth. Cold granite walls brandished furious images of reckless and maniacal acts of violence, bloodshed and ruination attributed to the Thane’s murderous lineage, and therefore also to him. The sharp vaults and wide arches of the dark stone ceiling seemed at first glance to be the perching places of a thousand malevolent shadows, ever scrutinizing those under their authority. At second glance, and every glance after, the ceiling seemed to descend ever lower and lower until finally it became, in the mind’s eye, the vaulted seal of a gruesome sarcophagus that crushed and oppressed all within its walls.

More than one of his opponents had found themselves hastily submitting to the Thane’s will for no other reason than to get themselves outside of the walls of that great and terrible tomb. There were few who could resist Vasper’s intimidations, and such as there were had almost finished taking their seats.

For the feast, Vasper had gone a different direction altogether with the Thane’s hall. Garish tapestries and tacky banners adorned the walls and ceiling, complimenting the rest of the bright and cheerful décor. The atmosphere in the hall spoke of festivity, ease and levity. It was his most insidious design and was carefully crafted to subtly, yet irresistibly put its guests off their guard while also distracting their attention from matters of serious thought or suspicion.

The arrangement was perfect and its effect – devastating; the nobles’ conspiracies were about to come into fruition, but the last laugh would be on the conspirators.

Chapter 1 : The Feast (Part 1)

Vasper watched quietly as the Serapis nobles filed into his great banquet hall, each with their own private entourage of consorts, bodyguards and soldiers, and took their seats around a dozen long tables, waiting for the Thane’s feast to begin.

Enemies – the nobles had long since sworn to undertake the Thane’s overthrow and eventual execution for crimes they could not begin to really understand. The people of Verdistat had long whispered together of what they imagined the Thane’s crimes to be – deaths (both incidental and deliberate), abductions, tortures. There were rumours of people – mostly those known for being particularly outspoken in their criticism of the Thane – disappearing from their beds in the middle of the night and never being seen or heard from again. Some spoke of even darker things – treason, sorcery, communion with evil gods.

Vasper knew the truth was darker than any of them could have imagined.

Foreword

In order to encourage me to get my book started, I've decided to try my hand at writing it as a serial in true blog style. This is a fantasy story that I have been crafting for quite some time, with which I hope to expound some spiritual truths about the Christian journey, with a distinctive flare for action, adventure and victory!

It has a decidedly dark feeling because I am hoping to mirror the darkness of our own world with the fictional world that I endeavour to create. I wish to contrast this with the themes that Jesus Christ brought to our world - Hope, Redemption and the power of God to overcome our enemies. I hope you enjoy!

(All content on this blog is copyright Ryan Stringer - please do not alter or distribute outside of this blog without express permission of the author)