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
-------------------------------------------

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.”