Bloodied Glory

7 - Declaration

2011-11-24T14:26:00.003Z

The bird signs were good that day. A great flock of gulls had flown over the harbour at Dexos, and Artemis had sighted an eagle on the road to Olion, where the Ministerial Assembly was to convene. The assembly usually took place in Dexos, for its central location, but today’s business could take place only in the capital. After the sinking of the Galdenic merchants at Tarium, now was surely the time for the Galdenic Republic to declare war on the Doquans, and Artemis was expected to bring assurances of the gods’ favour.
                Riding on a cobbled road alongside three temple apprentices, Artemis was making good progress, though the clattering of the horse’s hooves on the road sent jarring ripples through his ageing bones. On either side of the path, wheat fields rose high into the air, swaying in the breeze and shimmering with a golden light as the rays of the afternoon sun drifted through. It was a simple yet beautiful sight to behold, though it possessed a certain eeriness on that afternoon; the thought that a great international conflict was about to befall the republic seemed unreal, and cast an aura of strangeness over all that Artemis observed.
                Artemis did not shrink from the thought of war as he knew young Ludus Damon did. The Galdenes now had a chance to prove themselves against a foreign power, and truly the insults of the Doquans had become too great. The honour of a nation was at stake, and now it could only be upheld by the spear. For Ludus or any other to forsake the glory of the republic was a travesty that could not be abided, but Artemis knew the young merchant’s son would dutifully don his cuirass and sail to fight.
                Artemis and his attendants rode another hour before they glimpsed the walls of Olion. The magnificent mountaintop temple in which Artemis resided was incredible enough, as was the bustling port he looked down upon each day, yet neither caught his breath in quite the way the walls of Olion did. Near twenty metres high, the stone behemoth dominated the land and proclaimed the city’s hegemony for all to see.
                “An artefact of the age of giants,” murmured one of Artemis’s awestruck companions. Artemis nodded and smiled. He knew the legend of the city’s founding; like so many of the Galdenic myths, it described a time when giants wandered the Crescent, touching the heavens as they reached upwards, and forging enormous monuments for the men milling around below. It seemed odd to Artemis that the myth had been invented; surely the Galdenes should revel in the achievements of their human ancestors? Men were peculiar things, he mused.
                Grinning with bewilderment, the companions spurred their horses towards the gleaming sun and the grand city basking in its radiance. Captured by a youthful vigour at the sight of Olion’s glory, Artemis kicked his horse into a gallop, beaming as the beast cantered onward. He lived in a land of true beauty, soon to be enriched by the spoils and glory of conquest.
                Once he had passed through the great arch that led inside the city and into the teeming streets, Artemis dismounted and handed the horse’s reins to one of his attendants. The crowds around him simmered with emotion – expectation and exuberance filled the air. They knew that before the sun had set, war would be proclaimed in the town centre. It seemed almost odd for the masses to so relish the brutal carnage that would befall them and their brothers and fathers and cousins, but the crowd throbbed only with eager anticipation.
                The meeting of the Ministerial Assembly was to take place in the old palace overlooking the town centre, where the kings of days long gone had once resided. The building was kept in the same majestic condition as when it was first constructed, the marble beautifully white against the browns of the market it presided over. A huge balcony protruded from the front of the building, much like the one at Temple Heikkos. Artemis presumed that it would be from there that the declaration of war would be announced to the crowds below.
                Already, the marketplace was swelling with incredible numbers. More than ten thousand men and women could squeeze themselves into the huge open area, ringed with vendors and carts. Artemis’s attendants struggled to clear the way ahead of him, and more than once he needed the support of them to stay on his feet, but eventually he made it through the jostling mass of people. Once the guards had admitted him into the palace – a building which turned out to be distinctly less well-maintained on the inside – slaves led Artemis into a small room and changed his muddied robes for a fresh toga. The palace was decrepit and ageing within, yet the tendrils of ivy which crept over the marble columns and stairs looked beautiful in the milky light streaming through the roof.
                “Allow me to lead you to the meeting chamber,” spoke one of the slaves, bowing deeply. Most of the slaves on the Crescent were bought from the Gold Coast, but the light skin of this one seemed to suggest he was from more northern shores.
                “How long has the council been in progress?” asked Artemis as the slave began to lead him through the ancient halls of the palace.
                “Near three hours, sir. They should conclude soon.”
                Artemis nodded. It was forbidden for even him to interrupt a council meeting once it had begun, but today’s meeting had been forced to commence without him. He was there to bestow the blessing of the gods on the council’s resolution when it was announced to the people, and to that end his attendants had brought along a cage full of pristine white doves. The sight of doves in flight would be a more spectacular portent with which to begin a war than exploring the entrails of a slaughtered rooster, Artemis had concluded.
                Following the slave up steps of veiny marble, Artemis made his way to the meeting chamber of the council. Great oaken doors – seemingly one of the few recent refurbishments in the building – were closed shut across the entrance, in front of which was huddled a hushed group of men – governors, military officers, merchants and their slaves all stood waiting for the verdict of the council. A few recognised Artemis and shot him brief smiles of welcome as he joined the expectant clique.
                They did not have to wait long before the towering doors swung slowly inwards, and the council were revealed, seated at an enormous table across which maps and manuscripts of all kinds were splayed. The ministers were rising from their seats, brushing down their togas as they did so.
                “It is time to announce the council’s decision,” declared the Consul of War solemnly, stepping out from the chamber. The atmosphere was still and silent as the ministers bustled from the room, joining a parade with Artemis and the Consul of War at its head. The group made its way to the grand balcony overlooking the town centre in a quiet, slow manner, yet the sense of expectation was palpable – as was the noise of the crowd outside, a murmur amplified to a throbbing din.
                The sunlight shocked Artemis as he stepped out onto the platform; compared to the mystical light that swirled inside the ancient mansion, it was strikingly bright. The entrance of the council elevated the hum of the crowd below to an eager roar, the mob crying out for news of the meeting. The Consul of War raised his arms in a call for quiet, and the waiting citizens quickly silenced themselves.
                It was an eerie scene. The crowd seemed to simmer in the beating light of the afternoon, and Artemis felt no less than regal to be stood over them on the terrific marble protrusion. The marketplace was filled not with silence but with ten thousand held breaths; not with waiting but with yearning. Artemis’s heart beat faster and faster, his blood palpably hot in his veins. He stood with the rulers of a great nation above thousands of watching citizens – surely no moment could be so strikingly, terrifyingly glorious?
                “Fellow Galdenes!” yelled the Consul of War, his voice unwavering as it cast itself across the plaza. “For the injuries they have done us, and for the glory of our hallowed republic, the assembly moves to declare war on the Doquan Kingdom!”
                The crowd erupted. Ten thousand impassioned cheers combined in a single gargantuan shockwave of fervour. Even the titans of legend could not produce so explosive a cry, thought Artemis. Enraptured by the monumental outpour of zeal, it took a sharp shake from one of his attendants to remind Artemis that he himself had a role to play in this spectacle.
                He took the cage of doves that his attendant proffered to him and stepped forward to release them. There were whoops and cheers from below as the birds took flight and swooped overhead. Gliding through joyous rays of sunlight, the doves were an elegant crowning wonder over the ecstatic crowd; a marvel of pure white fluttering forth on that most earth-shaking of days. Artemis looked down upon the marketplace, watching the people writhe in a great excited mass. They seemed so triumphal, as if the war had already been won and their fantasies of epic conquest already enacted.
                But the crowd had begun to hush, their attention sucked towards a hunched man perched atop an upturned cart in the centre of the mob. Aged and stooped, the old man was waving a gnarled walking stick and shouting into the crowd that now stared at him.
                “Fools!” Artemis could hear him shout as the noise in the plaza began to thin. “Fools! You shall bring ruin upon us all!” The man spoke in tones of anger and outrage, spitting out every word.
                Angry shouts of protest at the figure’s pronouncements sounded across the square. “Quiet, old man!” exclaimed one voice.
                The strange figure continued to yell, waving his stick all around. “This nation will burn for your folly! And you…” He wheeled around and jabbed his stick towards the balcony on which the council and Artemis stood, whose blood was inexplicably turning icy. “You… You have doomed us with your false wisdom!”
                The crowd’s protests were drowning him out now, and suddenly the mob surged towards the madman on the cart. Hands snatched up at the folds of his toga, tearing the clothes from his body as he stumbled and fell. The enraged citizens clawed at him, grasping in passionate vitriol at his flesh.
                Artemis looked on in shock at the inflamed crowd. “Cease this!” he bellowed, though horror had made his voice fragile.
                “Enough!” pleaded the other ministers, beseeching the people below, but bloodlust was upon them and they screamed like demons as they devoured the heretic. The man’s body lingered above the mob for a moment, before being sucked inside and ripped to shreds by the grappling horde. The men of Olion tore apart his bloody body, rending his limbs asunder and filling the air with passion and blood and shrieks of fury.
                Artemis fell to his knees in dismay. “Gods have mercy,” he whispered in a voice strangled by terror. “Truly, this is an ill omen.”

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6 - Fire

2011-10-18T22:50:00.004+01:00

Kashan’s shoulder ached from where the guards had hurled him into the room. The strange man who had claimed to know him during his capture had said nothing more to him; the merchant had taken the man aside and engaged him in confused conversation, while Kashan was dragged away to a room at the back of the house. Who could he have been? Kashan ran a hand over his features, remembering how the man had borne the same thin nose and slanted eyes which had forever marked Kashan as a stranger, even amongst the diverse mix of men at the docks of Ado. A curious part of him hoped the man was somehow his father, but the notion seemed too bizarre to consider.
                A far more pressing matter, in any case, was how to escape. A pair of guards stood in the room, watching his every move, and though Kashan still had a hidden blade, it would be an impossible fight. Yet he needed to escape, not just for himself, but for his brother assassins in the Red Knives; someone had tipped off this merchant about his deadly visit, and they could well have revealed more. He had to get back and warn the brotherhood. If the location of the headquarters were to be given to the city guards…
                Kashan gripped his forehead and despaired. He had always been in control of matters before; he had been trained to plan for every tiny detail of every scheme, and he had never yet failed. He had never trusted anyone except the men of the brotherhood, but it would seem that a disloyal recruit had slipped past the Grand Master’s inspection. That in itself was troubling; the Grand Master of Assassins examined every aspect of the men who were chosen for the Red Knives, but the old man’s eyes were clearly not as sharp as they once were.
                Kashan remembered his own inspection by the Grand Master. Thick grey hair hung down to his shoulders, and his tiny eyes were constantly shifting. No-one knew where he had come from, though his skin was far paler in colour than the natives of the Gold Coast. He was an altogether unimpressive man to behold, hunched and slow in his old age, but his eyes and mind let no detail slip by.
                The Grand Master had expressed concerns over Kashan’s love of killing; an assassin, he said, was a detached and focused creature, stalking its prey without giving thought to the bounty its death would bring. Kashan’s skills with swords and knives and poisons were not mentioned; the Grand Master simply reeled off a list of his faults and told him why he was not fit to serve the brotherhood.
                “You are a flawed and ignoble creature,” he had said, running his eyes over Kashan’s wiry frame another time. “Yet not every blade is as sharp or strong as it could be, but it serves its purpose all the same. No man is perfect for his craft, be he a mason or a shipwright or a tailor, yet he performs his trade as best a mortal can. You will make a useful assassin, Kashan, for all your faults. Welcome to the Red Knives.”
                Kashan had grown to respect the old man. His intelligence was invaluable in planning every operation, though he rarely conversed with the assassins. Kashan was unsure of how the hierarchy worked in the Red Knives, nor was he supposed to know. He took orders from whoever brought them to him, and lived in comfort from the spoils of his craft – while his inner-city house bore an ugly exterior, so as not to seem out of place, within its walls resided all manner of wondrous luxuries.
                The room he was now trapped in was far from elegant; it was a storage room, with crates and carpets and jugs stacked high all around. The two guards who had been posted to keep an eye on him watched him intently, alert for any movement from the assassin. The guards turned as the door opened behind them, and a voice snapped at them to leave. The man who then entered was the mysterious figure who had spoken up before.
                “Who are you? How do you know me?” Kashan demanded as soon as the door had shut. He was usually a man of few words, but this man’s claim to recognise him had gripped his interest.
                The man looked at him a long moment before replying. “My name is Almin.” He paused and studied Kashan once more, examining his features with fascination in the flickering torchlight. “Is it truly you, Kashan?”
                Kashan cocked his head to the side.
                Almin sighed. “It was I who delivered you to the orphanage when you were a babe. I know of your past – I know who you are better than you yourself do.” He stopped and breathed in before continuing. “I cannot tell you all you want to know. I made a promise.”
                “Are you my father?” breathed Kashan.
                Almin shook his head sadly. “No, I am not. I… I knew him well. I made a pact to protect you and watch over you, but I have not laid eyes on you since the Red Knives took you from the orphanage.”
                “Protect me? I do not understand.”
                “I can tell you no more. For your own good and mine, I may not breathe another word.” He strode over to the shuttered window at the rear of the room, unlatching it and gesturing out into the night. “Go, Kashan. Leave the Red Knives, live long and make many children. Your father would wish it.”
                Kashan’s voice was fierce. “I shall not abandon the brotherhood.”
                Almin nodded his head with sorrow. “As I feared. Go unto the night, then, and may the gods keep you safe. You will not be stopped on your way out.”
                Kashan stood to leave through the window, but could not bring himself to depart. “Will I ever know who I am?” he asked.
                Almin considered his response carefully. “No. You cannot.” He gave Kashan a thin, miserable smile – an expression laden with regret which Kashan could not hope to decipher. “You are not of these lands. And you are a great man. Know that.”
                A call from the other room sent Kashan scurrying through the window without another word. He ran through the wide streets of the housing complex and out the gate unhindered, never turning round once. He banished Almin’s mysterious words from his mind and hurried towards the inner city, to the headquarters of the Red Knives. He ran down alleys and squeezed through sleazy bazaars to ensure he was not being followed, until he was deep within the city, and the only sounds were his footfalls and ragged breathing.
                Kashan’s legs and lungs ached from the exertion of his run, but he knew he had to return as soon as he could and warn of the danger. There were more than a hundred assassins in the city, and perhaps two dozen would be at the headquarters. Yet as he rounded a corner and drew closer to his destination, he knew something was wrong. The usual silence of the night was agitated with distant sounds. Only a little further…
                It was too late. Kashan saw smoke rising up from the location of the headquarters even as he dashed towards it, and he heard the sounds of shouts and clashing metal and crashing timber rupture the stillness of the night. Stumbling to the end of an alleyway, Kashan finally laid eyes upon the brotherhood’s building. It was a burning mass of wood and clay and mud, the inferno swallowing the structure in a veil of smoke.
                At the foot of the enormous pyre that was their former sanctuary, a group of men watched the flames with as much shock as Kashan. They were his brother assassins, bound and on their knees with the city guards levelling spears at their backs. Among them he saw the long, grey hair of the Grand Master. The man was slumped dejectedly, staring at the ground rather than the collapsing building, or the bloodied faces of his fellow captives.
                A burly commander was shouting orders for the building to be extinguished so that the flames would not spread, and the surviving assassins were hauled to their feet and marched away. They would be taken and tortured for information on the other assassins throughout the city, but they were no longer a threat, in truth; the centrepiece of the operation now lay in ruins, and their leaders lay in chains. Kashan felt a peculiar rage rising inside him. He needed to kill.
                No, no. I need to concentrate. Kashan wondered where he could go. He needed to gather the other assassins, he decided – vengeance for the events of that accursed evening had to be exacted, and the men who had been captured needed to be rescued. Kashan pondered if he truly cared for the brotherhood, or any of its members. Kelon, who had taken him from the orphanage and tutored him in the art of death, had always been cold, and the Grand Master was a beady-eyed and bitter man. The other assassins were all sombre and reserved, much like Kashan himself. No, he had no bond of love with the Red Knives. But the brotherhood was simply all he knew, and he had to save it.
                “Over there!”
                Kashan’s deliberations were cut short as a guard pointed at him. He swore under his breath and turned to run back the way he had come, but a guard stood in his way, brandishing a sword. Darting forward even as he reached for his concealed knife, Kashan dodged the guard’s overarm slash and buried his knife deep in the side of the man’s neck.
                Then he was running again, passionate fury driving him forward. He would survive, he vowed, and he would revive the Red Knives from the flames which he had watched engulf them.

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5 - Apprehensions

2011-10-13T14:29:00.003+01:00

Note: The Galdenic system of warfare is based largely on Victor Davis Hanson’s theories on Greek warfare (see The Western Way of War). However, this is not to say that the situation in this story completely mirrors his views, or that I take all his views to be entirely correct. For the most prominent scholar in opposition to Hanson, see Hans Van Wees, especially his book Greek Warfare: Myths and Realities.

Ludus Damon closed his eyes and inhaled the sea air as he strolled along the waterfront at Dexos. It was another bright afternoon in the port city, the ships were rolling in, and people in their hundreds wandered across the embankment, all clad in clean, white togas. The scene was vibrant, awash with colour and the bustling sounds of the harbour, yet Ludus found his thoughts turning, as they so often did these days, to war.
                A few miles beyond the harbour, the great Guardian Isle rested in the water – a small, mountainous piece of land placed between the two curved ends of the Crescent. Myth had it that the gods had raised the place from beneath the waves so that the men of the Crescent might be able to protect themselves against any incursion on their shores. Ludus knew that to be no more than a legend, of course, yet the rocky island did indeed provide an excellent defence; any fleet attacking Dexos would be channelled down the narrow gaps between the Guardian Isle and the shore of the Crescent. On the highest point of the island stood the Guardian Idol – the giant golden statue which greeted all ships sailing into the harbour. Standing more than a hundred feet tall, it resembled a Galdenic hoplite, resplendent in full panoply and raising its golden spear to the heavens.
                As imposing as it was, the enormous warrior was not going to make any difference in a war. That would be left to men of flesh and blood like Ludus, and indeed, the prospect of war seemed to loom ever closer. Months before, it had seemed an unlikely eventuality, but tensions had grown by the day. Galdenic arms were shipped daily to the south of the Arman peninsula, but this, of course, caused friction with the Doquans. Their campaign against the south was still deadlocked; their generals debated day and night over the strength of the southern forces, and when and how to move against them. The Galdenes had just as little knowledge – though they had been beseeched by the Southern Confederation to form an alliance and send arms against the Doquans, the men of the Crescent had not yet decided to act.
                Valuable trade revenue was being lost as the Southern Confederation appropriated their resources for war rather than trade, and converted their merchant ships into vessels of war. If the Doquans succeeded in the war, they would make for far less cooperative trading partners than those they had conquered, and with absolute hegemony established over the Arman peninsula, perhaps they would look across to the Crescent as their next target.
                The Galdenes could act pre-emptively, and ally with the Southern Confederation to stop the Doquans in their tracks, or refuse to get involved, and run the risk of allowing a potential enemy to grow unstoppably powerful. Ludus found himself torn in two; he thought it right for the Galdenes to help the oppressed southerners, yet he himself had no wish to don the hoplite panoply and march to war, as was his duty. Each day on his beautiful island home was tainted with the lingering fear of the call to arms.
                Ludus wondered what he would do with the remainder of his day. He was tempted to visit Artemis, high in Temple Heikkos. No doubt he would be away in some government meeting, though; the international tensions that had been building with the Doquans had left the Ministerial Assembly agitated and uneasy, and Artemis would be called in to bestow the gods’ favour on their constant meetings. The Ministerial Assembly comprised the elected rulers of the Galdenes, who appointed the magistrates and consuls such as the one Ludus worked for.
                Perhaps Artemis’s preoccupation was a good thing, anyway; their conversations always included the latest information Artemis had heard in the Ministerial Assembly, and it was always news which did little to assuage Ludus’s perpetual worry. The ministers, along with the Consul of War and Consul of Diplomacy, had all tried to assure the Galdenes that war was unlikely, but few believed the message. Plenty of citizens were praying for war, in fact; many a great and wealthy hero was made in the fires of combat, and were the conflict to be won, the power of the Galdenic Republic would swell impressively – as would the treasury. Whatever people believed, the state was certainly preparing for the eventuality of war; new triremes were being constructed, ready to protect the coast of the Crescent, or bring the fury of a Galdenic hoplite host upon their enemies across the waves.
                If war did come, Ludus knew it would be an affair more brutal than any that had come before. Historically, all the cities of the Crescent had fielded hoplite armies; tight formations of armoured men bristling with spears and protected by huge shields. Battles took place on a single day, in a single engagement; a system of fighting made possible through the mutual understanding of traditions. Neither archers nor cavalry encroached upon the field of battle; the clash of heavy infantry was the central act of warfare.
                If the legions of the Doquans were to do battle with the Galdenes, such time-honoured traditions would not matter. There would be no restrictions, no limitations; both sides would fight to win in any way possible. Doquan cavalry would sweep around the flanks of the hoplite phalanxes, and Galdenic archers would loose volley after volley of deadly arrows. The Galdenic aristocrats were already equipping and training themselves to form a heavy cavalry force, to strike the Doquan legionnaires while they were fixed in place by the shielded mass of the phalanx.
                The Galdenes did not field a professional army. Instead, all citizens who owned sufficient wealth to equip themselves with the hoplite panoply would be called upon to fight. Ludus, being of wealthy stock, met the property requirements and would have no excuse to ignore his duty to partake in the levy. His grandfather had passed down to him a splendid set of armour, should Ludus ever be sent to fight – his greaves, his cuirass, his helmet with a horse-hair plume, all forged of sturdy bronze, were stored in his house, ready for use. As for his armament, he owned two spears eight feet in length, and a shield three feet in diameter, as well as his short sword. It was the same equipment all the great heroes of Galdenic literature had carried, and just as magnificent to behold. Yet Ludus was no hero; he was but a frightened merchant’s son, barely a grown man and yet standing on the eve of the most climactic conflict ever to befall the world.
                He tried his best to banish the thoughts from his mind. It was a sunny afternoon on the waterfront; surely such splendid days should not be spoiled by the ominous shadow of events that had not yet come to pass. And hopefully shall never come to pass, thought Ludus. A trader up ahead was exclaiming wildly about the quality of his fish, as were his neighbours, each one trying to drown out the other. Crates of goods were being carried across the cobbled harbour by grunting men and their donkeys, as yet more wares arrived in the vessels Ludus could see on the horizon.
                The air was aflame with smells and sounds; the bustling atmosphere of the harbour infused itself with the breeze to create a swirling mass of liveliness. Ludus felt the fresh wind caress him and was warmed by a welcome spark of hope – the evils of war had no place amidst the cries of the merchants and murmurings of the crowds. Dexos was a hub of life; a gem shining bright against the onset of bleakness.
                He smiled as he looked upon the palette of vitality and colour that was his home. His family had only lived in Dexos for two generations; his ancestors were farmers who lived inland, but his grandfather had earned them wealth and status fighting heroically in the wars that had brought the Crescent under the sole control of the Galdenes. Ludus’s father had not inherited his taste for war – much like Ludus himself – and had used the spoils to create a family fortune as a merchant. It was through his father’s connections that Ludus had attained his job as an aide to the Consul of Trade, in fact – an admittedly unchallenging role, but one which would take him onto far greater things, to be sure. He was not yet twenty, and the future held great promise; perhaps he would write a great work some day and sail across the Inner Seas, as old Artemis had always dreamed of.
                A rising commotion up ahead grabbed Ludus’s attention. An agitated murmuring was emanating from a growing crowd standing by a docked ship. The vessel was slim and sleek; a fast, elegant trading ship with embroidered sails. It had arrived recently; sailors milled about on its deck, bringing cargo up from the hold and changing the rigging. They were rugged-looking men, nearly all bearded and wearing togas which had seen considerable use.
                Like Ludus, many of the people on the waterfront were looking inquisitively towards the thrumming collection of men by the newly-arrived ship. He spotted an urchin take a loaf of bread from a distracted baker, while the other pedestrians pointed and walked towards the centre of attention. Ludus followed the stream of people, pushing his way into the crowd to see what the fuss was about.
                “What’s going on?” he asked the man next to him in the crush of bodies.
                “Big news from the Arman peninsula, apparently.”
                Slipping between two women clutching baskets in front of him, Ludus pressed his way to the front of the throng. The ship’s captain, his beard more finely trimmed and his clothes less flayed by age and sea spray than those of his crew, set down a wooden crate and stood atop it. A long, golden chain bounced over his prominent belly as he clambered up, waving his hands to call for quiet.
                “Fellow Galdenes!” he announced loudly, in a voice which marked him as being of rural origins. “We bring news of a terrible tragedy!”
                The man was clearly relishing the opportunity for oratory, but Ludus wished he’d get to the point and settle the tension that afflicted him.
                “Upon our voyage to the port of Tarium, we witnessed an incident which will shock every true to Galdene to his bones. We sailed under the banner of peace, to trade with the southern cities, and bought many fine wares which you may purchase at excellent prices from us today.” The merchant gave a little grin as the quiet turned to frustrated calls of impatience.
                “But yes, we brought more than just excellent goods back with us – we bring knowledge of a terrifying spectacle.” The crowd quietened once more. “Many weeks ago, a small fleet sailed to sell arms to the southern cities of the Arman peninsula, which they so desperately need in their struggle against the vile Doquans. And it was at the hands of those vicious conquerors that the fleet of which I spoke – a fleet manned by good, true Galdenes – was destroyed!”
                A ripple of cries and yells and confused murmurs carried through the huddle of citizens. “I speak the truth, and every man aboard my vessel will attest to what I tell you now. Those brave countrymen of ours were beset by Doquan ships and killed, one and all.”
                Anger gripped the crowd. Furious exhortations punctuated the agitated chorus of voices – impassioned calls for vengeance rose until the sea air was aflame with rage. “War!” screamed one woman. The cry was echoed by another, and another, until the entire crowd was pounding out the chant.
                “War! War! War!” The lust of the crowd was stirred into a frenzy as men and women, young and old, sailors and merchants and wives and fisherman alike pumped the air with clenched fists and demanded blood. Ludus stood frozen in the middle of it all. Amidst the swaying mass, he went limp as all his nightmares came to devour him.

4 - Comrades

2011-09-19T23:42:00.001+01:00

“Four in a row, Barius! Give the poor bastards a chance!”
                “Pah! Give me a challenge!”
                The legion’s encampment outside Tarium was filled with the sounds of wooden swords, yelling soldiers, hissing cooking fires, and the pounding hammers of the smithies; all martial sounds, all crude sounds – yet they were joyous music in the ears of Markus Carbanis. As a man who had risen through the ranks to attain his position as general, Carbanis had spent most of life among military men in military camps. No house would ever feel as much of a home to him as a barracks.
                A blacksmith was hammering javelin heads in a forge to his left, and fish roasted on a brazier to his right. When Markus had showed his wife around a camp, she had been revolted by the smell – sweat, dirt, charred meat and burning fires all mingled with the stench from the latrines to create a rather unwomanly stink. Yet this was the smell of a thousand of Markus’s memories; it was through sweat and blood and dirt that he had waded to become General Carbanis, and there would be plenty more to come.
                A large crowd of men were gathered up ahead, whooping and shouting and arguing. Four wooden poles and a length of rope had been used to construct an arena. Carbanis remembered the fighting pits he had once duelled in, and this one was no different; the floor was slick with churned mud, and the combat was fast and aggressive. Carbanis made his way through the crowd to take a closer look, his men parting before him. In the ring, a huge legionary called Barius was fighting with another soldier.
                “What are the odds?” Carbanis asked a nearby bet collector.
                “Oh, er... 10 to 9 for Big Barius to win, sir,” he replied, using Barius’s distinctly unimaginative nickname. Carbanis found that soldiers were much better at assigning names to those they wanted to mock, but no-one would dare to insult the one of the biggest men in the legion.
                Barius’s opponent was tentatively circling him, looking for an opportunity to dart in and attack with his wooden sword. Fights were won by striking the opponent until some assigned score was reached, and Barius, as usual, appeared to be nearing it rather quickly.
                All around, Markus’s legionnaires were yelling for Barius to finish off his opponent. The hulking legionary was grinning, toying with his bruised adversary. Markus knew from experience that no man relished battle as Barius did; the man stood in the front ranks of every battle, wading into the killing with reckless abandon. He was a killing machine – a fearless, sadistic brute.
                Barius stood only a few inches taller than most men, but he was distinctively broader; a beastly slab of flesh crowned with a short stub of a neck and an extraordinarily ugly head. His face, scarred and crooked, seemed almost inhumanly grotesque, with a pair of tiny, dark eyes set deep into his grisly visage.
                There was a flash of movement as Barius’s opponent darted forward, jabbing low at his stomach. Barius spun aside, then slashed down to take his adversary in the neck, but the wooden sword was brought up just in time to parry. Barius stepped back, his opponent advanced, and their swords clacked as they moved back and forth, parrying and slashing. The deadlock was broken by a deft sidestep from Barius, and a thundering blow that knocked the sword from his enemy’s hand.
                Barius lightly tapped the man on the head, a mocking smile breaking across his loathsome features. “You lose.”
                There were cheers from the legionnaires as the defeated man made his way from the ring, splattered with mud and adorned with purple bruises. Barius was handed a cup of wine while the spectators reclaimed their betting money.
                “That’s your fifth in a row, Barius. Care to take a rest?”
                “I’ll stop when I’ve had a proper fight.” He poured a cup of water over his bald, scarred head, before spotting Markus. “Commander Carbanis!” Barius saluted and grinned his ugly, leering grin. “Care to face me, sir?”
                An uneasy silence followed Barius’s insolent proposition, but was quickly dispelled by Markus’s unintimidating reply. “You’ve taken on five already; it wouldn’t be a fair fight.”
                Indeed, Barius stood muddied and sweaty in the ring, exhausted and bruised from his exertions. But the muscular brawler was not about to withdraw his challenge; he had taken the head of a general when he waded into the fray at Kulem, and he was determined to defeat Markus there in the frothing mud of the camp.
                Markus’s rise from legionary to general was a legendary tale among the twenty-thousand men that comprised his legion. Many loved him for it; he was of a kind with the myriad of lower-class men that fought under the Doquan banner, and the only general not to have been appointed from the aristocratic classes. Still, many despised him for his achievements – while his former comrades still marched to battle on foot, Markus rode upon a stallion. While the legionnaires toiled and died in the terror of battle, anonymous figures on the dreadful killing fields, General Carbanis watched from the rear, or led the cavalry in a charge to steal the glory of the front-line fighters.
                Markus knew Barius had no love for him. Just as he had won his position as a general through his deeds, he would have to assert his authority by once again proving himself in the grit and strife of combat.
                “I’ll meet your challenge, Barius,” announced Markus. He filled his voice with steel, though he knew no words could affirm his power unless he succeeded in this physical trial. Time and again, Markus’s worthiness had been questioned by the common soldier and the aristocrat alike. For the latter, he had only to reel off his stunning victories on the field of battle, and his knowledge of the Galdenic military historians. The men he led, however, expected him to prove that he was capable of enduring the same troubles as they did; the exhaustion of the march, the bland camp food and the monotony of drill were all things that he periodically suffered to keep the loyalty of his troops.
                He could have chosen to command with an iron first, like General Molinus, but for all the fierceness of that brutal man’s soldiers, they would sooner rout than stand before overwhelming odds. Through valour and virtue, Markus had earned the respect of thousands, and so long as he retained that respect, he would possess a force of men who would follow him to the depths of hell.
                The ring-fighters went about their duels wearing their standard-issue tunic and sandals. Two men rushed to help Markus out of his equipment; they removed his red cape and the gleaming set of ornamental armour he wore for display. He wore the same sandals as his men – they were so practical as to be indispensible even for the resplendent general. His tunic, however, was made of fine material, and dyed red.
                Markus was beyond the age of forty, and possessed more battle wounds than most men could boast of, including Barius. A scar above his eye told of a sword slash that he had barely managed to dodge, and his legs bore the wounds of a trio of arrows. The life of a general had not softened him: his arms bulged with muscles, and his chest rippled with power. As he caught the wooden sword that was tossed to him, his fingers gripped its hilt, a feeling made familiar by a lifetime of combat. The sweat of six losers clung to that sword – it was up to Markus to give it a victory.
                “Best of three?” suggested the scorekeeper. Barius grunted and Markus nodded his assent as he stepped over the rope that marked off the arena. The two men faced each other from either side of the ring, preparing themselves for the clash of wood and muscle.
                “Are you ready, sir?” the scorekeeper asked Markus.
                “Indeed,” he replied.
                With that, the men closed the space that separated them; no more than twelve feet of filthy slush. Barius made the first move with a crushing overhand attack. Markus blocked it easily, but the force of the blow numbed his arm, giving Barius time to draw up and come in from the side. Slicing across his body, Markus knocked the strike aside, then cut at Barius’s exposed torso. There was no way to block in time, and the first point went to Markus.
                The aggressive, powerful strikes were typical of Barius, but that first round had been fought terribly. Barius was tired and impatient at this point, but he would not attack so overtly the next time, Markus knew.
                In the second bout, Markus struck first. He drew close to his adversary, trying to taunt him into making another foolish attack, but Barius was not so easily dislodged this time. Markus made a sudden jab, hoping to catch him off-guard, and was met with an equally fast parry. In the same movement, Barius struck at Markus’s face, and was blocked. Barius had Markus on the defensive now, and the two men hacked and parried again and again, with Markus stumbling backwards all the while.
                Then Markus felt Barius’s foot sweep underneath him, and a flash of panic shot through his stomach as he toppled backwards. He lifted his arm up to block at Barius’s coming blow even as he thudded onto his back, but Barius struck fast, jabbing hard into Markus’s stomach.
                The thrust made Markus cry out in pain. The sword’s tip was not so broad that the blow been able to wind him, but the force of the strike driving into him had delivered a shocking pain. Markus knew he should have given Barius a similarly debilitating blow.
                He dragged himself from the dirt, humiliated by his shout of pain, but determined to stand and win. Some of the onlookers were laughing. All the men who hated him were cheering for Barius, willing him to take the final point and show the commander’s weakness.
                “You get down on your back pretty easy, sir,” Barius sneered. “I hear your wife's the same.”
                “I could have your tongue for that, pig spawn.” Markus’s eyes flashed fury. None of the onlookers were laughing now; Markus’s detractors and supporters alike had gone silent, shocked at the legionary’s insult.
                “Come. Take what you will from me,” smiled Barius, holding out his sword for the third round of fighting. Markus strode forward, his honour as a soldier, as a general and as a husband all on the line.
                The general lunged into the offensive, jabbing low then slashing high, matching the strength of Barius’s blows. The exchange was fast, elegance sacrificed for force. Neither man yielded more than a few steps before the tide turned their way and they were the one pressing forward.
                Panting, Markus stepped away from his opponent. The two men circled one another, eyes locked and burning with anger. Markus was disconcerted by the impudence he had just suffered; Barius’s supporters had been too afraid to laugh at their comrade’s comment, but even so, Markus wondered if there was a possibility of a mutiny.
                Barius tried to slice at Markus’s side, but the general was too quick. As he blocked the strike, he spun in towards Barius and crashed his elbow into his face. The impact produced a sickening crunch and a roar of anguish, and Markus finished him by swiping his sword upwards and into Barius’s neck.
                “That’s a point! You win, sir!” yelled the scorekeeper. Markus stepped back from his defeated opponent, seeing defiance and fury boiling in his face.
                “Men,” declared Markus, stretching out his sword arm and pointing it straight at Barius, who knelt exhausted in the dirt. “Take this disgrace to a cell.”
                Cheers erupted amongst the crowd of legionnaires. “Carbanis!” they chanted. “Carbanis, Carbanis!” All the men who had laughed at his fall took up the cry as well, and Markus felt hands reach out to touch him in his victory. He threw the wooden sword down in the mud as a slave hurried to him with a stool. But rather than sitting on it, Markus stepped atop it and towered over his legionnaires, drawing himself up to his full height.
                He waved his hands for silence and looked out over the couple of hundred soldiers beneath him. More were emerging from nearby tents, abandoning their dice games and conversations to investigate the commotion outside.
                “You are the men of the fourteenth division of Wolf Legion,” Markus began as the crowd hushed itself. “This is the legion that stormed the gates of Morium, and held the men of Kulem at bay in the mountain passes, all those years ago. When the men of Annis assailed us with slings and bows, I held the line beside my comrades – not a great general, but a legionary like any one of you.”
                There was more cheering, especially from the veterans. The legions each had their histories and their great achievements. Fresh recruits trained and fought by the sides of men who had been in the legion for years or decades, and so the ethos of the force lived on. The old veterans told the recruits stories of their valorous feats, and the young strove to bring honour to the legion.
                “I will not tolerate division amongst you,” Markus continued. “You fight in the same unbroken line, and you will fight for the man by your side as you fight for the entire legion. Know this: war looms, and we do not know the nature of our enemy. Yet I do know that you will stand firm against whatever threat you are destined to face.
                “You are the men of Wolf Legion. You are Wolf Legion, each and every one of you. Do not dishonour yourselves with dissent or cowardice, for you shame every one of your comrades in doing so. Stand with me, and I shall stand with you. For glory!”
                “For glory!” echoed hundreds of voices, a chorus of pride and elation. As the jubilant cry filled his ears, Markus knew beyond doubt that these men were loyal to him.

3 - Shadows

2011-08-31T19:17:00.005+01:00

Nights in the magnificent port city of Ado were queer to behold: while the docks still bristled with nearly as much activity as they did under the full light of the sun, a ripple of eerie stillness crept over the rest of the city. The brothels and inns near the port were filled with customers, but in the centre of the city and beyond, none of the taverns kept their doors open for very long after dark.
                If you were a rich trader, you lived in luxury on the waterfront. The less wealth you had, the further inland you lived, until you were one of the many citizens who locked their doors to the dark inner city nights. The citizens of Ado had a saying: a successful man dies with gulls on his roof. To live closer to the docks was to be prosperous, but for one man in Ado this aspiration did not hold true.
                For Kashan, the stillness that gripped nights deep in the city was perfect; the empty streets, locked shutters and gnawing silence were welcome. While there was always activity near the city’s various bazaars, where all manner of unscrupulous fellows lingered by night, the winding, dusty streets on which people lived were strangely empty.
                Kashan kept no friends or lovers. He had no siblings or parents; only himself. He looked different to all the other men he’d met – his skin was darker than the traders he’d seen from the Crescent or the Arman peninsula, yet not as dark as the men of the Gold Coast on which he lived, or the charcoal-black inhabitants of the Spicelands. His eyes were narrower, as were his lips and nose. One boy in the orphanage in which he’d been raised had called him lizard-boy – one of the more accurate insults he’d suffered in his childhood.
                Kashan could not remember how he’d come to be in that orphanage. He had only one memory of his life before then – a flash of blood and a woman’s scream that came upon him in his dreams. “Jaihal!” the woman would shriek. Kashan didn’t know what the word meant, nor why blood drenched his vision, nor why he always awoke feeling vulnerable, hugging himself and shivering.
                Perhaps it was no more than a dream, but Kashan clung to it; he knew nothing else of his past. He had asked the owner of the orphanage, a fat, stern woman, how he had arrived there, but she could tell him only that a hooded man had left him there in the middle of the night as a child of three. Kashan had long since wondered who that man was – his father, perhaps? Did he know the screaming woman who haunted his dreams?
                Whatever the truth of Kashan’s origins, he had been thrust into the same bitter childhood as hundreds of other orphans, bastards and abandoned souls in Ado – condemned to one of the gruelling orphanages established throughout the city. They were not there to give children a chance in life; they were there to separate the filthy beggar louts from the rest of the population. As such, the places were unkempt and festering: overcrowded complexes of shoddily-constructed huts, which were almost as hard to ignore as the street vagrants, clawing and groaning at passers-by for coin.
                Kashan had grown up amidst the dispossessed. None of the vicious matriarchs who oversaw the children had any hope for them; the girls would be lucky to find a warm tavern to sell their bodies in, and the boys would end up begging or stealing until the city guards removed their hands, or some other creature of the streets gutted them.
                Kashan had always been different. It was not just his strange looks, or the way he had begun to grow dark body hair at the age of eight. He simply seemed unable to mix with other people; they always shied away from him, as if afraid. He disconcerted people with his very presence, though he could not say why.
                Doubtless they would have been even more unnerved if they had known what he was capable of doing. At the age of nine, he’d strangled a rat, staring as he squeezed the life from it. A year later, he cut the throat of a stray dog, horrified yet excited by the sticky blood all over his hands. Kashan knew he shouldn’t have killed the animals; he certainly should have felt bad for it; yet doing it brought him a sense of calm – a release from a perpetual unease that had haunted him for so many years.
                The dark instincts that infected him never compelled him to anything beyond killing animals, until he turned thirteen. Four of the other orphans had been harassing him for weeks, calling him “freak”, jabbing him whenever the matrons’ backs were turned, boiling Kashan’s anger into a deadly venom. One night, they held him down and beat him, unaware that they had awoken a terrifying spirit within the strange boy. As Kashan pissed blood the next day, he planned his tormentors’ deaths carefully, sharpening an animal bone until he had created a brutal spike.
                He murdered them all a week later. The kills were perfect; none of the boys woke until the makeshift weapon was driven through their neck, the spectre of death stifling their screams. Kashan had crept back to his room, covered in blood and still clutching the sharpened bone, but he did not care that he would be caught and pay the price for his deeds in the morning. He was overcome with a sense of contentment he had never known before, and slept the most peaceful sleep of his life.
                Kashan had awoken with a knife at his throat. A guard fetched by the matrons, he had thought. Now that the wonderful feeling of completeness had worn off, the prospect of death seemed considerably less trivial.
                It turned out that it was not Kashan’s day to die, however; the knife withdrew from his throat, a hand helped him to his feet, and he left the orphanage to be recruited into the Red Knives – a league of assassins operating in Ado. He had trained for years, performing tasks until he was deemed ready to receive his own red-hilted dagger – the mark of an assassin.
                Now twenty years of age, Kashan prowled through the shadowy streets of Ado, ready to take yet another life. A wealthy merchant had demanded the head of another rich trader who was stealing his business, and he had paid the Red Knives a hefty sum to deal with his competitor. Such disputes were the most common reason for enlisting assassins, and often one week’s client became the next week’s target. Kashan didn’t care who he was ordered to slay; he got paid and he got to kill regardless. Sometimes he was tasked only with intimidating people – a job which he found utterly tedious unless there were guards to take out.
                Kashan drew his hood tighter over his head and walked towards the waterfront. He lived in the inner city, where the Red Knives were based, taking advantage of the quiet nights and anonymous buildings. Most of the league’s targets lived closer to the sea, however, so Kashan was required to make his way through the city to complete his jobs.
                The streets were bare and dusty, lined on either side by tall houses rising three storeys into the cool night air. The houses looked all the same in the inner city: thin and dry, the colour of sand, as if the drab structures had sprouted from the desert ground. A stray dog padded across Kashan’s path, disappearing into an alley leading towards a bazaar. Kashan could hear the murmurs from the market, by night transformed into a hive of prostitution and drug-dealing. The city guards paid no mind to the business that occurred there; so long as they kept out of the streets and left no corpses behind, they were not a problem.
                Heading alone through streets and alleys, avoiding the seedy plazas, Kashan soon reached the district where his target lived. Many housing districts near the harbour were walled off and guarded in order to ensure the security of their rich occupants, and this one was no exception. The Red Knives had offered Kashan papers to get him through the gate, but he preferred never to be seen.
                Immersing himself in the shadows of an alley, he observed the housing complex. The area was about a third of a mile across and deep; a fortified square with walls rising twenty feet high. Small towers were placed on each corner. He counted two guards, each carrying a torch and wandering the walls, plus the four he knew would occupy each of the towers.
                Kashan had already planned his entry, using the tools and information that his colleagues in the Red Knives had gathered for him. He knelt in the shadows, waiting for several minutes until the guards in the towers changed, using the window of opportunity to dart towards the wall. The alley he approached from led him towards the rear of the complex, where the least attention would be directed.
                Keeping low, Kashan reached the foot of the wall, blending with its shadow. He drew a grappling hook from inside his cloak – an ingenious device which could be folded and stowed away in his garments – and threw it onto the top the wall. Tugging the rope to check the grapple had latched firmly in a crenel, the dark figure began to climb. The guards in the towers would not be able to see him scaling up without leaning out of their towers, allowing Kashan to climb unseen until his head poked over the top of the wall.
                He scanned the wall for the locations of the two guards, finding one looking out beyond the front gate, and the other peering over the side of one of the walls. Kashan hurriedly pulled himself up, gathered the grappling line and dashed into the tower to his right. Once inside the doorway, he was out of sight.
                Stuffing the grappling hook back into the folds of his cloak, the assassin drew his knife. A small, winding staircase led up to where the guard resided in the tower. Kashan put his foot onto the first wooden step, then the second, praying that his next footfall wouldn’t cause a creak. He ascended slowly and silently, until he reached the point where his next step up the wooden spiral would bring him within sight of the guard at the top.
                He held his breath and leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the guard. Beneath the conical roof of the tower, the man was looking out over the city, with his back turned to the stairway. He was only a couple of metres away, with the last few remaining steps still to climb. Kashan crept as close as he dared, then pounced with terrific speed.
                The guard found his mouth covered with a hand, a moment before a blade ripped across his neck. The man went limp instantly, and Kashan let his body slide gently to the floor. Flicking the blood from his blade, he set about undressing the guard’s corpse. Blood was spattered across the clothes, but it would be unnoticeable in the darkness.
                Once Kashan had donned the helmet, leggings and lamellar armour that his victim had worn, he picked up his spear and a torch burning in a bracket. Waiting to move when the guards were changing meant not only that he’d had a better chance of dashing undetected to the foot of the wall, but no-one would come to check on the now-dead guard until long after he had left.
                Now fully disguised, Kashan exited the tower, then made his way to the steps leading off the wall and into the housing complex. The other guards might be suspicious when they saw him walking around, but Kashan doubted that he would stopped; for all they knew, he was a legitimate guard on legitimate business, and his route wouldn’t bring him into direct contact with any of the others, anyway.
                The wall spoiled the attractiveness of the place, Kashan thought as he descended the stairs. Bushes and palm trees were dotted around the complex, with a beautiful fountain and garden at the very centre. The houses were large and wonderfully decorated, vibrant with colour and sporting many more exotic materials than the sand-coloured houses of the city’s poor.
                Galdenic architecture could be seen throughout – some houses possessed subtle hints of it, such as elegant friezes . Elsewhere, marble columns obnoxiously intruded, looking wholly out of place. Kashan had never been to the Crescent, but he was sure the Galdenes would hardly approve of the way their culture was shoved into the home of every wealthy fool along the Gold Coast. Sophistication and vulgarity were but an inappropriate portico away, it seemed.
                Nevertheless, Kashan was impressed by the place as he walked through the central garden. It was lacklustre compared to some of the other mansions and housing complexes in Ado, and the very wealthiest men spent most of their time in villas on the islands off the coast, but this place was still beautiful compared to the inner city. The garden bloomed with greenery, and water gushed from the mouth of a grand statue in the centre of a pool; a man-made oasis in a dry city in a dry desert. The attractive buildings and lush garden within a land of heat and dust made an admirable tribute to the resourcefulness of man – a tribute to be enjoyed only by those with gold, of course.
                A pair of men stood talking by a brazier, clothed in desert scarves and robes, but besides them, all the residents were indoors. Kashan’s target lived at the end of a wide street with a line of palm trees running down the centre. It was one of the smaller houses, neither tall nor wide, but nonetheless pretty – a luxurious home that any of the city’s poor would kill for.
                Kashan approached slowly, noting the positions of the guards on the walls. As expected, they were looking out over the city rather than inside the complex they were protecting. Kashan still took care to stamp out his torch before examining the building’s windows. He quickly found the bedroom window – large, shuttered, but unlocked. Stupid merchants, thinking themselves safe...
                His fingers slithered inside the crack in the shutters, while he made one final check of the guards. The shutters swung outwards oh-so slowly as he coaxed them open, until he could put his head through the gap. The room within was expensively decorated; though darkness covered it, he could make out painted walls and a small statue in the corner. The merchant’s bed was to the left of him, and he could see that someone definitely lay under its coverings.
                Kashan eased himself up onto the window frame, his supple joints moving without a sound. He was a killer without match; a shadow in a city of shadows; a creature of darkness and death. He had trained many years to move with stealth and kill with speed, and the dark hunger within him always drove him to complete his task. As he lifted his legs up and over the sill, dropping onto the bedroom floor without a sound, he was ready to kill again.
                The red-hilted blade was drawn, and Kashan stepped forward to murder a man in his bed, as he had done all those years ago. Yet as he crept up to the bed, he knew something was wrong. Where was the man’s head? A sick feeling gripped Kashan as he pulled back the bedcovers to reveal a pile of straw.
                Shit, shit shit. They knew I was coming. He had to leave. If they knew he was coming and set up the decoy, there would surely be a trap waiting. He couldn’t simply leave with his disguise; if the guards at the gate caught a close look of him, they would know him for an imposter. His only choice was his original plan; he would have to rappel down the wall, the way he came in. But they would stop him, of course they would – once he left the house, they’d be waiting.
                A noise halted Kashan’s frantic thoughts. They’re in the house, he realised. The door to the bedroom was closed, and Kashan rushed over to it, preparing himself to attack whoever came through. He considered trying to take a guard hostage, but he knew that the others would value capturing him over saving their comrade. He would slaughter whoever had come to get him in the house; at least he would have fewer pursuers.
                There was a traitor in the Red Knives. Someone had to have sold him out, and for a good sum, no doubt – a man would be willing to pay more to keep his own life than to take the life of another. Kashan’s desperation to escape grew greater than ever – if there was a traitor in the Red Knives, his brother assassins were in danger.
                Kashan waited a long while by the door. He was not assailed, nor did he hear further noises. He could not wait there, he knew. Gripping his knife tightly, the assassin put his hand to the door and slowly began to open it.
                The hall that greeted him was empty. Moonlight streamed towards him from a window set in the far wall, and in the milky light, Kashan could make out vases and carpets and a large room at the end of the hall... So pretty, so still. Am I alone?
                The hope was torn from his mind as four men came out of the room at the end of the hall. In the moonlight, they looked almost demonic; silky spectres waiting to devour him. He could hear men moving outside the house to block any attempt to escape.
                “Put down your knife,” called a gruff voice. Kashan was frozen. For once, he knew not what to do. He considered killing himself – he would no doubt be tortured for information on the Red Knives. No, no, there was still a chance of escaping, but to fight now was folly. Kashan dropped his blade.
                Two of the guards came forward and grabbed him, dragging him through the hall by either arm. He was hauled into the room the guards had come from, where a man was lighting torches and another sat on a chair. The room was spacious, with a large stone table taking up near half its interior.
                Once the room was illuminated with torchlight, the man in the chair gave Kashan a cold look. He was a fat man, his plump face soft and hairless, looking neither young nor old. Kashan realised this was the merchant he had come to kill.
                “I would have you gutted right here, assassin,” the merchant spat venomously. “But the chief of guards wants to take you to be wringed for information. You’ve failed, assassin, and you shall die slowly.”
                The fat man waved his hand, his eyes still burning at Kashan. “Take him away.”
                “Wait.” The man who spoke up was the one who had been lighting the torches as Kashan was dragged in. He looked up at his face and felt shocked. He looks like me. The man had the same slanted eyes, the same narrow face, the same skin. He looked just as strange as Kashan, and just as shocked.
                Turning to the fat merchant, the man spoke quietly. “I know who this person is.” He looked at Kashan, his eyes remorseful and his voice heavy. “I’ve found you at last, Kashan.”

2 - Plans

2011-08-12T02:23:00.006+01:00

Commander Markus Carbanis made his way to the meeting of the king’s war council praying that the session would be a short one. The council met every few weeks to discuss military matters, and comprised the king, who unnerved Carbanis, and his three other appointed commanders, whom Carbanis detested.
                Detasus Molinus was the most bellicose of the generals. He was ageing now, but his passion for slaughter still persisted. Commander Ocellus was the king’s sycophantic nephew – inept, power-hungry and pathetic. Commander Trebian was fiercely patriotic and loyal to the empire. The people loved him; his speeches were gallant and rousing, for Trebian actually believed the nationalistic nonsense that he preached.
                King Valen, now well into his fifties, was a thin man with narrow eyes set into a hard face. The very sight of those eyes set men on edge; they seemed to radiate cunning and ruthlessness in equal measure. He was no mere brute like Molinus; he could be far more cruel and vicious, but everything he did was for a purpose. King Valen was determined to get what he wanted, and he would make the Doquans feared.
                The king had taken the throne at the age of twenty-three, and immediately set about his campaign of constant expansion. In seven years, he had defeated the Doquans’ ancient enemies, the city-state of Paltis. The city of Morium had thought they could defeat the young king, weakened as he was after his costly victory over Paltis. Morium declared war and moved in to take over, but they too were crushed in a struggle that lasted more than ten years.
                The sudden, near-disastrous incursion by Morium had been used by King Valen to create a propagandistic excuse for all his future conquests: the Doquans must conquer, lest they be assaulted themselves. The Doquan people would happily swallow whatever Valen proclaimed; he had brought great wealth to them, and since the levied citizen army had been replaced with a professional force, there were no downsides to the perpetual conflict for them.
                Markus Carbanis, a tall man just entering his forties, had no real interest in the machinations of the government or the politics of the ministers and generals vying to impress King Valen. Still, the chamber he was approaching was the heart of the entire scheme, and he’d have to endure the presence of the vipers within through yet another meeting. At times like these Markus missed the simplicity of being a simple officer; commanding no more than thirty men and answering to a disinterested captain.
                The war council was held in one of the rooms branching off from the throne room. The king conducted nearly all official business of the empire in the throne room, but neither its size nor its deliberate design features to highlight Valen’s dominance were required for the council. It was through the throne room that Markus now strode, marvelling at the size of it all. This late in the evening, it was deserted, which seemed to make it look even larger than when it was packed with dignitaries and ministers and slaves. Moonlight streaked through the enormous windows behind the throne, giving the marble beneath Markus’ feet an unnatural glow.
    The meeting would be centred on the Doquans' latest and perhaps most uncertain conflict: the war with the Southern Confederation. The Doquan Kingdom had been remarkably successful in its previous conquests, but now that the four major city-states of the south had joined together to oppose them, they were faced with an unprecedented challenge.
                Markus knocked on the brass door to the war council’s chamber, prompting a slave to open it from within. The room was windowless, illuminated by a myriad of torches mounted on the walls. It was not a large room, its stone floor covered mostly by a large table covered in maps and scrolls. Such enclosed chambers made Markus feel uneasy.
                His arrival was greeted with a roomful of neutral looks from the other three generals and the king, all sitting at the central table.
                “Take a seat, Carbanis,” said King Valen, gesturing. The king’s voice never seemed to fluctuate; it was neither inviting nor hostile, interested nor bored, pleased nor aggravated. “Commander Molinus was just about to inform us of the morale of his forces.” Morale reports were a customary part of proceedings.
                “The men are restless, sir,” announced Molinus as Markus seated himself. Detasus Molinus had been treated to an upbringing almost as privileged as the king himself, yet his voice had a brutish edge as if he were some army grunt from the city slums. “My troops want better food and they want to put iron to flesh. We’ve been waiting on the border for too long; let’s pillage the southern lands before the men get fed up.”
                “Before you get fed up, you mean,” Ocellus interrupted sharply. “You just want to rape and burn.”
                “You sneer all you like, you snivelling prick,” snapped Molinus. “Maybe I don’t want to join you in stroking some Galdenic statue, but neither do any of our men. They want to break down the gates of Milon and take what they’ve been waiting for.”
                “You really don’t have to talk like a gutter-born lout, you know,” said Trebian in a disinterested voice. He was propping up his head with his arm, clearly showing as little interest in proceedings as Markus felt. “But Molinus has a point,” Trebian continued. “We’ve spent several months on the border. What skirmishes we have fought have brought no gains; decisive action is to be taken now.”
                “Carbanis?” said King Valen, his eyes flicking over to him.
                “Every day we delay lets the southern cities ship in more mercenaries and prepare their defences,” stated Markus. “But we have not yet caught sight of their main army, and our spies have been unable to discover how many men they might have. I think caution is required – four plump city-states could have amassed a sizeable force.”
                “I concur,” said Trebian. “Would you support seeking them out in battle, then? As you say, delaying would only allow them to add men to their force.”
                Markus knew that a swift conquest was what the other generals wanted, and it was what the Doquan people were demanding. The Doquans were great conquerors; decisively taking the rest of the Arman Peninsula for themselves was surely what would be expected of their emerging empire. Nevertheless, Markus was not animated by the same lust for victory as the other generals, and was convinced that their hubris had clouded their judgement.
                “Swift action would be foolish,” said Markus. “I think a great advantage could be gained by engaging one of the cities of the coalition in diplomacy... Lita would be the ripest target. Bribe them, guarantee them peace and autonomy – it matters not, just make them sell out. Then they will tell us of the other cities’ strength, and we’ll have stripped away a good portion of it in any case. Perhaps the rest of the coalition will simply surrender or dissolve out of mistrust.”
                “That won’t work,” retorted Trebian. “They seem resolved to stand against us. We can’t break them – and I doubt we could fetch a bribe sufficient to satiate them.”
                “Nonsense,” scowled Markus. “Their coalition was borne out of the will to survive against us. If we offer one of them their freedom, they’ll be on their knees in the throne room faster than an Agelaxian chariot.”
                “Your method is pathetic,” grunted Molinus. “We will look weak and deceitful if we use subterfuge. We are strong enough to break them by force, and break them we shall. There’s no damned sense in waiting.”
                Ocellus spoke up now, his voice sounding puny compared to Molinus’ tones. “You are all forgetting another factor. What if the Galdenic Republic intervenes?”
                Even Markus joined in the scowls at this. The king continued to observe impassively as Ocellus voiced his thoughts. “Everyone knows they mistrust and dislike us. They want to keep their trading partners in the south – I have heard that even now they supply them with arms. If they join the war, our chances of any kind of decisive action would be gone.”
                “So strike the Southern Confederation now!” Molinus smashed the palm of his hand onto the table.
                Finally, King Valen spoke, his icy voice commanding silence. “I have heard enough for tonight. Much has been said; I want you to consider it carefully.” His hand drifted out and gestured at the door. “You may leave. I want your logistics reports by the end of the month.”
                The commanders rose, bowing their heads and touching their hands to their waists – the sign of respect in the Doquan military. Markus turned towards the door, smoothing back his brown hair, when he heard King Valen speak behind him: “You remain, Carbanis.”
                Carbanis turned back round to face the king as the other generals filed out behind him. He felt slightly nervous, truth be told. “Yes, sir?”
                Valen poured himself a goblet of wine as the door shut, and turned to examine Markus’ face. As ever, his pale eyes expressed nothing, seeming simply to absorb every detail of Markus’ features and stare deep within him.
                “Why, Carbanis?” said Valen after studying his face for several long moments. “Why do you command the legions of the empire? Why do you want to lead this kingdom to victory?”
                Markus swallowed and replied as he thought he should. “For glory, honour... and to serve you, sir.”
                Valen’s eyes flashed with impatience. It was the subtlest of things, but it shot Markus with a cold feeling. “I’d believe that from Trebian,” said Valen. “I’d expect it from Ocellus. But don’t you feed me some nonsense answer. What made you, Markus Carbanis, want to rise through the ranks and become a great general?”
                Markus didn’t know what to say. He himself was unsure of how he’d achieved his status. “I’m just a soldier, sir,” he spoke earnestly. “My father wanted me to serve in the legions and I was good at it. I had no plan to be a general, nor even to be a junior officer – I was just the best, and here I stand.”
                One of Valen’s eyebrows elevated ever so slightly. “You’re a curious man, Carbanis. Maybe you truly are as unambitious as you say.” He had not yet sipped his wine, and now he put it down on the table. “You’re certainly competent, in any case. What you said was true; we cannot invade the southern territories as we have done in the past.” He scratched slowly at his long, silver stubble while Markus remained silent.
                “You seem frightened of me, Markus,” said the king, with something like amusement entering his voice. “But I suppose if it stops you from blustering like Molinus then I won’t complain.”
                “You honour me, sir,” Markus smiled, reciprocating Valen’s now-light tone.
                Valen nodded and became formal once more. “We shall see how events play out. You are dismissed, Carbanis... Think up a solution to this dilemma if you’d be so kind.”
                Markus gave another salute in the Doquan style, and left the room feeling thoroughly relieved.

1 - Dawn

2011-08-08T00:14:00.005+01:00

The Year 841

A cool breeze swept over the Crescent as dawn broke. Artemis, Chief Diviner of the Galdenic Republic, stood atop his balcony and enjoyed the most majestic view one could hope to see on the Crescent. Being the most senior priest in the Galdenic Republic, Artemis resided in the holiest of temples – Temple Heikkos.
                The structure was a marble behemoth resting atop the highest point on the island, and from it Artemis could survey the land for countless miles. The beautiful port city of Dexos was but a few miles from the foot of the mountain on which Temple Heikkos was built, and Artemis could see its great walls and towers and bazaars, where vendors were setting up their stalls for another lucrative day.
                Dexos drew dozens of merchant ships into its grand port each day. Most came from the Gold Coast; vast shipments of exotic spices, crystals, dyes, herbs, even slaves, and all manner of other goods were shipped in from the hot lands of the south. Trade with the Doquan Kingdom to the west was comparatively sparse, and most of the shipments which arrived from there carried iron, marble, stone and other raw materials.
                The foreign ships left the harbour usually carrying more cargo than they had brought in; the Galdenic Republic exported vast quantities of grain to feed the dry lands to the south, and every fat merchant who called himself civilised wanted as many ornaments of Galdenic culture as possible. Tonnes of statues, paintings, pottery, instruments and books left the Crescent every day.
                Many Galdenic traders had found an excellent new way to make a profit by purchasing goods from the ships of the Gold Coast and selling them at higher rates to the Doquan merchants; many Doquans dared not sail to the Gold Coast for fear of being sunk by the navy of the Southern Confederation, with whom their bitter war waged on. The cities of the Confederation made yet another eager trading partner for the Galdenic Republic, and over time the Crescent had gorged itself on the spoils of trade.
                Artemis enjoyed going down to Dexos whenever his duties would allow; he loved speaking to the merchants and learning of the cultures and religions that lay across the Inner Seas. Many times in his twenty-five years as Chief Diviner he had longed to board a vessel and go watch the great desert games at Dolus, or visit the great library at Mosa, or sail past the Black Isle – a huge volcano that reached higher into the heavens than Temple Heikkos.
                Such dreams made Artemis smile, though they were tinged with sadness; he could never stray too far from the temple. Each morning he woke and each night he slept in the same luxurious bed, a prisoner in the temple to which he had devoted himself. The majestic view from Temple Heikkos both entranced and taunted him; sprawling Dexos, the sparkling waters of the bay and the mighty Guardian Isle which lay beyond were visions of a life he had forever denied himself.
                As he contemplated those bittersweet thoughts, another man drew up beside him, leaning on the marble balcony and joining Artemis in looking at the ground below. All around Temple Heikkos, no buildings were allowed to be built, nor crops allowed to be grown; save for the stone path leading to the temple’s entrance, the vast circle of land surrounding the temple was carpeted entirely in blue flowers. The previous Chief Diviner had ordered them to be planted following the completion of the conquest of the Crescent – the blue flowers represented the sea, with Temple Heikkos being a bastion of Galdenic virtue in the centre of it all.
                That had not been the idea of the Chief Diviner himself, Artemis knew; the rulers of the Republic had ordered the symbolic planting as part of their programme of assimilation. Now that all the previously warring peoples of the Crescent had been unified, a national identity had to be formed. The concept of the virtuous continent standing together against the outside world had found popularity, especially as the Doquans grew menacingly powerful across the Inner Seas.
                The man who now stood next to Artemis was one who aspired to be part of the ruling body of the Republic. Ludus Damon was a young aide to the Consul of Trade, Akos Thatas. A talented, intelligent boy from a middle-class family, Artemis had taken to Ludus as soon as he met him. Being the Crescent’s major port, Dexos was the permanent residence of the Consul of Trade and his underlings, and Artemis had met Ludus Damon on one of his strolls through the coastal city.
                Ludus was eager, idealistic and genuinely believed in the gods; not like so many of the politicians who came to Artemis demanding that he endorse a policy or appointment, or fix the auguries to maintain the public’s faith in their leaders. Artemis did not tell Ludus of such things, as he told no-one, and Ludus wasn’t cynical enough to suspect that they occurred at all. He instead came to Temple Heikkos to discuss religion and history with the wise Artemis.
                Today, Artemis could tell that Ludus was troubled. He did not approach jovially and shake Artemis’ hand, exclaiming about something new and wonderful he’d found down at the port. He stood beside Artemis and admired the view for many silent moments before he spoke.
                “Thatas says he sees war on the horizon.” Ludus looked up at Artemis, trying to watch his reaction. When Artemis remained vacant, he continued, “You are a learned man, Artemis. The wisest I know. Will we have war again?”
                “Ah, Ludus,” sighed Artemis, seeing the worry in Ludus’ sharp blue eyes. “It is in the nature of men to fight one another. You have studied enough to know that there will always be war.”
                Ludus nodded sadly. “Everyone fears the Doquans. Thatas thinks we should act now and help the southern cities before the Doquans have the entire Arman peninsula.”
                “I have heard it argued, yes. A war against them would be much easier with the Southern Confederation on our side, and even if we stayed out of it, our trade revenue would no doubt be cut when the Doquans occupied the southern cities.” Artemis stroked the hard stubble on his chin. Though he was in his sixties and succumbing to all the symptoms of old age, he preferred to keep his face and head shaved rather than let the grey hair be yet another sign that he would soon be in the final embrace of the gods.
                “There are of course those who take a different view,” continued Artemis. “I hear our own Consul of War thinks we shouldn’t involve ourselves in foreign affairs. Apparently we could repel the Doquans if ever they tried to invade... Though I suspect that his hubris is speaking there.” Artemis smiled faintly and looked at Ludus, who wore the same intense expression of concentration that he had whenever he listened to the old diviner.
                Ludus was slim and handsome, with short brown hair topping a face that seemed to boast his intellect. He had not yet turned 20; soon enough he would have taken a junior office in the Republic and married some beautiful girl from a wealthy family. How sad it would be, thought Artemis, if his promising life were to be cut short by the tragedy of war. Still, there would be many people in the Republic who would see war as a route for someone like Ludus Damon to become a great hero.
                “What do you think of it all?” asked Artemis. Ludus looked down and gathered his thoughts for a moment.
                “I feel it is the right thing to do to help the Southern Confederation. They have never done anything to provoke the Doquans. Yet I fear the ravages of war; we grow rich and prosperous here; surely it cannot be right to break the peace by fighting an enemy hundreds of miles across the sea?”
                Artemis shrugged. “Indeed, we have never fought an enemy on soil beyond the Crescent. But until eighty years ago, the Galdenic Republic never meant anything more than one warring city-state among many. Only forty years ago did we finally conquer this entire continent. We are players on the world stage now, Ludus.”
                Ludus nodded. “Indeed. May the gods grant us strength.”
                “May the gods grant us strength,” echoed Artemis. He placed a reassuring hand on Ludus’ shoulder. “Whatever the fate of our nation may be, young Ludus, I doubt the gods granted you so fine a mind as to destroy it in a war.” He smiled.
                “Yes,” mused Ludus with a wry smile. “Perhaps I should become a wizened old diviner like you. “ The two men laughed.
                “Likewise, I don’t think the gods would have furnished you with so handsome a face if your fate was to be a celibate priest,” replied Artemis. The laughter continued as the two men watched the first ships of the day sailing into the harbour of Dexos.

Prologue

2011-07-26T02:49:00.005+01:00

The Year 820

In the town of Kilreas, not a building remained untouched by flames, nor a woman's voice unscathed by terror, nor a man's body unbloodied. Come nightfall, nothing of that town would be spared the ravaging hands of the Doquan soldiers.
                Their commander, a hard-faced man called Detasus Molinus, sat atop his horse on a nearby hill, watching his men plunder and burn the small town that had dared to defy the might of the great Doquans. Beside the commander was another man, older and seated on a small, agitated pony. Atheman bore a look of disdain on his withered face, his large, intelligent eyes soaking in the brutal scene before him.
                Atheman was a diplomat from the Galdenic Republic, here to observe the emerging power that called itself the Doquan Kingdom. For weeks, his time as a guest among the Doquans had been marked by bold, ugly architecture, plain food and distinctly blunt manners. Certainly, this civilisation did not lack for the virtues of strength and hardiness, but their elegance and refinement were of a dismal standard compared to the ancient Galdenic state.
                Then, one morning, Atheman’s hosts had excitedly brought him good news: he would have an opportunity to witness the true greatness of the Doquans – their martial prowess. Atheman had little taste for warfare, but part the role he had been assigned was also to inspect the military capacity of the Doquans – every new empire was a new threat, and the bellicosity of this particular nation was worrying.
                Thus Atheman, Commander Molinus and three thousand troops had arrived at the small town of Kilreas, some way from the Doquan capitol. The young Doquan king, determined to use the military might of the army created by his father’s reforms, had been conquering cities throughout the Arman peninsula, and cowing others into giving extortionate tributes. In these early days of expansion, Kilreas had decided to resist the Doquans, relying on support from a pair of neighbouring cities which had since surrendered.
                The Doquan legionnaires had formed up on the flat ground in front of the city. Two thousand heavy infantry, carrying large oval shields and armed with a short sword and javelins, had formed a formidable centre six men deep. Three hundred cavalry and a large reserve of light troops waited behind.
                Atheman had been impressed to see near a thousand of Kilreas’ citizens, young and old, emerge from the city and face and the Doquans, carrying all manner of weapons from old swords to meat cleavers to clubs. The strength of the Doquan army was visible in all they did, from their disciplined marching to their gleaming equipment, yet these brave citizens of an insignificant town were putting themselves between the Doquan juggernaut and their homes.
                Commander Molinus, a brutish middle-aged man with a crooked nose, had reserved no admiration for those who would defy him. He merely snorted with dark amusement at the motley crowd of townsfolk before ordering his men to attack. The heavy infantry stomped forward, with the reserves hanging just behind on either flank.
                Molinus had seen no reason to waste the men’s javelins on this easily surmountable foe. The infantry continued to march at the same steady pace, grinning as they savoured the killing to come. The shouts of defiance from the townsmen died down as they were gripped by horror.

                The Doquan infantry beat their swords upon their shields, revelling in the palpable terror of their enemies. As the symphony of crashing steel drew closer and louder, panic seized the men of Kilreas. A handful turned to run, followed by yet more frightened men, before every fear-soaked man was fleeing.
                The ground shook as the Doquan infantry broke into a run; two thousand men charging forward in blood lust, all cohesion surrendered to the surge. The cavalry quickly overtook the armoured mass, and the yells and screams of the fleeing mingled with the pounding of hooves.
                Atheman had averted his eyes when the killing began. His own people were not averse to war; it had been only twenty years since the Galdenic Republic had won the whole of their continent for itself. Atheman was nevertheless a man who preferred his experience of warfare confined to the bloodless form of literature.
                Commander Molinus, the ugly general who Atheman had disliked from the moment they had met on the morning of the march, plainly had a rather different opinion of war to Atheman. He chuckled as his cavalry hacked at their helpless victims.
                “You Doquans enjoy watching slaughter?” asked Atheman, unable to prevent a note of scorn entering his voice. The Doquan commander fixed him with a hard look.
                “We Doquans,” he stated in a voice as ugly as his bent face, “enjoy watching those who would resist us fall like sheaves of wheat.”
                Atheman raised an eyebrow at his menacing tone. His hosts in the Doquan capitol of Tarium had been careful and gracious; the king and his court may well have been more used to dealing with their enemies by way of the sword rather than words, but they were aware of the need to keep the ancient might of the Galdenic Republic from taking a stance against them. Molinus was a military brute; he would no doubt relish a fight with the grand Galdenic army – an encounter that Atheman was confident would see Molinus’ men butchered as easily as the men of Kilreas. He resisted retorting Molinus, instead opting for a different tack.
                “The Doquan Kingdom certainly is conquering rapidly. Perhaps one day your forces will control the entire peninsula,” mused Atheman, prompting a small, satisfied smile from Molinus. “Yet for all you have achieved, you dare not advance beyond the Neck.”
                This set Molinus’ smile sour. The Arman peninsula which the Doquans occupied stretched down from the south-eastern side of a vast continent, joined to it by a narrow tether of land called the Neck. Little was known of the continent beyond the gateway that the Neck formed; some said nothing grew there but the trees, and others claimed wild tribes of savages roamed in their hundreds of thousands. Some people said that those who had formerly occupied the peninsula had gone there; but most thought those people had died out, while yet others suggested they had left to find a new home across the sea. No-one knew quite what the men or beasts of the continent were like, but whenever the Doquans had talked to Atheman of the dense forests that lay beyond their youthful kingdom, their voices were lined with anxiety. Better to focus on the sunny, fertile peninsula slowly falling under the Doquan boot than the misty enigma of their north-western neighbours.
               For all the books and wisdom of the Galdenic scholars, Atheman knew just as little of the world west of the Arman peninsula as the Doquans did. The Galdenic Republic ruled a large island they called the Crescent, after its shape, to the east of which lay a vast land called the Eastlands. The distance from the Crescent to the Eastlands was four times the journey to the Arman peninsula, and was home to a civilisation more ancient than any of the west. A vast wall blockaded the entire coast of the Eastlands, and the Galdenic explorers who had tried to make contact there had been ordered to leave by the dark, bearded inhabitants.
                To the south of the Crescent were the great cities of the Gold Coast: a trio of independent city-states who flourished from trade. A barren, uninhabited wasteland called the Drylands separated their territories from the Spicelands and the Agelaxian Oligarchy. The Spicelands were inhabited by roaming desert tribes who perpetually fought each other. The Agelaxians controlled another coastal trading empire, but enjoyed a dubious reputation among the Galdenes; suspicions that they had attacked Galdenic merchant vessels had never fully dissipated on the Crescent.
                Beyond that, neither the Doquans or the Galdenes knew anything for sure of the world that surrounded their fledgling states. Legends and myths abounded, and they knew that the land they controlled constituted but a mere fraction of all the world. The two states were emerging from their own short, blood-stained histories into a world shrouded in mystery, where supposed wisdom shrank before the mists of the unknown.
                Molinus knew all these things as well as Atheman. As the two men overlooked the burning town of Kilreas, Molinus replied to Atheman with typical Doquan hubris.
                “We march where the king marches us.”