End of Empires - N3S III
- Thread starter North King
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North King
blech
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If you need a Gadian signature, consider this it. 
Kraznaya
Princeps
His horse is nearly spent. He slows her to an ambling trot, and she neighs back appreciatively. He catches his breath and enjoys the break as well, taking the time to notice the surroundings. He is far from home. The windy air is crisp and cool, yet just moist enough so that it does not whip across his face like the night wind he knew. He is surrounded by a forest, not thick and dense like the stories that southern travelers told of the faraway island of Spitos, but tall and austere, with pines and oaks reaching toward the sky. He is awed by it all the same. Before he rode north, he had not seen this many trees in his life, not to mention this many trees in one place.
The trees give way, and up ahead he can see a small pond. Instinctively, he rushes a small prayer to his goddess, as his culture, long before they revered her, had taught to give thanks for any glimpse of fresh water in their seas of sand. The moonlight glints off the surface of the pond, and reflects back onto him. He can make out the magenta cloth over his leather armor yet again. He notices it, and he feels odd. Wrong. These are not the colors of his clan. But he wears them all the same, because duty is always more important than pride. There was no argument.
He nudges his mare up to the water to drink, and dismounts himself. A sharp pang of pain rises from his shoulder, and he can feel that although the wound has finally congealed, he is not yet healed. He fills his skin with the clear water from the pond, and quenches a long thirst. Now as he begins to redo his bandages, he takes the time to remember.
“A rider of the desert is worth ten of any other men.”
It was a mirthful lie, but it was a lie all the same. A lie that the childish, prideful part of himself had entertained, had almost believed. The scout he had encountered was not ten men, and he was not even a great man. He was small and short and he had been caught by his arrow long before they had met out in the forest, yet he had still managed to raise a knife and cut deep into his skin before he was dead.
Yet if he lived, he appreciated the goddess for her gesture. The only light that blinds you with such arrogant pride is corrupt, a false agent of the darkness. He would not make the same mistake again.
Boom. Boom. BOOM.
Drums. He had heard them in the distance an hour before, but they were quiet and far apart, echoed by the forest more than anything else. Now they were close. The enemy, or…?
He nudges to his horse, indicating to her that it is time to depart. She neighs, reluctant. She is tired; they have ridden day and night, and this is her first rest. He mounts, and forces her forward. Soon you will rest, he tells her, and you will have made a sacrifice to our cause far greater than many men.
He sees fires in the distance. It is to the north, while the drums are to the west. Two armies, he realizes, converging in the darkness. They are so close. They are about to make a terrible mistake. He thinks about how far north he must have ridden, for him to be this close to the main camp of his mark. He steels himself, cracks his whip, and urges his mare into one last gallop. He has arrived.
Now he sees the sentry at the edge of the camp. “Who are you?” the cry comes. He knows precious few words of the strange northern tongue, but these words he understands.
He shouts back in reply, and he shouts back his practiced lie. The sentry lowers his bow and allows him to approach, and he is relieved. There was no strange trick; there were not two armies of the same banner with drums to the west and fires here.
He approaches the man and dismounts from the horse.
“What have you come here to tell us?”
He gasps, the shoulder is in pain yet again. Then he unfurls a circle of cloth from his pack, dyed a brilliant red. He motions over it, tracing his fingers a crescent moon facing toward the earth, and a jagged mountain reaching toward the sky to meet it. The sentry nods. He knows who has come.
“Go tell your commander… that this is folly he has committed here. The flamebearer comes, yes, but he is still half a day out. Tell him that he must not allow his pride to make the same mistake he did years before.”
“But you say that he has come. That we are saved.”
“Can you feel the light radiating against the darkness?”
The man paused. For a moment, he was uncertain. The rider looked at his eyes, questioning.
“Yes.” Their eyes met. “I understand.”
The trees give way, and up ahead he can see a small pond. Instinctively, he rushes a small prayer to his goddess, as his culture, long before they revered her, had taught to give thanks for any glimpse of fresh water in their seas of sand. The moonlight glints off the surface of the pond, and reflects back onto him. He can make out the magenta cloth over his leather armor yet again. He notices it, and he feels odd. Wrong. These are not the colors of his clan. But he wears them all the same, because duty is always more important than pride. There was no argument.
He nudges his mare up to the water to drink, and dismounts himself. A sharp pang of pain rises from his shoulder, and he can feel that although the wound has finally congealed, he is not yet healed. He fills his skin with the clear water from the pond, and quenches a long thirst. Now as he begins to redo his bandages, he takes the time to remember.
“A rider of the desert is worth ten of any other men.”
It was a mirthful lie, but it was a lie all the same. A lie that the childish, prideful part of himself had entertained, had almost believed. The scout he had encountered was not ten men, and he was not even a great man. He was small and short and he had been caught by his arrow long before they had met out in the forest, yet he had still managed to raise a knife and cut deep into his skin before he was dead.
Yet if he lived, he appreciated the goddess for her gesture. The only light that blinds you with such arrogant pride is corrupt, a false agent of the darkness. He would not make the same mistake again.
Boom. Boom. BOOM.
Drums. He had heard them in the distance an hour before, but they were quiet and far apart, echoed by the forest more than anything else. Now they were close. The enemy, or…?
He nudges to his horse, indicating to her that it is time to depart. She neighs, reluctant. She is tired; they have ridden day and night, and this is her first rest. He mounts, and forces her forward. Soon you will rest, he tells her, and you will have made a sacrifice to our cause far greater than many men.
He sees fires in the distance. It is to the north, while the drums are to the west. Two armies, he realizes, converging in the darkness. They are so close. They are about to make a terrible mistake. He thinks about how far north he must have ridden, for him to be this close to the main camp of his mark. He steels himself, cracks his whip, and urges his mare into one last gallop. He has arrived.
Now he sees the sentry at the edge of the camp. “Who are you?” the cry comes. He knows precious few words of the strange northern tongue, but these words he understands.
He shouts back in reply, and he shouts back his practiced lie. The sentry lowers his bow and allows him to approach, and he is relieved. There was no strange trick; there were not two armies of the same banner with drums to the west and fires here.
He approaches the man and dismounts from the horse.
“What have you come here to tell us?”
He gasps, the shoulder is in pain yet again. Then he unfurls a circle of cloth from his pack, dyed a brilliant red. He motions over it, tracing his fingers a crescent moon facing toward the earth, and a jagged mountain reaching toward the sky to meet it. The sentry nods. He knows who has come.
“Go tell your commander… that this is folly he has committed here. The flamebearer comes, yes, but he is still half a day out. Tell him that he must not allow his pride to make the same mistake he did years before.”
“But you say that he has come. That we are saved.”
“Can you feel the light radiating against the darkness?”
The man paused. For a moment, he was uncertain. The rider looked at his eyes, questioning.
“Yes.” Their eyes met. “I understand.”
Terrance888
Discord Reigns
Matt0088, why are you such a Thoughtful Idiot?
I will miss you.
I will miss you.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
I'll be taking a break from playing Leun and participating in this NES for awhile.
You've been doing a great job, though.
Btw, good story kraz.
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
Exatai of the North Part 4
In The Shadow of Bone Part 1
He pulled away from her, leaving the goose feather mattress for the cold stone beneath his feet. The sun rose to meet the horizon through his seaward balcony. A faint orange glow met his nude body as he gazed across the sea, down at the harbor where all those years ago the Redeemer had sent his gifts. There were dozens of ships on that day, the most he’d ever seen, until now. But his father had a taste for war, and the shores of the Lawgiver provided ample bounty for his indulgences. While he played the prince in the palace, his father had built forty warships and ordered forty more.
“Early to rise, my prince?” she asked, stirring in the furs and linens that lined his bed.
“Can’t sleep,” Unger replied. He walked out onto the balcony to rest his arms on the balustrade. The sea sat two hundred feet below, rolling in the darkness that the sun had yet to vanquish.
“Today is a big day, my prince. It is normal to be anxious.”
“A prince does not become anxious,” he grumbled. “A prince becomes embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?” she asked.
“My father returns from the sea for the first time in two winters and you ask why I am embarrassed? Do you think the great Prince of Bone will be pleased to see his heir has nothing to show for himself but a damned daughter? Glynt has two sons. My baby brother, scarcely a man, has two sons, bastards by whores but sons all the same.”
“Should a princess of Nech live her life in competition with Cyvekt whores?” she asked, audacious. She left the comfort of the bed now, cooed at the breeze on her bare skin and walked to her husband. She placed her arms around him on the balcony.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Would the Prince of Bone be more embarrassed of a granddaughter or his son’s apology to a woman?”
“He might have bought you, but you’re mine. I’ll do with you however I please,” he said, smiling.
“Don’t allow his intimidation to break you, my prince. Beneath it all he is still your father.”
He smirked, “I knew my father when I was a boy. He was never a kind man, but nor was he cruel. He loves us, I know as much. But that day when the horse lords came to the north, he changed. He left with the banner of the bee, he returned with the banner of bone.”
They looked down at the ships in harbor. The finest warships ever built by Cyvekt hands. Twice as large as the long ships his father raided the Lawgiver with, and nearly thrice the size his ancestors used to subdue the Frelesti. Men worked the docks, and fishwives were going about their duties: unrolling nets, filling barrels with fresh sea water and washing down their tables. The capital was waking.
“Ships and men, Tisza,” he said, “that is all I need. If my father gave me the men my great-grandfather had I could prove my worth to him. I’d conquer Gallasa, or the Tarena, maybe even sail to the tropics and bring back ships of spice. I am my father’s son.”
She nuzzled under his arm, “I will give you a son. You will give him an empire.”
The pitter-patter of foot prints echoed off the stone in the hall beyond his bedchamber. His wooden door creaked open, and a tiny face peered through into the dim room. Unger and his wife faced the child, their daughter, and smiled. Shortly behind her came heavier prints and the cursing voice of Unger’s aunt, Wylgret. She had lived at the Palace on the Rock for as long as Fulwarc, and now spent her days with her great-niece. The middle-aged woman entered the room, pleading forgiveness.
“We were awake,” called Tisza.
“I apologize, my prince, but the child wakes early and listens for your voices. I tell her not to intrude.”
“A princess of Cyve may intrude on her prince, as you know Wylgret,” said Unger. He walked past his daughter, who jumped into his wife’s arms, and messed her long blonde hair. He pulled on linen breeches from the bedside, but left his muscular chest uncovered. “Is my father awake?”
“He had a long night, my prince,” Wylgret said. She did not say, but her facial expression said it all. The Prince of Bone had two meanings in Cyve, and the less violent one was the case this morning.
“As always,” he said. “We’ll keep Aelona. You may rest, but first tell the kitchens I wish to break fast with pork.”
She nodded as she left. Unger loved his aunt. She was family, but more a servant in her own home when all was said and done.
“Ships,” said Aelona in the Satar tongue.
He cringed, “What of them?” he asked in Cyvekt.
“Can we see them this morning, too?” she replied in Cyvekt, remembering her father’s disdain for the horse language. A smarter princess of four winters there had never been.
“You will see them when I see them, when the King is masked this evening.”
Aelona turned her head into her mother’s bare breast to hide her frown.
“We can sail the harbor when all is over if you’d like,” he said to her.
She smiled and cheered. Tisza placed her on the bed and dressed herself in turn. Unger left the room without another word. He had a morning of errands before basking in his father’s concentrated glory. It would be a long day.
In The Shadow of Bone Part 1
He pulled away from her, leaving the goose feather mattress for the cold stone beneath his feet. The sun rose to meet the horizon through his seaward balcony. A faint orange glow met his nude body as he gazed across the sea, down at the harbor where all those years ago the Redeemer had sent his gifts. There were dozens of ships on that day, the most he’d ever seen, until now. But his father had a taste for war, and the shores of the Lawgiver provided ample bounty for his indulgences. While he played the prince in the palace, his father had built forty warships and ordered forty more.
“Early to rise, my prince?” she asked, stirring in the furs and linens that lined his bed.
“Can’t sleep,” Unger replied. He walked out onto the balcony to rest his arms on the balustrade. The sea sat two hundred feet below, rolling in the darkness that the sun had yet to vanquish.
“Today is a big day, my prince. It is normal to be anxious.”
“A prince does not become anxious,” he grumbled. “A prince becomes embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?” she asked.
“My father returns from the sea for the first time in two winters and you ask why I am embarrassed? Do you think the great Prince of Bone will be pleased to see his heir has nothing to show for himself but a damned daughter? Glynt has two sons. My baby brother, scarcely a man, has two sons, bastards by whores but sons all the same.”
“Should a princess of Nech live her life in competition with Cyvekt whores?” she asked, audacious. She left the comfort of the bed now, cooed at the breeze on her bare skin and walked to her husband. She placed her arms around him on the balcony.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Would the Prince of Bone be more embarrassed of a granddaughter or his son’s apology to a woman?”
“He might have bought you, but you’re mine. I’ll do with you however I please,” he said, smiling.
“Don’t allow his intimidation to break you, my prince. Beneath it all he is still your father.”
He smirked, “I knew my father when I was a boy. He was never a kind man, but nor was he cruel. He loves us, I know as much. But that day when the horse lords came to the north, he changed. He left with the banner of the bee, he returned with the banner of bone.”
They looked down at the ships in harbor. The finest warships ever built by Cyvekt hands. Twice as large as the long ships his father raided the Lawgiver with, and nearly thrice the size his ancestors used to subdue the Frelesti. Men worked the docks, and fishwives were going about their duties: unrolling nets, filling barrels with fresh sea water and washing down their tables. The capital was waking.
“Ships and men, Tisza,” he said, “that is all I need. If my father gave me the men my great-grandfather had I could prove my worth to him. I’d conquer Gallasa, or the Tarena, maybe even sail to the tropics and bring back ships of spice. I am my father’s son.”
She nuzzled under his arm, “I will give you a son. You will give him an empire.”
The pitter-patter of foot prints echoed off the stone in the hall beyond his bedchamber. His wooden door creaked open, and a tiny face peered through into the dim room. Unger and his wife faced the child, their daughter, and smiled. Shortly behind her came heavier prints and the cursing voice of Unger’s aunt, Wylgret. She had lived at the Palace on the Rock for as long as Fulwarc, and now spent her days with her great-niece. The middle-aged woman entered the room, pleading forgiveness.
“We were awake,” called Tisza.
“I apologize, my prince, but the child wakes early and listens for your voices. I tell her not to intrude.”
“A princess of Cyve may intrude on her prince, as you know Wylgret,” said Unger. He walked past his daughter, who jumped into his wife’s arms, and messed her long blonde hair. He pulled on linen breeches from the bedside, but left his muscular chest uncovered. “Is my father awake?”
“He had a long night, my prince,” Wylgret said. She did not say, but her facial expression said it all. The Prince of Bone had two meanings in Cyve, and the less violent one was the case this morning.
“As always,” he said. “We’ll keep Aelona. You may rest, but first tell the kitchens I wish to break fast with pork.”
She nodded as she left. Unger loved his aunt. She was family, but more a servant in her own home when all was said and done.
“Ships,” said Aelona in the Satar tongue.
He cringed, “What of them?” he asked in Cyvekt.
“Can we see them this morning, too?” she replied in Cyvekt, remembering her father’s disdain for the horse language. A smarter princess of four winters there had never been.
“You will see them when I see them, when the King is masked this evening.”
Aelona turned her head into her mother’s bare breast to hide her frown.
“We can sail the harbor when all is over if you’d like,” he said to her.
She smiled and cheered. Tisza placed her on the bed and dressed herself in turn. Unger left the room without another word. He had a morning of errands before basking in his father’s concentrated glory. It would be a long day.
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
Exatai of the North Part 5
In the Shadow of Bone Part 2
Unger broke fast with pork, as he wanted. The dining hall at the Palace on the Rock was the largest in Cyve, though rumors of merchant homes on the Evyni coast came close. Two hundred men and women could fit into the hall, but on the typical morning there would just be members of the extended royal family and guards. The Cyvekt house had grown large under the reign of Glynt III the Marvelous, and now the Palace on the Rock was home to over fifty members of the house. Cousins, aunts, great uncles and all in between filled the lower residences, while the upper towers played host to the main family.
Unger’s younger brother, Glynt, was like his father. His perversions were never hidden to the public. Even this morning he had one of his common whores seated three down from Aelona. Disgraceful.
The tables were filled with exotic dishes, a new custom on the Rock, brought from the Satar lands, Gallasa and elsewhere. Spices coated the slices of ham that he had never tasted. It seemed that every day his meals were sprinkled with a new flavor from across the world. Unger preferred the simple seasoning of his homeland, honey, which he drizzled on everything on his plate.
He finished eating as the sun hovered above the horizon. Light filled the open shutters of the dining hall and a fresh breeze of sea air rushed in. He still wore only his linen breeches, as most men in the north do in their homes. An old belief lingered in Ederrot that the bare skin bathing in sun and air was the greatest medicine.
He stood, “I must see Lord Hynasf,” he said to his wife. Her slight nod set him on his way.
He left the dining hall, climbed a number of pale stone steps to the base of another tower and climbed those steps higher and higher. He reached the residence of the long trusted advisor of his father, knocked on the door and entered.
Inside he found the now fifty-eight Hynasf seated in a silk covered wooden bench, leaning in the early morning sunlight with a leather bound book in his hand. The man was still fat, having never slowed his hedonistic appetite for luxurious foods. He had lost some of his fire with age, however.
“My prince,” he said, but he did not move from his reading. He licked his fingers and flipped a page. “I am refreshing my knowledge on masking ceremony. Is that why you’re here?”
“No,” Unger replied.
“Oh.”
“I’ve come for your wisdom,” he said. He took a seat in a nearby cushioned chair. He leaned back in the chair, balancing with his feet on the stone floor.
The room around him had shelves of books and containers, the occasional bottle of unknown substance and a potted fruit trees in the corner that came from the land of the Moti, or so Hynasf liked to claim.
“My wisdom is mine, you cannot take it, but my advice is yours if you’ll accept the substitute,” he said, snorting like a pig.
“I need to petition my father for ships and men. He’ll never respect me until I’ve gone on a campaign like he has, and his father and his father before him,” said Unger.
“Well then, petition away my prince. It is not in my ability to petition your father for you.”
“I will ask my father, but I need-“
“You need a plan ahead of time? Yes, that would be most wise of you, my prince.”
“I can beg for ships, but if I tell him I wish to conquer a land I know nothing of he will reject me,” he said with frustration on his tongue. “The Satar have corrupted him. His father sent him on raids as a boy younger than Glynt, but now this Ardavan religion makes him forget his heritage.”
“He has not forgotten his heritage. He is a capable warrior, but you are but a prince with no heir. Will he send you to war without a son? Would you send your heir the same?”
“Yes, if my heir asked to prove himself I would grant him his leave, with as many ships and men as he needed.” Unger sat his chair back to the floor and leaned forward. “Where should I go?”
“Frelesti, maybe?”
“Conquer more of the same? I will not be degraded.”
“Farubaida o Caroha?” Hynasf asked in a foreign tongue.
“What?”
“The Kargan hold islands in the north, converted them, too. Aitahist heresy at your doorstep. King Fulwarc has long neglected those islands; they may as well be forgotten by him. But a young prince of the Cyvekt taking those islands back for the true faith… that is a tale worth telling.”
They talked an hour more until Unger knew the layout of the islands by heart. Hynasf told him of the ancient castles, not more than low stone towers on mottes that dotted the islands from kings of old. He learned of the channels, the shallows and beaches. Everything a raiding prince would need to know.
He left the tower then, descended the steps and returned to the dining hall. It had cleared out save for a few servants, slaves and Glynt with his whore. Her head bobbed back and forth as she knelt before him against a corner wall at the stair. Unger’s approach did not dissuade her from her duty to her prince. Unger tried to ignore it as he passed.
“What did old Hynasf have to offer you? A Satar b*tch like father,” Glynt asked with an arrogance in his tone. His whore continued her task, slopping about like a wolf on carrion.
Unger stopped next to his brother with closed eyes. He thought for a moment, and then reached out with his right hand to grasp the whore’s blonde hair. With a powerful pull he ripped her from Glynt like a child from a nipple. She floundered about on the stone floor of the dining hall, screaming in agony with her hands atop her head.
Unger looked into his hand where clumps of red-stained golden hair stuck to his flesh. Glynt pulled himself from the wall, drew up his breeches and stepped out as his brother.
“How dare you,” he yelled in horse tongue.
A quick back hand forced him back on the wall.
“You will speak the language of your namesake in my presence,” Unger replied, calm and low. “What if Aelona had seen your lewdness?”
“Let it be a lesson to her for when you sell her off to some barbarian lord in the north,” Glynt said. He spit at his brother’s bare feet. “Father will hear of this insult.”
Unger stepped towards the pouting whore. She placed her heads on her head, looked at the blood on them, and felt the bald spot. She let out a wail like a seal being clubbed for felts. Unger reached for her arm and lifted her in one motion to his shoulder. She dared not fight back against a prince, so she cried and fell limp.
“What are you doing?” Glynt asked in Cyvekt.
“So you can speak,” Unger called over his shoulder as he walked towards the stair that went toward his chamber. “Is this one that gave you bastards?”
“No,” Glynt replied. “Why does it matter? She’s mine. Let her go.”
Unger reached the top of the stairs with his brother following behind him. He entered into his room where his daughter and wife were getting prepared for the ceremony in the evening. The whore wailed louder.
“Aelona,” he said. “My brother disrespects you.”
Aelona, half naked, with part of a silken gown on lower body and her mother braiding her long hair, looked up and frowned at her uncle as her father walked by. Unger went to the balcony. Glynt played the liar with Aelona and Tisza, calling it a game they were playing.
“Can she swim?” Unger asked Glynt as he stood on the balcony.
“What do you-“
He threw her from that balcony, two hundred feet to the rocks and waves below. Glynt screamed, and so too did Tisza, but Unger and Aelona remained quiet.
“Apologize to your princess, brother.”
And he did.
“Is that exatas?” Unger asked him in the horse tongue.
Aelona beckoned her mother to continue braiding.
In the Shadow of Bone Part 2
Unger broke fast with pork, as he wanted. The dining hall at the Palace on the Rock was the largest in Cyve, though rumors of merchant homes on the Evyni coast came close. Two hundred men and women could fit into the hall, but on the typical morning there would just be members of the extended royal family and guards. The Cyvekt house had grown large under the reign of Glynt III the Marvelous, and now the Palace on the Rock was home to over fifty members of the house. Cousins, aunts, great uncles and all in between filled the lower residences, while the upper towers played host to the main family.
Unger’s younger brother, Glynt, was like his father. His perversions were never hidden to the public. Even this morning he had one of his common whores seated three down from Aelona. Disgraceful.
The tables were filled with exotic dishes, a new custom on the Rock, brought from the Satar lands, Gallasa and elsewhere. Spices coated the slices of ham that he had never tasted. It seemed that every day his meals were sprinkled with a new flavor from across the world. Unger preferred the simple seasoning of his homeland, honey, which he drizzled on everything on his plate.
He finished eating as the sun hovered above the horizon. Light filled the open shutters of the dining hall and a fresh breeze of sea air rushed in. He still wore only his linen breeches, as most men in the north do in their homes. An old belief lingered in Ederrot that the bare skin bathing in sun and air was the greatest medicine.
He stood, “I must see Lord Hynasf,” he said to his wife. Her slight nod set him on his way.
He left the dining hall, climbed a number of pale stone steps to the base of another tower and climbed those steps higher and higher. He reached the residence of the long trusted advisor of his father, knocked on the door and entered.
Inside he found the now fifty-eight Hynasf seated in a silk covered wooden bench, leaning in the early morning sunlight with a leather bound book in his hand. The man was still fat, having never slowed his hedonistic appetite for luxurious foods. He had lost some of his fire with age, however.
“My prince,” he said, but he did not move from his reading. He licked his fingers and flipped a page. “I am refreshing my knowledge on masking ceremony. Is that why you’re here?”
“No,” Unger replied.
“Oh.”
“I’ve come for your wisdom,” he said. He took a seat in a nearby cushioned chair. He leaned back in the chair, balancing with his feet on the stone floor.
The room around him had shelves of books and containers, the occasional bottle of unknown substance and a potted fruit trees in the corner that came from the land of the Moti, or so Hynasf liked to claim.
“My wisdom is mine, you cannot take it, but my advice is yours if you’ll accept the substitute,” he said, snorting like a pig.
“I need to petition my father for ships and men. He’ll never respect me until I’ve gone on a campaign like he has, and his father and his father before him,” said Unger.
“Well then, petition away my prince. It is not in my ability to petition your father for you.”
“I will ask my father, but I need-“
“You need a plan ahead of time? Yes, that would be most wise of you, my prince.”
“I can beg for ships, but if I tell him I wish to conquer a land I know nothing of he will reject me,” he said with frustration on his tongue. “The Satar have corrupted him. His father sent him on raids as a boy younger than Glynt, but now this Ardavan religion makes him forget his heritage.”
“He has not forgotten his heritage. He is a capable warrior, but you are but a prince with no heir. Will he send you to war without a son? Would you send your heir the same?”
“Yes, if my heir asked to prove himself I would grant him his leave, with as many ships and men as he needed.” Unger sat his chair back to the floor and leaned forward. “Where should I go?”
“Frelesti, maybe?”
“Conquer more of the same? I will not be degraded.”
“Farubaida o Caroha?” Hynasf asked in a foreign tongue.
“What?”
“The Kargan hold islands in the north, converted them, too. Aitahist heresy at your doorstep. King Fulwarc has long neglected those islands; they may as well be forgotten by him. But a young prince of the Cyvekt taking those islands back for the true faith… that is a tale worth telling.”
They talked an hour more until Unger knew the layout of the islands by heart. Hynasf told him of the ancient castles, not more than low stone towers on mottes that dotted the islands from kings of old. He learned of the channels, the shallows and beaches. Everything a raiding prince would need to know.
He left the tower then, descended the steps and returned to the dining hall. It had cleared out save for a few servants, slaves and Glynt with his whore. Her head bobbed back and forth as she knelt before him against a corner wall at the stair. Unger’s approach did not dissuade her from her duty to her prince. Unger tried to ignore it as he passed.
“What did old Hynasf have to offer you? A Satar b*tch like father,” Glynt asked with an arrogance in his tone. His whore continued her task, slopping about like a wolf on carrion.
Unger stopped next to his brother with closed eyes. He thought for a moment, and then reached out with his right hand to grasp the whore’s blonde hair. With a powerful pull he ripped her from Glynt like a child from a nipple. She floundered about on the stone floor of the dining hall, screaming in agony with her hands atop her head.
Unger looked into his hand where clumps of red-stained golden hair stuck to his flesh. Glynt pulled himself from the wall, drew up his breeches and stepped out as his brother.
“How dare you,” he yelled in horse tongue.
A quick back hand forced him back on the wall.
“You will speak the language of your namesake in my presence,” Unger replied, calm and low. “What if Aelona had seen your lewdness?”
“Let it be a lesson to her for when you sell her off to some barbarian lord in the north,” Glynt said. He spit at his brother’s bare feet. “Father will hear of this insult.”
Unger stepped towards the pouting whore. She placed her heads on her head, looked at the blood on them, and felt the bald spot. She let out a wail like a seal being clubbed for felts. Unger reached for her arm and lifted her in one motion to his shoulder. She dared not fight back against a prince, so she cried and fell limp.
“What are you doing?” Glynt asked in Cyvekt.
“So you can speak,” Unger called over his shoulder as he walked towards the stair that went toward his chamber. “Is this one that gave you bastards?”
“No,” Glynt replied. “Why does it matter? She’s mine. Let her go.”
Unger reached the top of the stairs with his brother following behind him. He entered into his room where his daughter and wife were getting prepared for the ceremony in the evening. The whore wailed louder.
“Aelona,” he said. “My brother disrespects you.”
Aelona, half naked, with part of a silken gown on lower body and her mother braiding her long hair, looked up and frowned at her uncle as her father walked by. Unger went to the balcony. Glynt played the liar with Aelona and Tisza, calling it a game they were playing.
“Can she swim?” Unger asked Glynt as he stood on the balcony.
“What do you-“
He threw her from that balcony, two hundred feet to the rocks and waves below. Glynt screamed, and so too did Tisza, but Unger and Aelona remained quiet.
“Apologize to your princess, brother.”
And he did.
“Is that exatas?” Unger asked him in the horse tongue.
Aelona beckoned her mother to continue braiding.
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
Exatai of the North Part 6
In The Shadow of Bone Part 3
Glynt rushed to tell their father, but no summons came for Unger. The old man had a laugh out of it, he thought.
Hours passed and he prepared, as his daughter and wife did, with the fine silks and furs that were signs of his wealth. Aelona looked beautiful in her deep-blue silk gown, hair braided behind her head in a single weave with silk ribbons and a golden bee brooch above her breast. Tisza wore a fur-laden dress, the largest black bear in the kingdom made the sacrifice for that attire.
From another balcony he could see the fields outside the palace where he had watched Artaxeras fight for the first time twelve years ago. Hundreds had gathered mostly the family, advisors and lower nobility with a large procession of Satar monks singing their prayers. Unger did not see his father from his vantage. He followed his bridge and daughter down the long stairs, through many archways and finally into the gardens. Artaxeras now stood in the same spot he wrestled his brother as a child in the view of the Satar. The horse lord was scarred from war, his crimson mask worn by the salty winds of the northern seas. Unger could not tell if the man was older, but his body was as strong and nimble as ever.
He bowed, “My prince.”
“Your Cyvekt grows better by the year Artaxeras,” Tisza said. She and Aelona returned the courtesy.
“The voice of my prince is my voice,” he said, imperfect.
Unger nudged his family forward, but he remained with Artaxeras. The two stood in silence for a few moments, observing the proceedings in the field below. The bone banner of his father now waved side by side with that of the bee.
“How faired the campaigns in Evyni last summer?” Unger asked, but did not truly care.
“The Redeemer has passed, but a Redeemer is born. The Lawgiver failed in his charge and met the blades of a hundred thousand Satar,” said Artaxeras with a grin. “Your father met what little the Lawgiver put against us and crushed them in his palm. The Prince of Bone is undefeatable.”
“Prince of Bone,” Unger mocked. “The Redeemer sent my father home with riches and ships, but my father demanded the bones of the Lawgiver Isathmæyr.”
“What remain of defeated men are spoils for the victor. The Prince of Bones knows this. We know this.”
“Did my father kill anyone, on the field?”
“I counted sixteen. He counted seventeen. I took twenty-three, but he says I took twenty-two. What is done is done, numbers do not matter. Exatas. Cyvekt are strong warriors, proud, but vicious. A man buried his own arm on a beach. Strong men.”
Unger waited to speak. He pictured the battles his father must have fought in.
“How will this go? The masking?”
“No prince has taken a mask this far north. Gods could come down in the lightning to witness this moment. The world could shatter under our feet.”
“That sounds promising,” said Unger.
The horn signaled the Prince of Bone’s arrival on the field. Artaxeras left without another word to Unger, to take his place amongst the favorites. He watched him leave, thinking of the first day he had seen the crimson-masked Satar, when his father kicked the messenger down the ascent of his throne. That man was no more.
He took his time in getting to his place beside his family. Glynt did not look up at him when he arrived. Aelona looked cheerful, but she remained silent and attentive. Her tiny gown caught the wind, forcing her to hold it steady around her stubby legs. There were eyes on him, no doubt in reaction to this morning’s incident.
The horn sounded again, twice, and the Prince of Bone entered the field on a pale horse. He rode between the crowds towards a platform of marble underneath a tall oak. There he dismounted in the presence of his personal guard – Artaxeras and Hygral, a Cyvekt man of some renown - and Ardavani monks in their traditional garments. In the middle of them all stood a Satar woman, an oracle of their religion. Her mask was two-toned, black and white. The color of his father’s beard and mount - the day and the night. Behind her on a small column sat a covered item that Unger knew to be the mask. He had not seen it, but he knew that the Lawgiver had come to Cyve.
Fulwarc slapped his horse’s hind to send it away. He turned, slowly, to see his subjects, his men, his family, his Exatai. He did not speak. When his eyes met the oracle the second time his hand reached to his chest, with one swift pull his cloak fell behind him leaving him bare. His skin had fair complexion. His chest bulked by years of warfare. A deep scar cut through the salt and pepper hair that covered his upper chest, leaving a valley in the forest. It wrapped from his right breast to his left shoulder. Unger lost his breath at the sight.
The oracle shifted where she stood. Beneath her light clothing Unger could make out a fit figure, with healthy curves. These Satar women, he thought, what do they eat? She drew a small blade, gilded in gold and dipped in silver. It shimmered in the early evening light. The crowd gasped, unaware of the ritual, but Fulwarc puffed out his chest, tilting his head upwards. His beard held in position, like a blade itself, unwilling to move with the wind. Unger looked down at his daughter, her own chest inflated by a held breath. She imitated her grandfather.
The oracle glided forward, slashing at Fulwarc’s chest over and over and over. He grimaced, but gritted his teeth. Thin red streams poured down his chest from the cuts. She stopped. Fulwarc stepped forward one step, the oracle retreated one in kind and took a knee. She palmed the blade, raising it to him in tribute with her head down in respect.
The monks uncovered the mask of bone and the crown of fingers. The Lawgiver could never lay in peace now. Fulwarc stepped forward once more to the base of the marble platform. The oracle walked by his side and back in front of him. Artaxeras and Hygral, his two most trusted guards, stepped forward to join her. They had rehearsed this, he thought. A monk grabbed the mask, cupping it carefully in his hands to present it to the oracle. The mask was a modified portion of the Lawgiver’s own skull, the eye and nose sockets spread by iron bands to perfectly fit the face of Fulwarc.
The oracle handed her blade first to Artaxeras, who slit his palm with it, and then to Hygral and back to herself. They clenched their fists to draw more blood. The monks took her blade, and with her free hand she held the mask before Fulwarc and the crowd. In unison the three of them submitted their blood to the mask, staining the sun whitened bone with crimson. She then placed it upon his Fulwarc’s face, tying the leather straps behind his head.
The Prince of Bone turned to the onlookers, the mask running with fresh blood. He looked like a skeleton himself, Unger thought; a dead king. His chest smeared with his own blood like a sheet of red.
“The Redeemer Jahan offered justice.” He wiped his hand on his chest, gathering blood in his palm. “Now the Lawgiver is no more. The people of the north are free from his yoke. In the name of the true faith and the gods of the Satar, this day I swear on behalf of my sons and their sons and their sons until the end of the world.” He smeared his own blood onto the mask with the others. “The Kings of Cyve and Princes of Bones will be just and true Lawgivers to the north. On the grave of my father, on my own life and in the presence of my blood I swear it. Everything the sea touches will be ours.”
“Everything,” Aelona whispered to her father.
Everything.
In The Shadow of Bone Part 3
Glynt rushed to tell their father, but no summons came for Unger. The old man had a laugh out of it, he thought.
Hours passed and he prepared, as his daughter and wife did, with the fine silks and furs that were signs of his wealth. Aelona looked beautiful in her deep-blue silk gown, hair braided behind her head in a single weave with silk ribbons and a golden bee brooch above her breast. Tisza wore a fur-laden dress, the largest black bear in the kingdom made the sacrifice for that attire.
From another balcony he could see the fields outside the palace where he had watched Artaxeras fight for the first time twelve years ago. Hundreds had gathered mostly the family, advisors and lower nobility with a large procession of Satar monks singing their prayers. Unger did not see his father from his vantage. He followed his bridge and daughter down the long stairs, through many archways and finally into the gardens. Artaxeras now stood in the same spot he wrestled his brother as a child in the view of the Satar. The horse lord was scarred from war, his crimson mask worn by the salty winds of the northern seas. Unger could not tell if the man was older, but his body was as strong and nimble as ever.
He bowed, “My prince.”
“Your Cyvekt grows better by the year Artaxeras,” Tisza said. She and Aelona returned the courtesy.
“The voice of my prince is my voice,” he said, imperfect.
Unger nudged his family forward, but he remained with Artaxeras. The two stood in silence for a few moments, observing the proceedings in the field below. The bone banner of his father now waved side by side with that of the bee.
“How faired the campaigns in Evyni last summer?” Unger asked, but did not truly care.
“The Redeemer has passed, but a Redeemer is born. The Lawgiver failed in his charge and met the blades of a hundred thousand Satar,” said Artaxeras with a grin. “Your father met what little the Lawgiver put against us and crushed them in his palm. The Prince of Bone is undefeatable.”
“Prince of Bone,” Unger mocked. “The Redeemer sent my father home with riches and ships, but my father demanded the bones of the Lawgiver Isathmæyr.”
“What remain of defeated men are spoils for the victor. The Prince of Bones knows this. We know this.”
“Did my father kill anyone, on the field?”
“I counted sixteen. He counted seventeen. I took twenty-three, but he says I took twenty-two. What is done is done, numbers do not matter. Exatas. Cyvekt are strong warriors, proud, but vicious. A man buried his own arm on a beach. Strong men.”
Unger waited to speak. He pictured the battles his father must have fought in.
“How will this go? The masking?”
“No prince has taken a mask this far north. Gods could come down in the lightning to witness this moment. The world could shatter under our feet.”
“That sounds promising,” said Unger.
The horn signaled the Prince of Bone’s arrival on the field. Artaxeras left without another word to Unger, to take his place amongst the favorites. He watched him leave, thinking of the first day he had seen the crimson-masked Satar, when his father kicked the messenger down the ascent of his throne. That man was no more.
He took his time in getting to his place beside his family. Glynt did not look up at him when he arrived. Aelona looked cheerful, but she remained silent and attentive. Her tiny gown caught the wind, forcing her to hold it steady around her stubby legs. There were eyes on him, no doubt in reaction to this morning’s incident.
The horn sounded again, twice, and the Prince of Bone entered the field on a pale horse. He rode between the crowds towards a platform of marble underneath a tall oak. There he dismounted in the presence of his personal guard – Artaxeras and Hygral, a Cyvekt man of some renown - and Ardavani monks in their traditional garments. In the middle of them all stood a Satar woman, an oracle of their religion. Her mask was two-toned, black and white. The color of his father’s beard and mount - the day and the night. Behind her on a small column sat a covered item that Unger knew to be the mask. He had not seen it, but he knew that the Lawgiver had come to Cyve.
Fulwarc slapped his horse’s hind to send it away. He turned, slowly, to see his subjects, his men, his family, his Exatai. He did not speak. When his eyes met the oracle the second time his hand reached to his chest, with one swift pull his cloak fell behind him leaving him bare. His skin had fair complexion. His chest bulked by years of warfare. A deep scar cut through the salt and pepper hair that covered his upper chest, leaving a valley in the forest. It wrapped from his right breast to his left shoulder. Unger lost his breath at the sight.
The oracle shifted where she stood. Beneath her light clothing Unger could make out a fit figure, with healthy curves. These Satar women, he thought, what do they eat? She drew a small blade, gilded in gold and dipped in silver. It shimmered in the early evening light. The crowd gasped, unaware of the ritual, but Fulwarc puffed out his chest, tilting his head upwards. His beard held in position, like a blade itself, unwilling to move with the wind. Unger looked down at his daughter, her own chest inflated by a held breath. She imitated her grandfather.
The oracle glided forward, slashing at Fulwarc’s chest over and over and over. He grimaced, but gritted his teeth. Thin red streams poured down his chest from the cuts. She stopped. Fulwarc stepped forward one step, the oracle retreated one in kind and took a knee. She palmed the blade, raising it to him in tribute with her head down in respect.
The monks uncovered the mask of bone and the crown of fingers. The Lawgiver could never lay in peace now. Fulwarc stepped forward once more to the base of the marble platform. The oracle walked by his side and back in front of him. Artaxeras and Hygral, his two most trusted guards, stepped forward to join her. They had rehearsed this, he thought. A monk grabbed the mask, cupping it carefully in his hands to present it to the oracle. The mask was a modified portion of the Lawgiver’s own skull, the eye and nose sockets spread by iron bands to perfectly fit the face of Fulwarc.
The oracle handed her blade first to Artaxeras, who slit his palm with it, and then to Hygral and back to herself. They clenched their fists to draw more blood. The monks took her blade, and with her free hand she held the mask before Fulwarc and the crowd. In unison the three of them submitted their blood to the mask, staining the sun whitened bone with crimson. She then placed it upon his Fulwarc’s face, tying the leather straps behind his head.
The Prince of Bone turned to the onlookers, the mask running with fresh blood. He looked like a skeleton himself, Unger thought; a dead king. His chest smeared with his own blood like a sheet of red.
“The Redeemer Jahan offered justice.” He wiped his hand on his chest, gathering blood in his palm. “Now the Lawgiver is no more. The people of the north are free from his yoke. In the name of the true faith and the gods of the Satar, this day I swear on behalf of my sons and their sons and their sons until the end of the world.” He smeared his own blood onto the mask with the others. “The Kings of Cyve and Princes of Bones will be just and true Lawgivers to the north. On the grave of my father, on my own life and in the presence of my blood I swear it. Everything the sea touches will be ours.”
“Everything,” Aelona whispered to her father.
Everything.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
All of Luckymoose's Satar rites and rituals are board-certified.
Kraznaya
Princeps
His uncle had called him before, but never like this. The palace – no, fortress was a better word for it – atop the white rock had precious living space for his family, especially compared to its opulent cousin down in Hrn, so Uncle Qasra always sought him out before in person. But not today.
The messenger was a lean, pale youth, and he twitched anxiously as Khatai read the message. Khatai could see why – he had seen this boy before shuffle in and out of barracks, always hurriedly rushing from one place to the next, delivering orders that presumably had great importance in defending the realm. Khatai, however, was party to none of them, and he stared at the bright black ink that gleamed back at him. His uncle was notoriously sloppy in his calligraphy, and he had often heard the couriers bemoan how the lack of clarity of the commands they were sent to deliver made their jobs more than a two way trip. Which made this all the more strange. The writing was neat and measured, as if the man wielding the pen was writing the most important words of his life.
“Come see me at once.”
He ascended the white limestone steps to his uncle’s quarters.
Qasra, Breaker of Horses, was called by a name that belied his image. He had never been a large man, even in the flower of his youth. Now as old age crept upon him like it had his brother, the skin around his eyes had begun to wrinkle and crease, looking weathered and worn compared to his black robes of smooth silk. Yet Khatai could still feel the sheer presence of his uncle staring deep into his soul, his bright black eyes burning and more alive than his nephew had ever felt.
“Come. Sit.”
On other days, Khatai had felt a closeness to his uncle that he had never felt with his mother. He was the surrogate father to replace the one who had died when Khatai was so young, the one who had taught him how to ride and hunt and wield lance and bow. Qasra was stern and brusque to his men, never having the political charm of his brother, but he was warm-hearted to his kin. But not this day.
Khatai stepped forward and sat opposite Qasra on the soft round rug that occupied the center of the room.
“Do you know why you are here?” His uncle asked him.
“I have a guess,” Khatai replied, uneasy.
“Do not guess.. Know. I have made the necessary arrangements. You will begin your trial upon the next moonrise.”
Khatai did not respond immediately. The words washed over him, like news he had both dreaded and wanted for years. He shuddered involuntarily, convulsively.
“Uncle… I do not know if I am ready.” His heartbeat quickened, but he would not construct a lie of certainty through which his uncle could clearly see.
The Breaker of Horses sighed, and moved to the corner of the room to light his pipe. His face gave no trace of his expression, but Khatai could feel the tension escape his eyes. He returned to the carpet.
“It is true that you were given no warning. That is how the trial is meant to be. You were given no specific preparation, but all the lessons I have taught you, all that you have learned, is meant to be preparation for this. Now we will see if you have the will to put it to good use. You may not realize it yet, but you are ready.”
Khatai nodded, a quick tilt of his head that betrayed his lack of confidence in his uncle’s reassurance.
“It is also true that your trial will be more difficult than that of others. So I understand your trepidation. Gold and silver have brought us great wealth and influence, yes, but it has also weakened us where we were the most strong. Before the conquests, the worth of a man was measured purely by his will. Now, the clans of the powerful have become corrupted by their wealth. Their pride does not allow them to suffer failure, and so the trials they put on are farces that try no one but Her patience. They inform their sons months ahead of time when the trial will take place, and take him to territory so familiar he may as well be walking home from his ancestor’s graves. They sneak food into his pack and give him three skins of water. It is disgraceful.
“But you, you will bear none of their secret shame. You are the Scion of Gurach, and you will accomplish the trial as it has been done since it was the first of our traditions. In Nahar, they proclaimed you emperor the minute your father passed to join our ancestors. You had aged only four winters, and were only recently mewling at your wet-nurse’s teat. Here on the Face of the Moon, that is not our tradition. I command my brother’s armies in his name just as your mother rules in yours in the South, until you have passed your trial. Only then will you wear our crown. And that is justly so – for there is no one who must understand what it means to be alone as the Emperor. He stands above all other men, even his own kin, for the minute he forgets this, men will forget that he is their lord and think of him as their equal. You are not. Think on this, Khatai, and think carefully. You must understand this.”
The young monarch closed his eyes to think, and a memory rushed to him to help him comprehend.
* * *
He remembers images of ten years ago, where he was even smaller than he felt now, a little boy playing in the gardens at the Palace of Hrn with his little sister Kintyra. As he skips through the flowers, he can spy his mother talking with Auntie, his beloved wet-nurse. His mother gives an order, and here Auntie comes, carrying him back to his mother. He is annoyed, he wants to go back to his fields, to Kintyra, to continue playing, and screams his disapproval. Auntie is pleading with his mother, trying to absolve him from some crime. But his mother is relentless, and she says, “He is ready. Give him to the servants in the palace to tidy up and dress. And leave once you’ve done that; he won’t have your shoulder to tug on when he sits in court.”
Auntie takes him away, and at first he does not fully comprehend what is going on. Auntie is safe, he thinks, she would take him away from his mother so he could play somewhere else out of her sight. But when she leaves him with the servants in the strange and gilded dressing room, he is inconsolable and scared; he kicks and screams for her, biting one poor man’s arms. His tears might have ruined his gown, had his mother not come in and dismissed all the servants with one flourish of her hand. She slaps him hard across the cheek, and suppressing an urge to cry louder, he sniffles and falls into silence.
“You are my little son no longer, Khatai. Today you will present yourself to the court, not as my son but their emperor. You must not shame me, or your father like this. You will not cry on the Dual Throne. You will sit still, as solemn as the oldest man in the court. Are we clear?” She puts a strong hand and grips him on his shoulders.
He blinks back the water in his eyes and nods.
He is mute when the servants come back to clean and dress him for court. When he enters the throne room, men bow and fall into a hushed silence as he tries his best to maintain dignified steps. He ascends the steps around his mother’s chair, higher and higher above the court. The dual throne, half black and half white, looks out onto court from a story above, like a cloud in the sky. He wishes for his sister, his auntie, even his mother. None will come. He sits, still as his mother told him, in the loneliest place in the world.
* * *
Khatai opened his eyes faced his uncle.
“Yes. I understand.” He stood up, and turned to leave.
“Wait, Khatai. There is one more thing. When the acolytes of the Light first came from the North to this land, they tried to ban the Trial. They asked us, why do you do such a thing that binds yourself to the shadow, that blinds you from the light? And we answered: it is only in darkness that you can understand the light. It is only when you are deprived of the light that you will learn to kindle your own fire.”
The Breaker of Horses stood up, and pressed an amulet into his nephew’s hands. Laid within its heart was a ruby of brilliant red. “Come back my Emperor, nephew. May She watch over you.” And for the first time that day, he smiled.
Twelve of the Emperor Qasaarai’s greatest retainers led the Prince of Gurach through the postern gate (ride back through the main, his uncle said). Once he passed underneath the arch, they threw an immense black cloak over his head, and wrapped it tight around his eyes and ears. Then he felt his limbs be bound by strong hands and rope, lashed tight to his horse. Only his mouth was still free, and using this he drank, first a long swig of clear spring water, and then, something deeper, cooler. The Nightdraft. The hot heat of day left his skin as he felt it splash into his stomach, and his felt his muscles began to weaken. Then the darkness around his eyes was overtaken by a far stronger cousin, surging up from within.
* * *
Her hand has gone ice cold again, and he is worried. He takes it in his hand, pressing his own hard against it, trying to restore the warmth. “Kinty, wake up. It’s morning.” He opens the window to let the light into the dark room, but finds that it is gray and dreary outside, and water pelts the glass. A winter rain. Did the sky feel pity for his own sorrow?
The healers had lied to him. They said that this only a chill, the kind she gets every winter, frail and weak as she is. Have these herbs, and say your prayers, and everything will be fine. She’ll be better in a week. Liars, all of them. It’s now been two months, and Kintyra still lies on her bed, barely strong enough to walk. He has half a mind to run to the temple and curse and yell at them in accusation, when suddenly, she moans half-awake, and immediately, he’s right beside her.
“Kinty, are you alright? I brought hot water, and soup, please drink, little sister. When the spring comes, you’ll be better, and then we can go out and play.”
Kintyra meekly sits up and looks at her brother. “Thank you, older brother. But I’m afraid I won’t be around for sp-“ She’s interrupted by a hacking fit, coughing up phlegm and blood as she collapses back into her sheets.
“No! You can’t die – I won’t let you! Even if I have to journey all the way to the sunrise itself to find HER, I’ll save you. I swear, I promise, I’ll do anything!” He pleads, tugging at her hands.
She gathers the strength to look up back at him, and smiles weakly. “Remember me, older brother, and be strong. I will watch over you.”
She closes her eyes.
When he touches her hand again, it is lifeless and limp.
He is delirious. He wrings her arms in desperation, and when they are cold as before, he runs from the room, tears streaming down his face. He begins to tear ravenously at the furniture and the walls, knocking over or destroying anything he can. Servants yell at him, officials, maybe his mother too, but to him it is all a delirium of light and sound, and nothing can stop him and his path of destruction. Perhaps the servants are taken aback, because they stop trying to reach out and grab him, and so his whirling dervish of destruction continues forward, for what seems like hours and hours, until finally he has no energy to keep going and blacks out from exhaustion on the cold stone pavement of the garden balcony.
“Wake up.”
He startles awake, expecting to find his uncle, which makes no sense in his head because he is after all, nine years old and has only seen his uncle from afar in his visits to the court. But then he jolts awake, and he sees her.
“C’mon, older brother. You have to hunt soon.” He gasps. He sees Kintyra’s face amongst the stars, shimmering with life. She’s cloaked in a splendid red robe, radiating through the night as bright as the sun. She giggles. “You said you would bring her to me, but I went to her side instead. And now we are one and the same.”
“Kintyra… I would never have forgotten. I pray for you every night.”
She smiles, mischievous. “I know. Just remember, when you feel alone and afraid, to look up at the sky.
* * *
Khatai jolted awake. He had been lying asleep in the sand, and he could not tell how long he had slept alone. Like his uncle had said, nightfall had just arrived. His horse had stood faithfully over him, keeping silent sentinel over his rider. Khatai stood up and stroked his mane.
“Thanks. I hope they won’t say you were a stupid idiot for trusting me.”
Then he flexed his arms and legs, savoring the feeling of movement that his body had ached for for hours and hours. Finally, he took stock of the possessions that his uncle had left him. A knife, a bow, a quiver, and half a skin of water. Just as the old laws proscribed. He remembered his uncle’s comment on spoiled chieflings given three skins of water, and laughed.
He spotted a hare in the corner of his eye, running through the sands in the moonlight. He had half a mind to raise his bow and shoot, but then he decided to exercise better judgment and mount his horse. He would follow it to water.
It was only when he was riding at a brisk pace after his prey that he remembered his dream. “Just look up at the sky,” Kintyra had said. He did, and then he saw how brightly the moon burned red that night.
The messenger was a lean, pale youth, and he twitched anxiously as Khatai read the message. Khatai could see why – he had seen this boy before shuffle in and out of barracks, always hurriedly rushing from one place to the next, delivering orders that presumably had great importance in defending the realm. Khatai, however, was party to none of them, and he stared at the bright black ink that gleamed back at him. His uncle was notoriously sloppy in his calligraphy, and he had often heard the couriers bemoan how the lack of clarity of the commands they were sent to deliver made their jobs more than a two way trip. Which made this all the more strange. The writing was neat and measured, as if the man wielding the pen was writing the most important words of his life.
“Come see me at once.”
He ascended the white limestone steps to his uncle’s quarters.
Qasra, Breaker of Horses, was called by a name that belied his image. He had never been a large man, even in the flower of his youth. Now as old age crept upon him like it had his brother, the skin around his eyes had begun to wrinkle and crease, looking weathered and worn compared to his black robes of smooth silk. Yet Khatai could still feel the sheer presence of his uncle staring deep into his soul, his bright black eyes burning and more alive than his nephew had ever felt.
“Come. Sit.”
On other days, Khatai had felt a closeness to his uncle that he had never felt with his mother. He was the surrogate father to replace the one who had died when Khatai was so young, the one who had taught him how to ride and hunt and wield lance and bow. Qasra was stern and brusque to his men, never having the political charm of his brother, but he was warm-hearted to his kin. But not this day.
Khatai stepped forward and sat opposite Qasra on the soft round rug that occupied the center of the room.
“Do you know why you are here?” His uncle asked him.
“I have a guess,” Khatai replied, uneasy.
“Do not guess.. Know. I have made the necessary arrangements. You will begin your trial upon the next moonrise.”
Khatai did not respond immediately. The words washed over him, like news he had both dreaded and wanted for years. He shuddered involuntarily, convulsively.
“Uncle… I do not know if I am ready.” His heartbeat quickened, but he would not construct a lie of certainty through which his uncle could clearly see.
The Breaker of Horses sighed, and moved to the corner of the room to light his pipe. His face gave no trace of his expression, but Khatai could feel the tension escape his eyes. He returned to the carpet.
“It is true that you were given no warning. That is how the trial is meant to be. You were given no specific preparation, but all the lessons I have taught you, all that you have learned, is meant to be preparation for this. Now we will see if you have the will to put it to good use. You may not realize it yet, but you are ready.”
Khatai nodded, a quick tilt of his head that betrayed his lack of confidence in his uncle’s reassurance.
“It is also true that your trial will be more difficult than that of others. So I understand your trepidation. Gold and silver have brought us great wealth and influence, yes, but it has also weakened us where we were the most strong. Before the conquests, the worth of a man was measured purely by his will. Now, the clans of the powerful have become corrupted by their wealth. Their pride does not allow them to suffer failure, and so the trials they put on are farces that try no one but Her patience. They inform their sons months ahead of time when the trial will take place, and take him to territory so familiar he may as well be walking home from his ancestor’s graves. They sneak food into his pack and give him three skins of water. It is disgraceful.
“But you, you will bear none of their secret shame. You are the Scion of Gurach, and you will accomplish the trial as it has been done since it was the first of our traditions. In Nahar, they proclaimed you emperor the minute your father passed to join our ancestors. You had aged only four winters, and were only recently mewling at your wet-nurse’s teat. Here on the Face of the Moon, that is not our tradition. I command my brother’s armies in his name just as your mother rules in yours in the South, until you have passed your trial. Only then will you wear our crown. And that is justly so – for there is no one who must understand what it means to be alone as the Emperor. He stands above all other men, even his own kin, for the minute he forgets this, men will forget that he is their lord and think of him as their equal. You are not. Think on this, Khatai, and think carefully. You must understand this.”
The young monarch closed his eyes to think, and a memory rushed to him to help him comprehend.
* * *
He remembers images of ten years ago, where he was even smaller than he felt now, a little boy playing in the gardens at the Palace of Hrn with his little sister Kintyra. As he skips through the flowers, he can spy his mother talking with Auntie, his beloved wet-nurse. His mother gives an order, and here Auntie comes, carrying him back to his mother. He is annoyed, he wants to go back to his fields, to Kintyra, to continue playing, and screams his disapproval. Auntie is pleading with his mother, trying to absolve him from some crime. But his mother is relentless, and she says, “He is ready. Give him to the servants in the palace to tidy up and dress. And leave once you’ve done that; he won’t have your shoulder to tug on when he sits in court.”
Auntie takes him away, and at first he does not fully comprehend what is going on. Auntie is safe, he thinks, she would take him away from his mother so he could play somewhere else out of her sight. But when she leaves him with the servants in the strange and gilded dressing room, he is inconsolable and scared; he kicks and screams for her, biting one poor man’s arms. His tears might have ruined his gown, had his mother not come in and dismissed all the servants with one flourish of her hand. She slaps him hard across the cheek, and suppressing an urge to cry louder, he sniffles and falls into silence.
“You are my little son no longer, Khatai. Today you will present yourself to the court, not as my son but their emperor. You must not shame me, or your father like this. You will not cry on the Dual Throne. You will sit still, as solemn as the oldest man in the court. Are we clear?” She puts a strong hand and grips him on his shoulders.
He blinks back the water in his eyes and nods.
He is mute when the servants come back to clean and dress him for court. When he enters the throne room, men bow and fall into a hushed silence as he tries his best to maintain dignified steps. He ascends the steps around his mother’s chair, higher and higher above the court. The dual throne, half black and half white, looks out onto court from a story above, like a cloud in the sky. He wishes for his sister, his auntie, even his mother. None will come. He sits, still as his mother told him, in the loneliest place in the world.
* * *
Khatai opened his eyes faced his uncle.
“Yes. I understand.” He stood up, and turned to leave.
“Wait, Khatai. There is one more thing. When the acolytes of the Light first came from the North to this land, they tried to ban the Trial. They asked us, why do you do such a thing that binds yourself to the shadow, that blinds you from the light? And we answered: it is only in darkness that you can understand the light. It is only when you are deprived of the light that you will learn to kindle your own fire.”
The Breaker of Horses stood up, and pressed an amulet into his nephew’s hands. Laid within its heart was a ruby of brilliant red. “Come back my Emperor, nephew. May She watch over you.” And for the first time that day, he smiled.
Twelve of the Emperor Qasaarai’s greatest retainers led the Prince of Gurach through the postern gate (ride back through the main, his uncle said). Once he passed underneath the arch, they threw an immense black cloak over his head, and wrapped it tight around his eyes and ears. Then he felt his limbs be bound by strong hands and rope, lashed tight to his horse. Only his mouth was still free, and using this he drank, first a long swig of clear spring water, and then, something deeper, cooler. The Nightdraft. The hot heat of day left his skin as he felt it splash into his stomach, and his felt his muscles began to weaken. Then the darkness around his eyes was overtaken by a far stronger cousin, surging up from within.
* * *
Her hand has gone ice cold again, and he is worried. He takes it in his hand, pressing his own hard against it, trying to restore the warmth. “Kinty, wake up. It’s morning.” He opens the window to let the light into the dark room, but finds that it is gray and dreary outside, and water pelts the glass. A winter rain. Did the sky feel pity for his own sorrow?
The healers had lied to him. They said that this only a chill, the kind she gets every winter, frail and weak as she is. Have these herbs, and say your prayers, and everything will be fine. She’ll be better in a week. Liars, all of them. It’s now been two months, and Kintyra still lies on her bed, barely strong enough to walk. He has half a mind to run to the temple and curse and yell at them in accusation, when suddenly, she moans half-awake, and immediately, he’s right beside her.
“Kinty, are you alright? I brought hot water, and soup, please drink, little sister. When the spring comes, you’ll be better, and then we can go out and play.”
Kintyra meekly sits up and looks at her brother. “Thank you, older brother. But I’m afraid I won’t be around for sp-“ She’s interrupted by a hacking fit, coughing up phlegm and blood as she collapses back into her sheets.
“No! You can’t die – I won’t let you! Even if I have to journey all the way to the sunrise itself to find HER, I’ll save you. I swear, I promise, I’ll do anything!” He pleads, tugging at her hands.
She gathers the strength to look up back at him, and smiles weakly. “Remember me, older brother, and be strong. I will watch over you.”
She closes her eyes.
When he touches her hand again, it is lifeless and limp.
He is delirious. He wrings her arms in desperation, and when they are cold as before, he runs from the room, tears streaming down his face. He begins to tear ravenously at the furniture and the walls, knocking over or destroying anything he can. Servants yell at him, officials, maybe his mother too, but to him it is all a delirium of light and sound, and nothing can stop him and his path of destruction. Perhaps the servants are taken aback, because they stop trying to reach out and grab him, and so his whirling dervish of destruction continues forward, for what seems like hours and hours, until finally he has no energy to keep going and blacks out from exhaustion on the cold stone pavement of the garden balcony.
“Wake up.”
He startles awake, expecting to find his uncle, which makes no sense in his head because he is after all, nine years old and has only seen his uncle from afar in his visits to the court. But then he jolts awake, and he sees her.
“C’mon, older brother. You have to hunt soon.” He gasps. He sees Kintyra’s face amongst the stars, shimmering with life. She’s cloaked in a splendid red robe, radiating through the night as bright as the sun. She giggles. “You said you would bring her to me, but I went to her side instead. And now we are one and the same.”
“Kintyra… I would never have forgotten. I pray for you every night.”
She smiles, mischievous. “I know. Just remember, when you feel alone and afraid, to look up at the sky.
* * *
Khatai jolted awake. He had been lying asleep in the sand, and he could not tell how long he had slept alone. Like his uncle had said, nightfall had just arrived. His horse had stood faithfully over him, keeping silent sentinel over his rider. Khatai stood up and stroked his mane.
“Thanks. I hope they won’t say you were a stupid idiot for trusting me.”
Then he flexed his arms and legs, savoring the feeling of movement that his body had ached for for hours and hours. Finally, he took stock of the possessions that his uncle had left him. A knife, a bow, a quiver, and half a skin of water. Just as the old laws proscribed. He remembered his uncle’s comment on spoiled chieflings given three skins of water, and laughed.
He spotted a hare in the corner of his eye, running through the sands in the moonlight. He had half a mind to raise his bow and shoot, but then he decided to exercise better judgment and mount his horse. He would follow it to water.
It was only when he was riding at a brisk pace after his prey that he remembered his dream. “Just look up at the sky,” Kintyra had said. He did, and then he saw how brightly the moon burned red that night.
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
Exatai of the North Part 7
Prince of Bone Part 1
“The dead king comes,” she whispers in the night. “He breathes fire and summons the storm. The winds are his to command, my liege.”
The king’s head sank low. His wooden throne the scratching post for his digging nails. The hall was dark this night, and cold. Fear filled the air like a lingering smoke, fueled by her sight.
“The spirit of the horse rides in his heart, the seas his steppe. A king must die. The stone is bed for a river of blood,” she spoke, her voice deep.
The king raised his head, his eyes meeting hers. Blue as midnight, he thought. She knelt before him, inching closer on her knees to rest her head upon his leg.
“A king must die?”
“A king must die,” she echoed. “A king will die.”
“A dead king cannot die.”
“Pray, my king, pray that the Truth guides you,” she said. “Pray that our Truth is greater than his.”
***
“This storm pushes us, Prince of Bone,” said the captain. The sails filled to the breaking point, but no more. “The sea offers tribute to you.”
Lightning struck the horizon, the low growl of thunder followed. The waves surged about them. One-hundred and seven ships under his command and the storms urged him forward. The Prince of Bone stood with his friend, Artaxeras, on the bow, stargazing. The moon sat a golden-orange to the west with streaks of red lining her surface, hovering above Sarkanda. Her light shimmered off the pale white of Fulwarc’s mask.
“She is my queen on this night,” said Fulwarc. “My guiding light.”
“Aresha shows her truest beauty to you, Prince of Bone,” the crimson-masked Satar noted. “That night when we met the Lawgiver’s men, she shied half her face from the bloodshed. But she watched you then, Prince of Bone, as she watches now.”
“There is poetry to your words, Artaxeras, have I told you that?”
“I speak truth, Prince of Bone, not fantasy.”
Another bolt of light arced into the sea, reflected through the water like the rising sun.
“Then tell me, here in the presence of Aresha’s full beauty. Tell me my choice was the right one.”
“Your son has the flame in his soul. Exatas. A son wishes to prove his worth; a father gives a challenge insurmountable. The boy will try.”
“My grandfather defeated the hens in Frelesti and the raiders of the old king of Luskan with two-hundred-fifty men and ten ships smaller than our smallest. My son has five of the grandest ever built by men in the north and a hundred men worth a thousand of my grandfather’s.”
“If he dies you have another, Prince of Bone. His courage will not go unheard by the gods. The prince that leads is the prime prince – your blood, your strength. The bear you call Hygral saved my life. He will fall before a blade touches the blood of the prince.”
“He has only a daughter,” Fulwarc growled.
“His bride was with child when we sailed, Prince of Bone. A son is promised from her.”
“I am in my twilight, friend. If my sons are not ready, and their sons with them, how can I leave the mask?”
“A prince will find a way.”
***
The king prodded the brazier with his sword. Flames licked his steel, blackening it with soot. The woman larked about the room like fabric on the wind. Her many layered and many colored outfit twirled about her as she went. Her smile showed her gratification with her warnings.
The great door of the hall, carved with the faces of kings long passed, opened inwards, parting before the king as an armored man entered. On his chest he wore scaled mail of leather and steel, the strongest the king’s smiths could forge.
He took a knee before his king, the hand axe on his belt rattling against the scale, “My king.”
“Rise,” the king commanded. “What news from the docks?”
“The King of Cyve rides the waves, a hundred ships, maybe more, a day to the east with a storm at their back.”
“Are all the ships back from the southern campaigns?” he asked, fearful.
“Nay, but a good number are.”
“And my children, my queen?”
“On ship to Voninheim, as you wished,” he replied. “Your children were sad to leave Luskan, but the sea will be safer than these halls if they land. They say he took a mask like the barbarians of the steppe. A mask crafted from the Lawgiver Isathmæyr’s own corpse.”
“The Dead King,” he said to the oracle behind him. Her eyes knew it all, he could see that, but he didn’t want to believe it.
“He is far from home, in your realm. We have the advantage,” said the soldier.
“I pray.”
Prince of Bone Part 1
“The dead king comes,” she whispers in the night. “He breathes fire and summons the storm. The winds are his to command, my liege.”
The king’s head sank low. His wooden throne the scratching post for his digging nails. The hall was dark this night, and cold. Fear filled the air like a lingering smoke, fueled by her sight.
“The spirit of the horse rides in his heart, the seas his steppe. A king must die. The stone is bed for a river of blood,” she spoke, her voice deep.
The king raised his head, his eyes meeting hers. Blue as midnight, he thought. She knelt before him, inching closer on her knees to rest her head upon his leg.
“A king must die?”
“A king must die,” she echoed. “A king will die.”
“A dead king cannot die.”
“Pray, my king, pray that the Truth guides you,” she said. “Pray that our Truth is greater than his.”
***
“This storm pushes us, Prince of Bone,” said the captain. The sails filled to the breaking point, but no more. “The sea offers tribute to you.”
Lightning struck the horizon, the low growl of thunder followed. The waves surged about them. One-hundred and seven ships under his command and the storms urged him forward. The Prince of Bone stood with his friend, Artaxeras, on the bow, stargazing. The moon sat a golden-orange to the west with streaks of red lining her surface, hovering above Sarkanda. Her light shimmered off the pale white of Fulwarc’s mask.
“She is my queen on this night,” said Fulwarc. “My guiding light.”
“Aresha shows her truest beauty to you, Prince of Bone,” the crimson-masked Satar noted. “That night when we met the Lawgiver’s men, she shied half her face from the bloodshed. But she watched you then, Prince of Bone, as she watches now.”
“There is poetry to your words, Artaxeras, have I told you that?”
“I speak truth, Prince of Bone, not fantasy.”
Another bolt of light arced into the sea, reflected through the water like the rising sun.
“Then tell me, here in the presence of Aresha’s full beauty. Tell me my choice was the right one.”
“Your son has the flame in his soul. Exatas. A son wishes to prove his worth; a father gives a challenge insurmountable. The boy will try.”
“My grandfather defeated the hens in Frelesti and the raiders of the old king of Luskan with two-hundred-fifty men and ten ships smaller than our smallest. My son has five of the grandest ever built by men in the north and a hundred men worth a thousand of my grandfather’s.”
“If he dies you have another, Prince of Bone. His courage will not go unheard by the gods. The prince that leads is the prime prince – your blood, your strength. The bear you call Hygral saved my life. He will fall before a blade touches the blood of the prince.”
“He has only a daughter,” Fulwarc growled.
“His bride was with child when we sailed, Prince of Bone. A son is promised from her.”
“I am in my twilight, friend. If my sons are not ready, and their sons with them, how can I leave the mask?”
“A prince will find a way.”
***
The king prodded the brazier with his sword. Flames licked his steel, blackening it with soot. The woman larked about the room like fabric on the wind. Her many layered and many colored outfit twirled about her as she went. Her smile showed her gratification with her warnings.
The great door of the hall, carved with the faces of kings long passed, opened inwards, parting before the king as an armored man entered. On his chest he wore scaled mail of leather and steel, the strongest the king’s smiths could forge.
He took a knee before his king, the hand axe on his belt rattling against the scale, “My king.”
“Rise,” the king commanded. “What news from the docks?”
“The King of Cyve rides the waves, a hundred ships, maybe more, a day to the east with a storm at their back.”
“Are all the ships back from the southern campaigns?” he asked, fearful.
“Nay, but a good number are.”
“And my children, my queen?”
“On ship to Voninheim, as you wished,” he replied. “Your children were sad to leave Luskan, but the sea will be safer than these halls if they land. They say he took a mask like the barbarians of the steppe. A mask crafted from the Lawgiver Isathmæyr’s own corpse.”
“The Dead King,” he said to the oracle behind him. Her eyes knew it all, he could see that, but he didn’t want to believe it.
“He is far from home, in your realm. We have the advantage,” said the soldier.
“I pray.”
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Incarnate of the God of Men,
I seek reprieve for this message's tardiness. No ship from Acca had been seen for two years. The chills of this horrible land sink deep into my chest, and I do not expect to survive another winter.
Fulwarc is a force unto himself, a mercurial warrior not unlike Arastephas of old. I have come to respect his path, and he has come to count me among his tarkan. I was born in the summer haze of Magha unbroken, and I had not expected to die in a frozen land at the end of the world, tarkan to a barbarian prince. But if it is your will, then your will be done. I cannot say I have fulfilled the mission I was given by High Oracle Agaxir and Prince Elikas. No one can control Fulwarc. But we can be pleased to count his dynasty among our allies. We will not have to contemplate the alternatives, and I am glad of it.
Your will is my fist,
Artaxeras-ta-Cyvekt
Avetas frowned. He had no idea who this person was. But it was the first news in years from the fierce northern land where fire was currency, where men wore the bones of their enemies as clothing and fought with spears and axes of sharpened ice instead of steel. The Shield-Prince would know more. He placed the scroll in a pile, and picked up another.
I seek reprieve for this message's tardiness. No ship from Acca had been seen for two years. The chills of this horrible land sink deep into my chest, and I do not expect to survive another winter.
Fulwarc is a force unto himself, a mercurial warrior not unlike Arastephas of old. I have come to respect his path, and he has come to count me among his tarkan. I was born in the summer haze of Magha unbroken, and I had not expected to die in a frozen land at the end of the world, tarkan to a barbarian prince. But if it is your will, then your will be done. I cannot say I have fulfilled the mission I was given by High Oracle Agaxir and Prince Elikas. No one can control Fulwarc. But we can be pleased to count his dynasty among our allies. We will not have to contemplate the alternatives, and I am glad of it.
Your will is my fist,
Artaxeras-ta-Cyvekt
Avetas frowned. He had no idea who this person was. But it was the first news in years from the fierce northern land where fire was currency, where men wore the bones of their enemies as clothing and fought with spears and axes of sharpened ice instead of steel. The Shield-Prince would know more. He placed the scroll in a pile, and picked up another.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
The Satar Lexicon [v2]
one - ava
two - kal
three - mat
four - nat
five - akh
six - nis
seven - ved
eight - zhd
nine - pha
ten - avaha
hundred - xivas
thousand - xivasha
sword - shaim
shield - exal
wheel - lath
scroll - atam
arrow - itas
spear - ithras
star - vana
snake - athex
horse - ele
dog - kul
wolf - shav
lion - taleph
black - xul
red - vesa
silver - trax
blue - hen
man - eta
humanity - etai
hand - tegh
bone - xevh
hello - aklam
[personal possession] the - ta
[object] the - nal
to/from - ven
here - sin
in/at - ev
why - takh
[plural suffix] - -ai
place of [suffix] - -ion
[having the quality of, suffix] - -as, -es
above/high - nah
below/low - devh
next to - zet
high - ha
new - shim
bright - tes
strong - vala
noble - sarta
evil - xek
love - atis
moon - Aresha
wind - teph
sky - era
sea - vesh
earth - keph
fire - shal
river - tavh
tree - evhim
ice - ivi
army - xanai
city - aliot
fortress - sarion
market - hekel
court - rath
seat [of power] - lex
university - sephashim
journey - kaphai
vision - avai
law - ephexas
life - atan
death - vex
wisdom - sephas
spirit - avas
god - vata
Redeemer - Vaxalai
Praetorian - Argashim
prince - sartas
captain - vatakasa
warrior - xan
lord - tarkan
oracle - ras
servant - kasa
slave - kes
shaman - kapha
warrior - talik
??? - exatas
aspect - arga
lay - tela
Etymological Notes:
1. Vatakasa 'captain' literally means 'god-servant,' more appropriate on the surface to a religious position than a military one. In the context of Satar culture however, it makes perfect sense.
2. Tarkan 'lord' was originally the Satar word for 'friend,' and it still carries that connotation, but it applies more closely to a trusted lieutenant given serious responsibilities. Tarkan are considered prime candidates for any princely succession. Note similarities to Latin comes.
3. Kapha 'shaman,' literally means 'journeyman' or perhaps 'wanderer'. Note similarities to the word 'kaphai,' and the monastic position 'kaphet-ha,' an attempt to institutionalize the shamanic practices in a more warlike form.
4. On the two forms of 'the,' in Satar language. "Aphas the Sword." Aphas-ta-Shaim. "Aphas, [the] Prince of the Sword." Aphas, Sartas-ta-Shaim. Or, "Xephaion, [the] High Oracle of Magha." Xephaion, Rasha-ta-Magha. Compare to "The city of Magha." Nal Magha-aliot. "Magha, the city of Prince Atraxes." Nal Magha-ta-Atraxes, Sartas-ta-aliot. Literal trans. "The Magha of Atraxes, Prince of [this, his] City."
5. Rath 'court' not in the sense of 'courthouse,' more in the sense of 'space,' or 'field,' has connotations of rulership like 'the king's court,' but are more centers of mythic power rather than concrete political power.
6. Ven 'to/from', dependent on placement. "From the city of Magha," Ven nal Magha-aliot. "To the city of Magha," Nal Magha-aliot ven.
7. Sin 'here', when combined with nal, describes a specific object of which there are many. Compare "The horse," Nal ele, to "This black horse," Nal ele-ta-xul sin, or simply "The black horse," Nal ele-ta-xul.
8. In describing objects with proper syntax, the name of the object comes first, then any adjectival qualities, then its positioning. "The strong black horse in Magha," Nal ele ta-vala xul-av-Magha. Literal trans. "The horse of strength and blackness at Magha."
9. Ev, a temporary locational qualifier, comparable to ta, a permanent locational/possessive qualifier. Elikas-ev-Magha means that Elikas is staying in Magha for a time. Elikas-ta-Magha means that Magha is Elikas' home and an essential part of his being.
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
Exatai of the North Part 8
In The Shadow of Bone Part 4
“The Slave takes your Rider,” she boasted. Her small hands roamed the Kalis board, taking her turn from the Sea onward to Heaven. They played late into the night in the great hall, betwixt the flames of the great hearth and a dozen candles about the table. The long shutters stayed open, letting the storm on the Yadyevu roll into the hall, filling their lungs with salty coolness. They were alone, save for the occasional servant passing through. Kalis is not a game for the impatient.
“You have too much free time, niece,” Glynt said. She still moved her hands greedily about the circular board, moving iron against marble with clank after clank. Her golden hair lay untied, falling past her shoulders in the back and onto the table in a mess caused by her intense concentration in the front. The board itself was less extravagant than those in the south, carved out of a wooden stump. The paint that adorned it had faded and chipped in part by the sea and the rest by the constant play by Aelona and her guards.
“As do you, uncle,” she commented as she played. Her hand then reached the quadrant of Heaven, where she made her final moves. “Rider takes Captain,” she murmured. “But, I have an excuse you see. I am only seven.”
“And a girl,” he added. Her hand grabbed her God piece, a tarnished iron piece in the shape of a powerful warlord. She moved it to the Sea. “You sacrifice Heaven for the Sea? The Sea is worthless.”
“Perhaps we are both girls, eh? Sitting in this hall, playing Kalis into the darkest hours, while my father and your father ride the waves to glory and back,” she said, grinning. “The son of the Prince of Bone should know that the Sea is everything. Mother has dresses in your size, uncle.”
“Don’t be smart,” he said. He prepared to take his turn as she raised her hands from the board.
“Someone has to be.” She giggled.
“My God will remain in Heaven where he belongs.” Glynt started his moves in the Sea, as was the rule, but he was in a fairly unfortunate situation. He grumbled while looking over the pieces.
“Or she,” she said.
“He,” he mumbled. “My God is a He, not a she.”
“We’ll see shortly how much of a man he is, then,” she said.
He made his moves.
* * *
Unger leapt from the small boat onto the sharp rocks that jutted from the shallows below a cliff. He thought of the Palace on the Rock when he saw them. Ancient stone carved by an endless barrage from the frigid sea behind him. A dozen other boats followed his to the shore; a skeleton crew manned the five ships his father gave him. Bastard, he thought, what does this prove?
Climbers had come ashore earlier in the morning, before the dawn, to scale the forty foot cliffs and secured ropes to the top. A half dozen such ropes now dangled in the wind, soaked by the spray of sea smashing stone.
“It isn’t too bad, my prince,” said Hygral, the bearded beast that his father sent with him. Hygral had served alongside Artaxeras in the Prince of Bone’s personal guard for the Evyni campaign. He stood a head over Unger and wielded an axe the size of a lesser man.
“We have to hurry, else the sun betray us to their garrison.”
And they climbed, Unger first along the other men on the other ropes, one at a time for an hour. The rope did not break beneath his weight, or any man for that matter, and Unger thanked whatever gods were watching over him. They reached the top where thick grasses shielded them. The stench of a nearby marsh reminded him of why his father had never wanted the island – useless land.
They snuck through the tall grasses all the way to the marsh. From the marsh they found the steep decline of a valley below the island’s mountains. It descended to the waters of a rocky stream, around which sat the palisade walls that contained the most major settlement on Gilot.
Unger had raided their fishing fleet for weeks, the Aithahist garrison inside would know a landing was eminent. The cliffs only bought him time, not strength, and the task at hand remained great.
* * *
“My Goddess takes your last Oracle from the Sea,” she said. She smacked the iron god piece into the marble oracle hard enough that it seemed the stone would break. “One point for Aelona,” she cheered.
He picked at his ear, “Congratulations, you’ve successfully taken the least possible points.” The sun peeked over the horizon and shone through the shutters of the great hall. “It’s morning?” he asked. “We’ve played through the night, and only a quadrant is taken.”
“I blame your slowness, but if you wish to concede to your princess you may.”
“I do not.”
Servants busied themselves with morning duties. The heat and smoke from the kitchens below the hall came up the stairway, a hint of baking bread followed. The Palace on the Rock was best scene in the dawning hours of the day when the liveliest servants, slaves, guards and nobles roamed the halls. It wouldn’t be long before hungry cousins piled into the hall to dine.
“Make your moves, the Sea is lost, uncle.”
“Do you ever tire?” he groaned. He made his frivolous moves in Earth, Air and finally Heaven. “God takes your Rider. One to go, Aelona, and Heaven will be mine.”
She shrugged, “Hide in Heaven all you like.” Aelona moved pieces from Sea to Earth, taking two slaves in the process. Each kill clanked louder in the halls as iron tapped marble. “The Sea invades the Earth. My Goddess comes,” she said. She took a moment to comb her hair with her hands.
“You’re impudent, you know that?”
“It is a game; do not get upset with me over pieces on a board.”
“I’m not above being upset over your attitude. It will make the victory sweeter.”
Slow steps on the stairs from the high tower alerted Aelona that her mother had woke. She turned to see Tisza standing, belly round with child, in a thin gown of fine silks – a gift from the Prince of Bone for her pregnancy. She stood to greet her mother, but Glynt did not.
“You’re still playing this Satar game?” Tisza asked, taking a seat on the wooden bench adjacent to Aelona’s seat.
“The game must be won,” said Glynt before Aelona could say the same.
“You should have ended it hours ago, a child needs rest.”
“And face her wrath all day? I’d rather see it out,” Glynt replied. “Besides, my victory is certain.”
“She always beats the guards.”
“And I will beat a prince,” Aelona added.
The blast of a horn interrupted their banter. Three men in boiled leather and sea water soaked clothing entered the great hall a few minutes later. War axes and steel swords hung on their backs and belts and dirt clung to their unwashed faces. They were startled by the suddenness of their entrance. The three men bowed deeply to the family as Glynt rose to meet them. He walked to them; they did not rise, but spoke in whispers.
The prince returned a moment later. Aelona waited with her mother next to the Kalis board for him to speak. He sat down, hung his head in his hands and growled.
“Which one,” Aelona asked. She ran her fingers over the bare carvings on the board before her. She gulped.
Glynt took his turn without saying a word, when he finished he looked up at them both. Aelona understood the cue to stay calm; hysteria was not the way of her house. Life and death on the seas were not uncommon. “My brother,” he finally replied. “I have taken Heaven.” He pointed to the board. She had not noticed. “Five to one.”
“What?” Tisza said. Her eyes were watery, hoping she had misheard.
“Father lost,” Aelona explained, her heart sinking.
Glynt watched Tisza as she moved from her seat in a flurry and wobbled to speak to the soldiers herself. Aelona stayed in place behind the board, her uncle across from her. Tisza’s words were blurry as she cursed the men.
“Father took the Sea,” she began while moving her final pieces to the Earth, “but he failed to take the land. You cannot win without the land, he told me so. The Sea holds the Earth together so one must go with the other. I am sad,” she said, “and don’t pretend to be. I know you, Glynt son of Fulwarc. You’ve waited for this. I have taken the Earth. Five to three.”
Her mother screamed in agony like a dying pig. Servants and guards rushed to her side. They yelled for the mid-wives, they yelled for her aunt. Her mother was in labor, the shock of it all too much for her fragile heart to bear.
“If it is not a prince,” he started, but then hushed when Aelona beckoned him to play. He moved his Redeemer against hers in the Air. Hers fell to him, but she did not pout.
“The Goddess takes your Redeemer,” she said, moving from Earth to Air.
He scanned the board, “I cannot win.”
“You never could. The God that hides in Heaven can never win. She who burns the seas and walks with mortals is the truest warrior. Did they say how?”
“An arrow maimed him, but the rope finished it.”
“The Redeemer commanded the Prince of Bone, the Prince of Bone commanded my father,” she said in Satar, “who commanded the Redeemer?”
“No one commands the Redeemer.”
“He is only a piece on the board. He has been misused.”
“Don’t say that, Aelona.”
In The Shadow of Bone Part 4
“The Slave takes your Rider,” she boasted. Her small hands roamed the Kalis board, taking her turn from the Sea onward to Heaven. They played late into the night in the great hall, betwixt the flames of the great hearth and a dozen candles about the table. The long shutters stayed open, letting the storm on the Yadyevu roll into the hall, filling their lungs with salty coolness. They were alone, save for the occasional servant passing through. Kalis is not a game for the impatient.
“You have too much free time, niece,” Glynt said. She still moved her hands greedily about the circular board, moving iron against marble with clank after clank. Her golden hair lay untied, falling past her shoulders in the back and onto the table in a mess caused by her intense concentration in the front. The board itself was less extravagant than those in the south, carved out of a wooden stump. The paint that adorned it had faded and chipped in part by the sea and the rest by the constant play by Aelona and her guards.
“As do you, uncle,” she commented as she played. Her hand then reached the quadrant of Heaven, where she made her final moves. “Rider takes Captain,” she murmured. “But, I have an excuse you see. I am only seven.”
“And a girl,” he added. Her hand grabbed her God piece, a tarnished iron piece in the shape of a powerful warlord. She moved it to the Sea. “You sacrifice Heaven for the Sea? The Sea is worthless.”
“Perhaps we are both girls, eh? Sitting in this hall, playing Kalis into the darkest hours, while my father and your father ride the waves to glory and back,” she said, grinning. “The son of the Prince of Bone should know that the Sea is everything. Mother has dresses in your size, uncle.”
“Don’t be smart,” he said. He prepared to take his turn as she raised her hands from the board.
“Someone has to be.” She giggled.
“My God will remain in Heaven where he belongs.” Glynt started his moves in the Sea, as was the rule, but he was in a fairly unfortunate situation. He grumbled while looking over the pieces.
“Or she,” she said.
“He,” he mumbled. “My God is a He, not a she.”
“We’ll see shortly how much of a man he is, then,” she said.
He made his moves.
* * *
Unger leapt from the small boat onto the sharp rocks that jutted from the shallows below a cliff. He thought of the Palace on the Rock when he saw them. Ancient stone carved by an endless barrage from the frigid sea behind him. A dozen other boats followed his to the shore; a skeleton crew manned the five ships his father gave him. Bastard, he thought, what does this prove?
Climbers had come ashore earlier in the morning, before the dawn, to scale the forty foot cliffs and secured ropes to the top. A half dozen such ropes now dangled in the wind, soaked by the spray of sea smashing stone.
“It isn’t too bad, my prince,” said Hygral, the bearded beast that his father sent with him. Hygral had served alongside Artaxeras in the Prince of Bone’s personal guard for the Evyni campaign. He stood a head over Unger and wielded an axe the size of a lesser man.
“We have to hurry, else the sun betray us to their garrison.”
And they climbed, Unger first along the other men on the other ropes, one at a time for an hour. The rope did not break beneath his weight, or any man for that matter, and Unger thanked whatever gods were watching over him. They reached the top where thick grasses shielded them. The stench of a nearby marsh reminded him of why his father had never wanted the island – useless land.
They snuck through the tall grasses all the way to the marsh. From the marsh they found the steep decline of a valley below the island’s mountains. It descended to the waters of a rocky stream, around which sat the palisade walls that contained the most major settlement on Gilot.
Unger had raided their fishing fleet for weeks, the Aithahist garrison inside would know a landing was eminent. The cliffs only bought him time, not strength, and the task at hand remained great.
* * *
“My Goddess takes your last Oracle from the Sea,” she said. She smacked the iron god piece into the marble oracle hard enough that it seemed the stone would break. “One point for Aelona,” she cheered.
He picked at his ear, “Congratulations, you’ve successfully taken the least possible points.” The sun peeked over the horizon and shone through the shutters of the great hall. “It’s morning?” he asked. “We’ve played through the night, and only a quadrant is taken.”
“I blame your slowness, but if you wish to concede to your princess you may.”
“I do not.”
Servants busied themselves with morning duties. The heat and smoke from the kitchens below the hall came up the stairway, a hint of baking bread followed. The Palace on the Rock was best scene in the dawning hours of the day when the liveliest servants, slaves, guards and nobles roamed the halls. It wouldn’t be long before hungry cousins piled into the hall to dine.
“Make your moves, the Sea is lost, uncle.”
“Do you ever tire?” he groaned. He made his frivolous moves in Earth, Air and finally Heaven. “God takes your Rider. One to go, Aelona, and Heaven will be mine.”
She shrugged, “Hide in Heaven all you like.” Aelona moved pieces from Sea to Earth, taking two slaves in the process. Each kill clanked louder in the halls as iron tapped marble. “The Sea invades the Earth. My Goddess comes,” she said. She took a moment to comb her hair with her hands.
“You’re impudent, you know that?”
“It is a game; do not get upset with me over pieces on a board.”
“I’m not above being upset over your attitude. It will make the victory sweeter.”
Slow steps on the stairs from the high tower alerted Aelona that her mother had woke. She turned to see Tisza standing, belly round with child, in a thin gown of fine silks – a gift from the Prince of Bone for her pregnancy. She stood to greet her mother, but Glynt did not.
“You’re still playing this Satar game?” Tisza asked, taking a seat on the wooden bench adjacent to Aelona’s seat.
“The game must be won,” said Glynt before Aelona could say the same.
“You should have ended it hours ago, a child needs rest.”
“And face her wrath all day? I’d rather see it out,” Glynt replied. “Besides, my victory is certain.”
“She always beats the guards.”
“And I will beat a prince,” Aelona added.
The blast of a horn interrupted their banter. Three men in boiled leather and sea water soaked clothing entered the great hall a few minutes later. War axes and steel swords hung on their backs and belts and dirt clung to their unwashed faces. They were startled by the suddenness of their entrance. The three men bowed deeply to the family as Glynt rose to meet them. He walked to them; they did not rise, but spoke in whispers.
The prince returned a moment later. Aelona waited with her mother next to the Kalis board for him to speak. He sat down, hung his head in his hands and growled.
“Which one,” Aelona asked. She ran her fingers over the bare carvings on the board before her. She gulped.
Glynt took his turn without saying a word, when he finished he looked up at them both. Aelona understood the cue to stay calm; hysteria was not the way of her house. Life and death on the seas were not uncommon. “My brother,” he finally replied. “I have taken Heaven.” He pointed to the board. She had not noticed. “Five to one.”
“What?” Tisza said. Her eyes were watery, hoping she had misheard.
“Father lost,” Aelona explained, her heart sinking.
Glynt watched Tisza as she moved from her seat in a flurry and wobbled to speak to the soldiers herself. Aelona stayed in place behind the board, her uncle across from her. Tisza’s words were blurry as she cursed the men.
“Father took the Sea,” she began while moving her final pieces to the Earth, “but he failed to take the land. You cannot win without the land, he told me so. The Sea holds the Earth together so one must go with the other. I am sad,” she said, “and don’t pretend to be. I know you, Glynt son of Fulwarc. You’ve waited for this. I have taken the Earth. Five to three.”
Her mother screamed in agony like a dying pig. Servants and guards rushed to her side. They yelled for the mid-wives, they yelled for her aunt. Her mother was in labor, the shock of it all too much for her fragile heart to bear.
“If it is not a prince,” he started, but then hushed when Aelona beckoned him to play. He moved his Redeemer against hers in the Air. Hers fell to him, but she did not pout.
“The Goddess takes your Redeemer,” she said, moving from Earth to Air.
He scanned the board, “I cannot win.”
“You never could. The God that hides in Heaven can never win. She who burns the seas and walks with mortals is the truest warrior. Did they say how?”
“An arrow maimed him, but the rope finished it.”
“The Redeemer commanded the Prince of Bone, the Prince of Bone commanded my father,” she said in Satar, “who commanded the Redeemer?”
“No one commands the Redeemer.”
“He is only a piece on the board. He has been misused.”
“Don’t say that, Aelona.”
Terrance888
Discord Reigns
Prologue: A Boy at War
A circle of men sat around a campfire. Hard, tired faces stared into the flickering flames. Hard, tired bodies encased on tightly wound leather and metalic plates. The murmur of voices rose scarely above the happy crackle of flames.
"Have you seen Prince Sarca? A Yak of a man!" spoke one man, smirking under his eyepatch, "Too bad his mind is in numbers instead of war. Instead, we're led by his runt of a son."
"You're worried that a runt is leading us?" coughed an older man, "I'm worried that Dawentar is too busy prettying up Tarwa to return to Parthe. His home! The Home of our nation! But he ignores it and left it for Kaundar to govern." He man leaned closer, the flames enshadowing his scarred face, "Kaundar will make a great King. Mark my words, his head is in the right place, he will..."
"And what place may that be?" interrupted a youthful voice. The soldiers turned as the young Princling Harca stode into the lit circle, "I wish to enjoy some company this cold night, before we reach the Zarcasen village tomarrow."
The fire licked greedily as he pulled out a stick of salted meat and begun roasting it, the grease dripping down into the flames. He turned it automatically-his eyes are on the elderly sargeant.
"My Commander" said the sargeant, "He will lead us well and teach you to become the next King of Parthe."
"Well thank you good sir" replied the Princling, even though he knew what the Sargeant truly meant, "We will have victory tomarrow, and then we can return home in time for the New Year Festivals." He took a bite from his sizzling meal, "Here, I have more" he offered, and opened his backpack.
Oh yes, he knew what the Sargeant wanted. Too bad he has no intention of giving it to him.
Yet.
A circle of men sat around a campfire. Hard, tired faces stared into the flickering flames. Hard, tired bodies encased on tightly wound leather and metalic plates. The murmur of voices rose scarely above the happy crackle of flames.
"Have you seen Prince Sarca? A Yak of a man!" spoke one man, smirking under his eyepatch, "Too bad his mind is in numbers instead of war. Instead, we're led by his runt of a son."
"You're worried that a runt is leading us?" coughed an older man, "I'm worried that Dawentar is too busy prettying up Tarwa to return to Parthe. His home! The Home of our nation! But he ignores it and left it for Kaundar to govern." He man leaned closer, the flames enshadowing his scarred face, "Kaundar will make a great King. Mark my words, his head is in the right place, he will..."
"And what place may that be?" interrupted a youthful voice. The soldiers turned as the young Princling Harca stode into the lit circle, "I wish to enjoy some company this cold night, before we reach the Zarcasen village tomarrow."
The fire licked greedily as he pulled out a stick of salted meat and begun roasting it, the grease dripping down into the flames. He turned it automatically-his eyes are on the elderly sargeant.
"My Commander" said the sargeant, "He will lead us well and teach you to become the next King of Parthe."
"Well thank you good sir" replied the Princling, even though he knew what the Sargeant truly meant, "We will have victory tomarrow, and then we can return home in time for the New Year Festivals." He took a bite from his sizzling meal, "Here, I have more" he offered, and opened his backpack.
Oh yes, he knew what the Sargeant wanted. Too bad he has no intention of giving it to him.
Yet.
