gorgenmast

The Broken World: Nations of Azoth

Nyssos was a massive city to be sure. The capital of the Salished Empire, built at the confluence of the Tashgad and Nabal Rivers, was perhaps the largest city in all of Azoth. Zar Dratha or one of the other great cities on the Bay of Teeth were possibly more populous than Nyssos, but the Salished capital was certainly larger in terms of the sheer size of the city. Nyssos proper, with its spires and ziggurats built upon floating plazas on and sometimes in the rivers, was condensed along the rivers and did not cover a particularly large area. But the outlying slums where the vast majority of the city's populace lived stretched on for many leagues up and down the banks of both the Nabal and the Tashgad. Those slums gave way to a vast patchwork of rice paddies.

From atop his steed, Irssun was afforded a commanding view of the surrounding countryside as he rode along. To the east, the mighty Nabal River flowed gently southward to the ocean and the quarter league or so between the riverbank and the road was comprised of shanty villages surrounded by several acres of rice paddy. And to the west, the paddies stretched on for many leagues, all the way to the hills and bluffs on the horizon that marked the interface of the Shadar Highlands and the floodplains.

The paddies on either side of the road teemed with serfs. The peasants wallowed through thick mud with curved blades in one hand and bundles of half-desiccated rice stalks in the other. Irssun knew enough about the rice harvest to know that they were harvesting too early. The hot dry season had only begun a moon ago, and the rice was not due to be harvested for another two or three moons. Rice harvested now would not have sufficient time to mature, the grains were bound to end up shriveled and small. But Irssun knew that this premature harvest was not being performed out of ignorance, for these Rainlander serfs had been cultivating rice here for a thousand years before the Saliszi warlords ever descended from the Godfangs. Irssun knew that these peasants were harvesting out of fear.

Irssun had heard the rumors spreading through the peasantry: word of warlock armies gathering in the west was spreading among the serfs as quickly as any pox or plague. The peasants feared a war was coming and that this time their Salished lords would not be able to protect them. These peasants meant to harvest what they could before finding refuge from the coming conflict.

The very first refugees were already on the road; a creaking cart drawn by a crippled ass rumbled down the road in the opposite direction of Irssun, Dimaza, and their retinue of mounted Sashul's Guard. A sun-bronzed rainlander paused from whipping his nigh-lame donkey to watch as the braid-beards rode past. His spouse and three young children sat in the back beside with a few of their possessions and enough rice to sustain them on their exodus. Irssun suspected they were on their way to the great causeways in Nyssos that spanned the great river, and from there they would probably venture on into the hill country on the eastern fringe of the Salished Dominion - somewhere far removed from anything that might interest any invader from the Ashlands.

"Miserable wretches," Dimaza snarled as the peasants' cart rolled past. "Truly, these Rainlanders take no shame in cowardice. Our Saliszi ancestors did this lot a favor by conquering them. Were it not for Salished strength, they would have been made thralls by the Dratha long ago. But they do not stand and fight, but flee into the hills like sheep. A lesser race of men, without question."

Before yesterday, Irssun would have been inclined to contest the feisty young vizier, to assure him that the Congress of Masters had no intention of open warfare against the Salished Dominion. But when the Congress' envoy to the Dominion openly requested Remun's abdication and fealty to the Archmagister, the Congress' intentions were made abundantly clear. The Salished Dominion and the Congress of Masters were going to war.

To make matters worse, the Sashul was anything but decisive during this critical hour. Following the meeting with Master Kaliban and his Drathan envoys, Remun had been sullen and aloof. Irssun and Dimaza had spent the better part of the morning trying unsuccessfully to get the young Sashul engaged in mobilization against the Dratha. A half-hearted 'I suppose,' in response to Dimaza's request to fortify key ascents up the Vorghul Shelf was the most decisive thing that Irssun or Dimaza were able to coax from Remun. By lunch, Irssun had had enough of Remun's sour attitude and set out for another errand. The old spymaster had no time to babysit the foul-tempered boy; not when there was a war to prepare for.

"Remind me, Irssun, why exactly I must join you on this errand of yours?" Dimaza asked, turning in his saddle to face Irssun. "I doubt you brought me along because you enjoy my company. My time would be better spent facilitating the defense of the Vorghul Shelf. Can't you do this on your own?"

"Lord Varrod has answered our call to arms, and has sent a contingent of his warriors to our aid against the Dratha. Early this morning, a ship from Vertskhilis landed at the fortress at Mador Tul bringing warriors from the Varrod League. They wish to demonstrate their capabilities to us, and I feel it would be best for you to know what these men are capable of, that you may best incorporate them into your plan to defend the Vorghul Shelf."

"Thankfully, we are nearly there," Dimaza sighed, looking upon the great hill of Mador Tul rising above the floodplain before them. It was a hill from the nearby Shadar Highlands, misplaced by geological happenstance to be located right along the bank of the great Nabal River. Situated just two and half leagues to the south of Nyssos, Mador Tul had obvious strategic value. Some Rainlander king built his keep atop Mador Tul centuries before the Saliszi descended from the Godfangs. During the zenith of the Salished Empire, the fort was fortified and expanded into an imposing citadel armed with catapults able to sink unauthorized vessels attempting to sail toward Nyssos. But over the past two generations, Mador Tul had fallen into disrepair. It was so neglected that bandits occupied the fort up until five years ago, demanding payment from ships going up and down the river and successfully resisting attacks from the anemic Salished Dominion. Though the bandits occupying the fort had been dispatched, it was apparent that little had been done in rebuilding the fort. The burned-out remains of watchtowers stood above the crumbling ramparts, whose neglect was accentuated by tufts of brushy grass and Quabir saplings sprouting from between the stone blocks of the fortress walls.

Irssun, Dimaza, and their guards rode up the switchback trail up to the gate of Mador Tul, or rather, what remained of it. The actual gate of the citadel had long since been destroyed. All that remained now was a gap in the wall, where the rubble from the ruined gatehouse had been cleared wide enough for two men standing abreast to pass through. Flanking the aperture into the fortress were two Salished men-at-arms, armed only with crude wooden bucklers and spears. The Salished garrison at Mador Tul was a pitiful affair; a dozen men drawn up from the local peasantry to keep bandits and pirates from taking up residence in the fort again.

"What do you lot want?" One of the guards asked as the horsemen cantered up to the entrance.

"We represent the Sashul," Dimaza snarled, bristling at the militiaman's insolence. "Show some respect to your betters."

"We have come to meet with the Vertskhili forces that arrived here this morning," Irssun declared.

"Right, Varrod's folk. They mentioned someone might be coming to see them today. They're right inside, follow me."

The man-at-arms led Irssun and Dimaza through into the parade ground of the dilapidated fortress. Dozens of crude tents had been pitched upon the courtyard of the fortress. A hundred soldiers milled about around them, pausing from their chores to watch the Sashul's men ride through their encampment. These men were a cut above the armed levies that comprised the bulk of the Salished hosts; they were professional soldiers, well trained with expensive armor and weapons. These were the soldiers of Lord Varrod's men, the master of Vertskhilis. Vertskhilis, while nominally part of the Salished Dominion was in truth ruled by Lord Varrod alone. Decades past, the Salished had attempted to oust Lord Varrod and reassert control over the Arm of Azoth, but were repulsed in a disastrous battle in the mountains. Ever since, Lord Varrod answered to the Sashul's will only when it served his interests. Knowing this, Irssun was unsettled by the fact that Varrod's forces had effectively commandeered a fortification so close to Nyssos. But during this dark hour, Irssun could ill afford to deny any assistance against the Congress.

The Salished militiaman stopped at the entrance of one Mador Tul's two surviving watchtowers, directing the Sashul's men inside. Irssun and Dimaza descended from their horses and went inside, ascending a staircase up to the the tower's crenellated top. There, Irssun and Dimaza encounter number of Vertskhili soldiers accompanying a man who wore the vestments of a noble underneath a scalemail curiass.

"Irssun of Tehre, Vizier Dimaza," the Vertskhili nobleman recognized. "I am gladdened that you were able to visit us. I am Faresa of Hamalsarak, commander of this regiment. Lord Varrod supports his Sashul in this difficult time, and has therefore sent this force and ten others like it to preserve the Salished Dominion and repulse the Congress of Masters."

"The Sashul is grateful for your assistance," said Irssun, knowing that Remun didn't know - and perhaps, didn't care - that Varrod's League was supporting him.

"I am glad to hear it, though I confess I wish the Sashul could have joined us," said Faresa.

"His majesty, as you can surely imagine, is totally preoccupied with war preparations," Irssun lied. Having anyone outside the palace seeing the Sashul in his current depressive state would be bad for morale. Even if Remun had wanted to go, Irssun would not have permitted it.

"As I suspected. It is a shame, this demonstration would not have been possible without Remun's counsel."

Irssun cocked his eyebrows with that. "What do you mean by that?"

"Let me show you," Faresa said, turning to his soldiers gathered near the tower's battlements. He took one of the curious-looking weapons out of the arms of one of the soldiers and presented it to Irssun and Dimaza. It was a long, slender tube of hammered brass, with a long, sharp spearpoint affixed to the front and a string fuse running out from its back end, where feather halves had been affixed to make fletched fins for the device. "Certainly, you recognize this device."

Irssun and Dimaza indeed knew what this weapon was, and what it was capable of. It was a rocket powered by firedust: coarse black powder that, when brought to spark, ignited with terrible force. Originally an invention of the Dratha, the noblemen of the Arm of Azoth somehow managed to acquire the recipe for firedust. Whereas the Dratha had seen as firedust as only an interesting curiosity, the southern city-states sought to utilize the material's deadly power. Jealously guarding the formula, the rulers of the Arm of Azoth developed fire arrows and rockets to wield against their adversaries. When their Salished masters came to put the Arm to heel, they turned their firedust weapons against the Sashul's hosts with terrible effect.

"Now, firedust on its own is potent enough. But, your Sashul, in his studies, discovered a way to further amplify its destructive potential." Faresa led Irssun and Dimaza out to the parapets, giving the three view over the Nabal River. Out in the middle of the river was a crude raft made from woven dumur reeds. The boat had no occupants and carried only two large ceramic vessels.

"Warriors," Faresa said to his soldiers. "Make ready to loose a volley, aim for the raft."

Irssun and Dimaza watched as the Vertskhili warriors reached for their torches - stationed well away from the rockets - and carefully lowered the flame to the very tip of five of the rockets' fuses. The wicks ignited with a burning hiss, prompting the warriors to quickly move their rockets into position with long poles mounted on the bellies of the rockets, pointing them off of the parapets directly toward the floating raft. A seemingly-interminable period of a few seconds passed as the fuses burned down into rear of the rocket before a roaring jet of fire erupted from the rear of the rockets. With trained precision, the rocket-wielders knew to release the guiding pole as soon as the rocket ignited, allowing them to careen off into the horizon. Irssun and Dimaza watched as the rockets flew away at terrible speed, their smoky contrails snaking around and spinning wildly toward the Nabal River. One of the rockets settled into a screaming cartwheel, circling up and down a hundred feet above the water before exploding in the air with a percussive bang. Another rocket flew straight across to the opposite bank of the Nabal where it exploded and set fire to some riverside bushes. Two other rockets arced down into the waters of the Nabal River. The rockets shot into the water with a sizzling splash before exploding a few feet underwater, creating a frothy geyser that erupted high into the air. One of the rockets had true aim, and hit squarely in the middle of the raft. Perhaps, in the fraction of a second before the rocket exploded, Irssun or Dimaza could have seen one of the urns shatter from the impact of the rocket and spill its black, viscous contents all around. But as soon as the rocket exploded, the tiny boat was consumed in a bright flash of white light that was followed by a deafening bang a nearby clap of lightning. Irssun and Dimaza could do naught but recoil from the sheer power unleashed before them. The explosion generated a shockwave that could be seen rippling across the water at tremendous speed.

It took several seconds for the echoes of the blast to carry across the land. The rolling booms gave way to the cawing of terrified seagulls scattered from their nests in between the fortress' weathered stones, and a bloodhawk could be heard screeching from its perch in a ruined watchtower. Irssun looked back to the river in silent awe, seeing only a column of steam and frothy water falling back to Azoth where the little boat had floated only moments before. Dimaza, however, could not contain his disbelief.

"How did you accomplish such a feat?" The young vizier demanded.

"Ichor," Faresa revealed with a wide grin. "In that boat were a pair of vases filled with about an amphora each of ichor, hardly an inexpensive demonstration, but what power. When the ichor in those vases came into contact with the spark of firedust, it burned with a tremendous force."

"Ichor does not burn," Irssun said. "It is basic alchemical knowledge that ichor is not combustible."

"Not with mundane fire, no. Neither flame from a torch nor spark from iron and flint will ever ignite ichor. However, our genius of a Sashul happened to have read Drathan alchemical texts during his... confinement. He recalled that Drathan alchemists had discovered that when brought to the spark of burning magnesia, ichor will in fact ignite. Even a cupful of burned ichor was noted to be deadly enough that pupils were advised never to attempt it. The Sashul, suspecting that the spark of firedust might be hot enough to ignite ichor, sent word to Lord Varrod to see if ichor could amplify the power of firedust to be used as a weapon to even the odds against the Congreess. As you have witnessed, the technique certainly works. How fitting that the knowledge of the Drathan masters shall be used against them."

"Remarkable to be sure," replied Irssun, making every attempt to conceal his dismay. In attempting to find a means of evening the field of battle against the Congress, Remun had foolishly given a terrible weapon to Lord Varrod. Lord Varrod, while nothing compared to the threat posed by the Archmagister, was no friend of the Sashul by Irssun's reckoning. So long as the Congress of Masters threatened to destroy the Salished Dominion, Lord Varrod was an ally. But once the Congress was repelled, what then? Lord Varrod, seeking ever more power and autonomy, could just as easily turn such a weapon against the Sashul. Remun had been Sashul for scarcely a month and had already managed to alienate one of the Dominion's allies while empowering a rival. And just how had Remun managed to get a missive to Lord Varrod without his knowledge?

The spymaster had little time to ponder over Faresa's revelations, for the sound of hooves falling upon the cobblestones of Mador Tul's parade ground announced the arrival of another group of riders. Irssun, Dimaza, and Faresa peered over the watchtower's parapets to see who had just rode up to Mador Tul. They were mounted Sashul's Guard, adorned in the standard lamellar armor of the palace. Their horses were matted in sweat from a fast and hard ride.

"Spymaster, Vizier!" One of the riders cried from the parade ground when he caught glimpse of Irssun and Dimaza. "The Sashul is missing!"

That declaration stole the attention of everyone in earshot.

"Are you certain?" Irssun replied.

"Of course they're certain!" Dimaza screamed.

"We have looked throughout the palace!" The new arrival affirmed. "We cannot find him anywhere."

"This is the work of those Dratha emissaries," the vizier snarled, shoving his finger into Irssun's breast. "I told you we should have put them to the sword like the beasts they are."

"The emissaries," Irssun mumbled to himself. "By the Gods, of course."

"You doddering imbecile, what are you going on about?"

"Come with me, vizier." Irssun demanded, descending the stairs of the watchtower as quickly as his legs could carry him. "I think I know where we can find Remun."

Friend or Foe?

"You want to help?" Assallya's hat-donning asked in response to the tavern proprietor's greeting. "Then you stay right were you are." The Black Hat drew his cape back just far enough to show off his scabbard-bound saber. Assallya went about filling her silver basin before performing the enchantments to conjure the missing prisoner's visage under close scrutiny by the patrons and keeper of the tavern as well as her Black Hat escort.

The elf's conjuring ritual was nearly complete when the door to the Waterfront was thrown open. Sir Vatikar, joined by two of his Black Hats entered the tavern, led a veritable herd of anxious townsfolk inside. The villagers crammed inside elbow to elbow, congregating around the dread knight. Vatikar stood above Assallya as she completed the conjuring. At last the ritual was finished, and the water in the silver basin began to vibrate and froth with magical energy. As the waters settled, a reflection of the missing prisoner shone in the bowl for all to see. The townsfolk crowded above the table under the watch of Vatikar and three of the Black Hats, too busy studying reflection of the girl with long brown hair to notice that two of the Black Hats had not entered the tavern.

"Look now into these waters, and look upon the face of this fugitive," Vatikar said for everyone in the tavern to hear. "This girl, and those who might be harboring her, are enemies of His Majesty and the whole of his dominion. As subjects of His Majesty Lord Octa, she is foe to you lot as well."

"But," Vatikar looked up from the reflection to look over the throng gathered within the tavern, "I am not naive enough to think that each of you truly feels such loyalty, such conviction, to His Majesty. In fact, it would not surprise me if there are among you those who would dare wish ill upon His Majesty. And so, in requisitioning your help, I regret to inform you all that... certain measures must be taken to ensure we all truly have His Majesty's interests in our hearts."

As if on cue, the door to the tavern burst open, revealing to all the townspeople where the remaining two Black Hats had gone. The two men were each dragging someone into the tavern against their will. One firmly held an elderly woman by the wrists, who resisted meekly against the Black Hat. But in the arms of the other, was a wriggling boy - perhaps ten or twelve years old. The squirming child caught the eyes of one of the few women within the tavern, and cried out immediately.

"Mother!" The boy wailed. His cries elicited horrified gasps from the gathered villagers.

"You will help me find this girl," said Vatikar. "And you will not run off to notify anyone of this matter. For each one of you that in the course of this search goes missing, I will execute two of your neighbors."

Vatikar then looked over at the old woman and the screaming boy.

"Starting with them."

Friend or Foe?

Noontime sun filtered through hazy overcast skies above the hamlet of Grayweald. The serfs were out and about now, busying themselves with their daily tasks: splitting firewood, turning over their vegetable gardens in preparation for spring's early crops, and simply moving around to keep warm. As they milled about, they could hear a muffled din coming from the forest beyond the edge of town: the sound hoof-falls from the road.

The monotony of typical village goings-on was instantly shattered as the riders thundered into Grayweald. Their black capes and weaponry gave the newcomers away to the townsfolk, who watched their arrival with palpable unease. These were the dark lord's men; their black capes and armor gave them away at once. Lord Octa's men were a rare sight indeed in backwaters such as these, and nothing good ever came of those few times when the dark lord's men did come to places such as these. The villagers milling about gawked openly, and old women peeked out cautiously from behind window shutters. One of the dark lord's own knights on a warhorse-drawn chariot accompanied by five Black Hats, something bad indeed must have transpired for such a party to be sent to sleepy Grayweald. But perhaps most curious of all was the elven girl standing beside the grizzled knight in the chariot, clad in skimpy garb totally unsuitable for the cold of late winter. What the name of the Gods was she doing with such a party?

Vatikar dismounted from his chariot in the small cobblestone square in the center of the town, prompting the Black Hats to slide down from their steeds.

Go inside with your silver pan and conjure the image of our missing prisoner," Vatikar commanded of Assallya, pointing to the nearby tavern with the name 'Waterfront' painted on a worn hanging sign. As the shackled elf went, the dread knight gestured for one of the Black Hats to follow her inside. "The rest of you lot, come with me."

Sir Vatikar strode to the center of the town square, his cloak-clad retinue gathered around him with heavy crossbows cradled in their arms. The townspeople gathered at the peripheries of the square, anxious to see what this man of the dark lord wanted but too fearful to approach. Satisfied that the better part of the town's men were in earshot, Vatikar cleared his throat and spoke up.

"Subjects of His Majesty Lord Octa, I am Sir Vatikar, and I come before you to request your aid. Not long ago, a prisoner in the custody of his His Majesty was released by agents provocateurs - enemies of the dominion. I have reason to believe that this fugitive is nearby, perhaps even in this very hamlet. Knowing that this is a settlement of loyal subjects with nothing but utmost respect for His Majesty, I expect naught but total cooperation from you lot in finding these criminals."

"Come with me into the tavern," Vatikar demanded, "and I shall explain how you may be of service to us."

At first, the townspeople hesitated. Vatikar gave a swift nod, prompting the Black Hats to lift their crossbows up a little higher. This small gesture was enough to compel the village men to approach the tavern.

Friend or Foe?

Spitted, hmm? Vatikar thought to himself as he gripped the chariot's reigns in his hands. Fret not; I'll make a rotisserie out of you soon enough, elf.

"So you are a conjuror too?" Vatikar asked aloud. "I did not expect our guide to be so useful. Do whatever you wish to assist my men-at-arms and I, but do not put yourself in undo danger. The men under my charge are capable enough of bringing this runaway back to our lord and dispatching whatever remains of this Revolt. The runt Zula - the commander of this insurrection - was an easy opponent. Any survivors stand little chance against me."

"Hold!" One of the hat-donning riders cried up ahead, yanking hard on the reigns of his steed and pulling it to a bucking stop. The other riders stopped in the middle of the road before dismounting at once. Vatikar slowed his chariot to a stop, permitting himself and Assallya to step out and survey their surroundings.

"Do you lot not understand that time is of the essence?" Vatikar bellowed. "Why have we stopped?"

"Look, sire," One of the dismounted Black Hats said, pointing to the roadside. Embedded in the trunks of the trees beside the road were a number of arrows, and several men laid lifeless in blood-stained patches of snow.

"They've all got black armbands, sir,." one of the Black Hats reported, standing back upright after inspecting a pair of fallen soldiers. "These are his majesty's men."

"Steel bodkins," another declared upon yanking an arrow out of the chest of a fallen soldier. "Whoever killed these lads was no mere highwayman."

"Brigands would've stripped them of everything of value: arrows, boots, daggers. 'Sides, they'd have to be a brave or stupid bunch to attack the lord's men within three leagues of his majesty's keep."

"It would seem we have found the place of the ambush," Vatikar surmised as he twirled a stray arrow in his gauntlet-clad fingers. "Is there any sign of where the perpetrators may have gone?"

"None, sire. It seems that there was a fair amount of snowfall since the attack. I'm afraid there are no tracks to be found."

"Then it is doubtful that they covered much ground in such conditions," the dread knight deduced, snapping the arrow shaft between his fingers before carelessly tossing it aside into the snow. "Is there not a hamlet near this place?"

"Yes, sire," one of the riders affirmed. "The village of Grayweald is perhaps a half league to the south of here."

"Let us go there," Vatikar announced as he pulled Assallya back into the chariot. "I suspect we will find our missing prisoner in this village or somewhere close. If so, the elf should be close enough to ferret the escapee out."

With a whip of the reigns of the chariot, Vatikar, Assallya, and the Black Hats were on their way to Grayweald.

Friend or Foe?

I'm starting on my post now. I generally just don't get online much on the weekends. Don't think I've left you guys hanging though.

I'm thinking Thanksgiving is in people's way.

@Assallya

Thanksgiving? Where is Thanksgiving held in October?

Friend or Foe?

((Suggested listening))

The predawn glow had scarcely dispelled the stars from the sky when the gates to Lord Octa's keep were cranked open. Like a mouth of fangs yawning wide, the metal porticulus of the dark lord's keep opened into the courtyard of the citadel. From within the courtyard five horsemen charged forth onto the road leading up to Lord Octa's keep. Only a few strides behind the horsemen was the dread knight Vatikar standing atop a chariot pulled by two muscled warhorses. At his side was the elf girl, with shackles around her feet that would impede her ability to run away.

Sir Vatikar, upon riding out of the gate, inspected his retinue of seasoned warriors. His subordinates were not dread knights like Vatikar was; instruments of death employed by Lord Octa to dispatch his most powerful enemies. His band of warriors were essentially men-at-arms, though they were several cuts above the kettle hat-wearing peasant boys who stood guard outside the keeps of Lord Octa's vassals, armed with pikes they barely knew how to wield. Vatikar's horsemen were what the peasant rabble called Black Hats - named for the wide-brimmed cavalier hats they wore. These professional soldiers who had proved their mettle time and time again on the field of battle. Clad in chainmail cuirasses, they thundered down the road with long, black capes fluttering in the frigid wind. Each carried a saber in belt-affixed scabbards, and each of them had heavy crossbows strapped directly behind their saddle. They carried the same weapons into battle, knowing precisely how to use them and how to work in tandem with their fellows. On their own, a cadre of Black Hats were a redoubtable force to be sure. But when led into the field by a dread knight of the likes of Sir Vatikar, they were truly a force to be reckoned with.

Agael watched from the window high in Lord Octa's keep as the chariot-borne Vatikar and Assallya thundered into the distance along with their cadre of Black Hats, down the road into the dark forests below the keep. Dawn was breaking over the dominion of Lord Octa. As the riders disappeared into the murky forests, Agael could only wonder why his master saw fit to go to such lengths to recover this single missing prisoner, to risk allowing a prisoner who had murdered one of the dark lord's own barons to escape just to have this missing prisoner back. Agael suspected that Lord Octa knew more about this prisoner than he was letting on. As the sun rose over the land, Agael withdrew from the window and made for the dungeons deep within Lord Octa's keep. Perhaps the Tobler boy knew more about this missing girl the dark lord wanted so dearly.

Friend or Foe?

I'm terrible at making RP names. Whatever you call it, I'm liking how this is coming along. Keep up the good posts,all.

Friend or Foe?

"A pan of silver?" Agael repeated. "There are at the least a hundred such things in his majesty's possession, he will hardly miss one." That was no hyperbole. During the Usurping, Lord Octa confiscated the king's treasures in their entirety. Golden heirlooms, jewelry, fine silverware, and all varieties of priceless artifacts and trinkets were carelessly heaped together in Lord Octa's hoard, accumulating dust and cobwebs in some dark chamber of the keep. Only occasionally did the dark lord's men access the hoard to take a few handfuls of gold or silver trinkets to melt down into coins with which to pay Lord Octa's numerous men-at-arms.

"You there," Agael snapped at a smithhand shoveling coal into the base of a furnace, "go to the silver heap and fetch for this elf a silver pan." The ash-covered boy left his post without question nor hesitation, and returned shortly after with an ornate bowl from a pile of silver items brought down from the hoard to be melted down into coins in one of the armory's forges. It was large enough for about three quarts of liquid, with a rim fashioned to look like a wreath of oak leaves. The soot-covered boy handed the pan to Agael, who in turn presented it to Assallya.

"I trust this will suit your needs," he said, extending the silver pan to the elf.

Friend or Foe?

"I've done nothing wrong!"

The young prince's lamentations echoed through the Court of the Dead, but fell on deaf, or rather, unsympathetic ears. Unmoved, Lord Octa merely cocked an eyebrow as the dread knight dragged him and the others to the dungeon.

"Do you know anything about this?" Asked the dark lord of his bald-headed servant.

"Yes," Agael reported. "Lord Keledan Tobler of the Heathermarches did in fact offer his heir as a token of submission to your majesty. It is customary among the minor lords to the east to grant their heirs until their coming-of-age to other lords in order to curry favor and solidify alliances. Lord Tobler certainly wishes to align himself with your majesty, and given the location of his realm it is easy to see why."

Little wonder indeed why Lord Tobler would want friendly terms with the dark lord. Though it had been a full generation since Lord Octa had assembled his hosts to conquer neighboring lands, the surrounding kingdoms and realms feared nothing more than the dark lord rebuilding his former power and beginning another wave of inexorable conquest. Those realms to the immediate east of Lord Octa's dominion, in the Heathermarches on the eastern slopes of the Felmurg Mountains, would be among the closest and most accessible victims of Lord Octa's renewed wrath. Lord Tobler's would be the first lands to be invaded if the dark lord ever crossed the Felmurg Mountains.

"Go and speak with this prince after you have debriefed Vatikar. Perhaps the Tobler boy will also be of more use to me alive," Lord Octa ordered, resuming his seat upon the black throne.

"As you wish, your majesty," Agael said, bowing low once more before excusing himself from the Court of the Dead. Carefully, Agael hid his eagerness to leave the Court and the immediate presence of Lord Octa.

---

In the lower reaches of Lord Octa's keep, hammers rang against hot steel and bellows breathed life into roaring forges. Perpetually smoky and hot, the keep's armory was nearly as infernal as any brimstone-ringed pit of the nine hells. The assistants of the dark lord's veteran smiths barked through the cacophonous din, carrying out the orders of their taskmasters. Though they were diligent in their work for fear of receiving a horsewhipping for shirking their responsibilities, the smithhands could not help but gawk as one of the dark lord's dread knights escorted a scantily-clad elven girl through the armory. Outsiders were a rare sight in this place, and the voluptuous elf was the most beautiful thing these soot-caked laborers had seen in a long time indeed.

Heavy bootfalls sounded through the armory, now unusually quiet for the brief pause from the laborers watching instead of working. The sound of these chainmail-reinforced boots immediately galvanized the laborers back to their duties, and the chorus of labor resumed again to the armory. Through the churning smoke of the forges, a hulking figure approached Assallya and her escort. The clinking of chainmail was heard with every swaggering step. The orange light of the forge fires flickered against the armor plates of the approaching figure's cuirass and pauldrons. Seated in between the pauldrons on wide shoulders was a blocky, scar-pocked face of a man who had earned such marks by emerging triumphant from many horrific battles. A tattered and filthy cape of black silk was chained to his pauldrons and draped down to his ankles. At his side was the bald headed servant Assallya had seen before.

"This is Sir Vatikar," Agael introduced to Assallya. "He and his retinue will briefly outfit themselves for their quest here before leaving to find his majesty's missing prisoner. You will assist Sir Vatikar in this search by any means available to you. His majesty, however, has expressed that time of the essence. Find this prisoner quickly, the consequences of failure are more unpleasant than I care to discuss."

Vatikar looked down upon the elf with a gaze not dissimilar to that of a dog eying a hock of ham hanging just out of reach. "Let us not be waiting, then."

Friend or Foe?

"The incident at Baron Gorim's keep," Agael recounted, referring to the murder in which the elven girl was involved. "That was a dreadful affair to be sure." The killing one of Lord Octa's vassals was unprecedented and surely unforgivable. Agael fully expected the dark lord to lay his hand upon Assallya and devour her life essence at that very moment. But something stayed the master's hand. Agael had a suspicion that it might have been desperation.

"So it was," Lord Octa dismissed, keeping his glassy white eyes fixed upon Assallya. "Gorim will be replaced easily enough. But as for this... revolt," Lord Octa's incorporeal voice boomed through the Court once more, galvanizing the undead souls hanging from the ceiling to shift and moan. "I shall not tolerate it."

"You shall accompany the Dread Knight Vatikar, and assist him in searching for this missing prisoner. For I suspect that wherever she is, the remainder of the insurrectionists will be found there as well."

"Sir Vatikar?" Agael asked. "Far be it from me to question your judgement, majesty. But do you trust him with such a quest? After what happened last time?"

"Vatikar knows full well that were it not for his prowess on the battlefield, he would have joined the Court in Zula's place. He knows the gravity of his error, and he is sufficiently motivated. He will bring me this missing prisoner and those who have stolen her from me. And unlike Zula, they shall come to me alive."

"Send the rest of this lot to the dungeons. I will consume their life essence at a more appropriate time. But escort the elf and see that she is fitted adequately for this quest." With that, the two dread knights parted ways - one dragged the shackled prisoners to the dungeons, and the other took Assallya back out of the Court.

"When you inform Vatikar as to my orders," Lord Octa said to his robed lackey when the prisoners were well out of earshot. "Tell him that once he has located my missing prisoner, he may dispose of the she-elf however he sees fit."

"As you wish, your majesty. I have no doubt he will relish such an opportunity."

"So he may," Lord Octa agreed. "What is important is that the elf must not be allowed to live at the end of this. A crime against my vassals is a crime against me, and I shall tolerate no crime."