Spirits of Ekaria

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Unedited - Draft 1

Time ebbs and flows like a vast wide river. I stand on the bank and watch as it curves and cuts its way through the valley. I see the headwaters. I have stood in them. I see where the river ends. When all things cease to pass, even time, and I and the kin of Spirits who rule over this world will move on. The surface is smooth like glass, the overall outcome of events and choices, but I can reach in and draw a handful and there its deeper records unfold to me.

When we set these waters to their path long ago, we did not expect that mortal men whose lives are but fleeting moments, that they would use their lives to build up damns. To change the course of the river. One works feverishly as we speak. The Ruiner King. However, he is not the first. I stand in a canyon of what was to have been, the dry bed of cracked clay. There was punishment, of course, for these mortals who set to unmake my river.

This Ruiner King has but a few more trees to place and then my vast river will halt. All will be glorious for him for a moment as the water rises, as he holds his man made lake. But the river always finds a new path, it will cut into the ground. It will erode what was meant to stay.

And I fear that this time, retribution will be absolute.

Unless. Unless his brethren have the strength to see the danger and destruction he chances. Can they break the damn in time?

Prologue

It was a battle with the highland Lumur. They were particularly fierce in this war. But then, the Kindol had been battling the Lumur for centuries, and both sides had grown fierce as of late. They left none alive and the towns near the border were constantly decimated.

This was Prince Rune’s first time leading a legion to battle. He was young, yes, barely a man in the eyes of most. But he was their Prince and they knew he had fought on the fields of battle many times over with his father, the crowned King of Kindol. The boy had been studying the art of war since he could walk. They trusted him. He would not fail them.

Prince Rune galloped to the head of the line, his sword held high.

“Men of Kindol! Men of the North! The Lumur have encroached on your lands! They have killed your women and children. They have slain us, they have tested us, they have challenged our rule! It is time we make a stand today! It is time we show that these borders are strong and none shall tread through them lightly! None shall challenge the Kindol and go unanswered! Today we fight! Men of Kindol! Men of the North!”

He road down the line, all cheering. Chanting to Kindol.

He felt glorious.

He heard the whistle of the arrow and turned only a moment before it would pierce him.

It happened so fast, he saw the arrow and his heart called out. No, no not this day. I do not want to die this day. I give anything, I give all, please do not take this life from me. I can not die on this field!

The arrow burned to nothing in the air only a foot from Rune’s outstretched arm.

Then like a blossoming dome, the shower of arrows coming toward them all burst into fire and were nothing. Not one Kindol man was harmed.

A fanatical smile flew across Rune’s face. I can not die. I do not die. I feel a power surging in my veins. Those arrows fell because I asked them to.

“TO ME KINDOL! AND TO VICTORY!” he cried and the sword in his hand became a flaming pillar to which he would strike down his enemies.

Many Lumur would die this day at the hand of a Prince. At the hand of a God.

The Death Bryn Helkyrie of Elys

The dream was horrific.

Bryn startled awake with a gasping breath, clutching her chest. She felt disoriented, feeling like she didn’t know how long she had been asleep. Last she could remember she had fallen ill and her father had carried her to her bed.

It was unnaturally dark. Something wasn't right.

This was not her bed. She slid her hands down to the surface she was resting on. There were no blankets, no covers, not like she remembered lying down on. She let her fingers wander away from her body. It was then, as her nails scrapped across and down the sides of the dais that she realized she was on a bed of cold stone. The granite was cut smooth and only slightly wider than her body. Her body that seemed to be laid out among dead flowers. Bryn took the wreaths and bundles that were along her side and across her waist into her hands. They were dried and near decay.

As the petals fell from her finger tips, dust in her lap, the overwhelming fear broke over her.

She screamed and found she could not stop screaming, the terror coming over in waves.

She knew where she was.

This was a tomb.

She screamed for so long her voice failed her and she subsided into rasping sobs. Her only thoughts were that she needed to get out. There had been some horrible mistake. She was just sick, just taken ill, all she had needed was rest and the care of her mother. Not a tomb. Not a cold dark tomb. Bryn stumbled from the dais onto the marble tile ground. Her feet were bare and her clothes foreign, but these details were beyond her at the moment. She took quick steps forward, her arms out in front of her reaching into the blackness. Her legs hit something before her hands did, another dais most likely. Automatically her hands went down to it and were met with the fragile fragments of bones. A hand. She screamed once more, finding her voice. She started to run wildly within the dark, her arms flailing out trying to keep her from knocking into the bodies of her ancestors.

Finally, there was a spot of light ahead of her. A patch she could scramble for. When she reached it she discovered it was a door. Glass and iron. A door she had been on the other side of many times. This was her family tomb. The tomb of the Helkyries for centuries. The knowledge of this did not comfort her. Why in Ekaria was she entombed? Did she not breathe? Was she not standing now? The door was sealed tightly and Bryn found no way to open it on this side. She tried to hit it with her small weak fists, tears still streaming. The glass was thick and seemed to mock her with its bright colors and transparency. She could see the world outside but could not break out of the tomb.

Sinking to the ground, she dragged her nails down the door. Several of them broke on the iron pieces, smearing blood as she scratched and scratched. It was perhaps this last ditch effort that consumed what was left of her energy and she slumped against the frame, crying, pleading.

“Please, please, anyone… is there anyone outside? Mother? Please…” and she lapped into silence, her head resting on the cool glass.

How long she sat that way she did not know. She did not even know how long she had laid in this tomb taken for dead. Long enough for the funeral flowers to wither and die. The light had changed and she knew it was well past dusk outside.

She found herself standing and walking calmly to the nearest dais she could find. As the flesh on her arms rippled with bumps she felt the surface for something solid. At last her fingertips grasped what she had to assume was a skull. A grandfather. A great-great aunt. She couldn’t even think about it. She ran back to door flinging the skull as she neared with as much strength as she could muster. The skull shattered a frame of glass near where the two doors met. She wrapped her hand in the long sleeve of the dress she was wearing and thrust it through the opening. She scrabbled around trying to find a latch. There at last, she managed to unhinge the tomb doors.

The sweet smell of the sea air greeted her and she collapsed onto the ground outside the tomb and crawled as far as she could. Under the low light of the stars and moon, she could now see she was in a funeral garment. A long white dress, ornately detailed with lace and ribbons. A dress probably made by the women of her family.

Suddenly, the dress caught fire. She gasped as she watched the woman engulfed in flames. The woman began to scream in agony. She closed her eyes and covered her ears to try to drown out the sound. With her ears covered, it sounded more like a bereft wailing than an, “Oh God, oh God, I’m on fire cry of anguish.” The screaming stopped and she uncovered her ears. Slowly, she opened her eyes, afraid of what she would see. In front of her the woman stood, unblemished by the flames, and as naked as the day she was born.

It was several hours later that she awoke again, huddled outside near the base of an olive tree several feet from the doors to the tomb. The tomb itself was carved into the side of one of the mountains that surrounded the city-state of Elys. The Helkyrie villa was not far away. She knew she could walk the distance even without the protection of shoes. The road that led away from the tomb took her to the base of the mountain and the main road leading into Elys.

Bryn followed the road for a short time before she veered off over the grassy hillside, a shortcut to the vast villa her family lived in. As she rounded a bend in the foothills she saw the villa come into view. The sight of it froze her in her tracks. The windows and doors were all covered in burgundy cloth. Long drapes of it flowed from nearly every external bar and ledge.

Burgundy. The color of mourning.

She started walking again, her steps slower this time. Would they be overjoyed to see her alive and well? Would they tear the drapes from the windows and throw them to the ground in joy? She ran her hands through her hair, suddenly feeling self conscience about her ragged appearance. The white funeral dress, dirty and bloody from her escape hung on her as though it were meant for a girl larger in size. Had she thinned in the tomb? How long had her family been mourning her death? There were dry flakey rose petals littered in her hair and dried blood along her broken nails. She cried again, this time for her lost beauty. For the body and face she had before falling ill. Would she be able to return to that?

Bryn neared the entrance to the villa, which seemed all too silent. Where were her nephews? Why did they not run about the walls? Where were her aunts and sisters gathering fresh linens from the hanging lines? Why were her father and his brothers not out in the vineyards tending to the ripening grapes? The burgundy drape above the front door fluttered quietly in the wind.

It was then she heard a scream.

Along the side of the house a maid of the household had emerged, a basket of fresh bread dropped at her feet, her hands covering her mouth. Bryn recognized her.

“Verde! Verde! It is I, Lady Bryn! Verde, please!”

But Verde the maid had fled, screaming into the house.

Bryn attempted to follow, but the door was slammed shut. She stood outside her home and yelled to any that would hear.

“I am not dead! I am not dead! Mother! Father! Please! Let me enter!”

It was several minutes before her father emerged, his eyes cold, onto the veranda. He looked down at Bryn from the story above.

“Go away demon! Our daughter is dead! Leave us! Least your presence brings ill luck. We can take no more death in this home. Please, just leave us demon!” he screamed at her.

Bryn stumbled backward. “Father?! It’s me! It’s your daughter! Please, father!”

“GO BACK TO THE DARKNESS FROM WHICH YOU HAVE COME! DEMON! LEAVE MY FAMILY IN PEACE!” He was crying now as well as yelling himself horse.

Bryn started running away out of horror as much as fear. Her own family. They had abandoned her for dead. She had no where to go. She ran along the narrow road that led away from her home. The only home she had ever known. Born and raised on the Helkyrie vineyard, Bryn was only seventeen years. Or maybe she wasn’t now that she was dead. What was she that she had been so easily mistaken for a corpse?

Her feet carried her far along the outskirts of Elys and she realized then that she was going toward the home of the Vaangords. The home of Garen Vaangord, her betrothed. Garen would take her in. She was to be his wife, he would have to.

The day was still young and Garen was out doing chores on his land. Bryn could see him from a distance, hauling equipment. He paused to wipe sweat from his brow. Bryn stopped short of him her heart skipping a beat. She loved Garen whole heartedly for years. It was only now that he had taken over the Vaangord household that he had asked her to be his bride. It was at this moment Bryn saw that the crops had been harvested. It had not even turned colors when last she strode across the fields. Could she have been sick that long? In that tomb for that long?

It was as Bryn stood, her mouth agape that Garen saw she stood near. The young man froze solid to the spot and stared at her a growing look of fear spreading over his features. Bryn started to speak, to move forward toward him her arm extended. Garen let loose a scream and stumbled backward, tripping himself over the equipment he had just been holding.

“Garen! Are you alright?”

“S-Stay back! Stay away!” he stuttered.

“Garen?! My love, have I changed so you do not recognize me? It is your Bryn, your dearest!”

“My Bryn? No you can not be! My Bryn is dead. She is dead. I laid flowers on her head myself. I carried her. I—“ Garen began rocking, his hand ringing through his hair as though he would pull it out.

“I am not dead! I awoke! Look at me!” Bryn walked closer. “I am flesh!”

Garen held out his arm, warding her back. “No! You can not be real. A spirit! My own mind paying tricks! My dreams visiting while I am awake. You are not my Bryn.”

“Garen, Garen! Look at me, please! Look I am real! I am here! Your Bryn. I would be your wife.”

“Oh please, say that not, spirit! It is too much. I weep when I close my eyes, can not I have peace in the daylight?” He dropped his hand, as if giving up entirely. His face not only filled with sorrow, but also defeat.

Bryn took cautious steps forward. Tears streaming down her own face.

“Is this a punishment? Am I too be haunted by your face all hours of my remaining life? Bryn I am sorry. I am sorry a hundred times over. I would have given anything for the illness to take me instead, to leave you unharmed. I stood by your bedside. I did all that I could, and more. Your mother, she dragged me away from you for fear I would die myself. Would that I could have lain down next to you and had death taken me as well, but it would not. I still breathe. I have begged and pleaded, but yet I still wake every morning. Oh my sweet bride!”

Garen took her in his arms and she could feel the moisture from his tears soak her neck. They sat there like that in the field, sobbing together for the life and love that should have been theirs. Garen kept speaking disjointedly, asking for her forgiveness.

“Oh spirit, please. I can not continue this way. I can not see your dying body every night I dream. I can not keep coming back to your sickbed in my mind. What must I do? What do you ask of me? You’ve taken everything from me and leave me in torture. How can I go on?”

Bryn found she could only repeat his name and clutch him with all her remaining strength. It took him to pull her away from his chest and push her away again. Bryn searched his face, looking for a hint of hope. But there was none. Garen looked at her like she was nothing more than a figment of his imagination. There was no longer any chance to convince him that she there before his eyes alive, if not well.

“Perhaps this is what it is be dead,” she wondered out loud, fresh tears coming from her eyes. “Perhaps I was mistaken in trying to return. Am I to return to the tomb? Am I to lie there still thinking and feeling as I turn to bones like those before me?”

Garen could not answer her, his face became drawn and he retreated once more from her.

“Spirit, please, I must have peace. Do not make me think of her body there in the Helkyrie tomb when in but a few short months she would have laid in our wedding bed. Please leave me! Leave me my grief. Must I live my entire life without you?!” Garen was screaming again.

He sunk to the ground and pounded his fists into the earth.

Bryn pulled herself to her feet. She could think of only one thing to do for her love. Perhaps one day soon they would return to the tomb and see that she was not there, that she did indeed still walk on Ekaria and only then could she return to her family and her love.

“Garen, my sweet Garen. Do not cry any more. I forgive you everything I love you now as I loved you in life and will always where ever I am. But you must no longer be filled with sorrow and nightmares. We shall say our good-byes as we were robbed of them before.” She choked back tears and tried to control the shaking in her voice. She knew her love needed this and she could not stand to see him weep for her.

He looked up at her with a mix of relief and love.

“Bryn, my dearest! You will always in my heart be my wife though we never took our vows. I love you still and will always. Always, will there be pain that you were taken from me so suddenly and so early in life. Good-bye my darling. Good-bye…”

Bryn could but nod and choke out a good-bye before she turned and ran. A ghost. A demon. She did not know what she was when all the world thought she was dead.

Bryn found that she had started walking south. The closest city-state to Elys was Kasgard, which lay along the coast to the south near the great mining mountains of the Flame Coast. Elys itself lay in the fork of two rivers along the border to the Lumur Republic. No one in Kasgard would know she was supposed to be in a tomb, perhaps she could find help there.

She walked barefoot for hours. Well into the night. She felt both dazed and numb. Finally her feet would carry her no more and she found a small warm nitch near the riverbank to rest. She huddled down into the little spot.

It was the first moment that she had to inspect herself or do washing. She suddenly realized how dirty she felt. The chill and stench of the tomb was still on her skin and she wanted nothing more than to be rid of it. The dress came off her easily and she started to walk into the water. The river was cool, but not yet icy. She used river rock to scrub at her skin and hair.

As she bathed, she noticed something very wrong. Something that had not been on her body when she had fallen ill. On her chest, was red livid scarring. Like she had been cut deeply and allowed to heal long enough for the wounds to close. It was a symbol that she did not recognize. A long line that ran from her clavicle to where her breast met. On the right side of the line, near the top was a slanted box, making it look almost like a flag or broken reed.

Bryn ran her hands over the raised skin, sending chills down her back.

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND! WHAT DOES THIS MEAN? WHAT’S HAPPENED TO ME?!” she screamed into the night sky.

The stars shown brightly, but gave her no answer.

***

The Journey of Medora Penthesil of Heart

The stars were unusually bright this night.

Acacia Eppisyl reflected on the blanket of the night sky and silently praised Istar, the Spirit of The Starry Heaven. A particular jewel in the constellation Etern twinkled. Acacia smiled, Istar had a clever humor. The words were there. A clear message from her eyes alone.

“Your window will be there tomorrow. Will you not aide me?” a voice called from behind her.

Acacia stared off into the sky a moment longer before turning her pupiless gaze to Medora, who was attempting to organize her travel gear across their bed.

Medora tossed a glance up to her lover at the window and went back to folding a heavy linen robe. The candle light reflected off of the skin of her bare head. Black tattoos edged their way on to her face from around the back of her skull. Black – the color to signify her status as a warrior of the Felah of Heart. She picked up a length of silk rope and placed it next to the other tools.

“You won’t need that,” Acacia said quietly. Her voice lacking inflection as usual.

“Thank you,” Medora replied slightly sarcastically and tossed the rope on to the stone floor.

Acacia walked over to the bed and began placing the healing ointments and linen bandages into a small leather pouch.

“I’ll need those, however?” Medora asked.

“They will be useful.”

Medora looked over her lover. She was a strange apparition among the Heart. Her skin was pale and she had the same hairless body all Heart did, but her tattoos were unique. At any given time you could see many who wore the black designs that stretched from Medora’s spine out to reach around her body. Acacia however was the only Heart to have pure white prints creeping around her shoulders and head. The white of the seer. The white of The Oracle. Instead of the utilitarian leathers and skins most Felah wore, Acacia wrapped herself in sheer fabrics that had belonged to The Oracle before her and so on into the past for who knows how many generations. The fabric was almost unearthly. The white of her tattoos glittered silver in the dim light.

Acacia looked up and caught her gaze.

The Oracle’s eyes were not the normal for people of Ekaria, let alone of the Heart Islands. They had no pupils and were white and glassy. Yet the woman was not blind, on the contrary she saw far more than most.

“My Heart, I will return soon,” Medora said as she lifted the pack to her shoulder, more for her own assurance than of Acacia’s.

“You’ll be gone longer than you expect. And you will not return alone. She will need your help. There will be a moment you will wish to use your great strength, I ask that you do not. It will lead you to a ship you must return by,” Acacia replied softly.

“Can you worry not of the future for once?”

“Worry? I do not worry for the future or the past, as both outcomes have been sketched in me long ago.”

“Always you are the Oracle first, even now as we must say good-bye,” Medora said with a sigh.

“I will see you again.” Acacia’s voice was firm and her eyes unflinching.

“You spoil the adventure, Acacia. Can I never take leave of you without knowing the outcome?”

“I said you will not die. I did not say you would not have other hardships. It has been a great time since one of Heart has been to Ekaria. Your reception will not be a warm one. Legends have had chance to grow.”

“I will live up to them.”

“That you will, my heart.”

“Then I must trust your word. I go to do this task for our Chieftess, but I suspect you are giving me others along this road we must walk.

“It is not my taskings. You know that well. He who has Marked you as his own has many plans for your lifetime.”

Medora decided to leave the conversation there. She alone knew the aspirations Vim, Spirit of Strength, had for her. She knew she owned a duty to him and it must be her life’s work. Yet the desire for a simple life with the woman she loved was still there in her heart. Yet it would never be simple for them, not when they both bore The Mark. Unconsciously, Medora’s hand slipped to her chest. There, as clear as her tattoos, was a symbol etched into her skin like a scar. The ancient mark of Vim, two solid triangles pointing skyward, like mountain tops.

Mirrored on Acacia’s chest was the symbol of Etern, Spirit of Time. Two triangles pointed inward to one another. Like an hour glass tipped on its side. However, Medora’s heartbond choose to keep it covered by the folds of her strange robes. It did not matter, there was no one on Heart who did not know her as The Oracle, marked by Time herself.

“Will you walk me to the door, Acacia?”

“To the door, as the end of Ekaria. That is what this journey begins.”

“Too many riddles for a simple warrior.”

They walked down the spiral stone staircase leading to the main floor of the temple. Their small apartment resided in the top most level of the Felah Temple, a scared building that had stood on the islands long before the Heart ever inhabited it. It has long been the sanctuary of the Oracle.

The staircase was long and narrow but along its rails danced ornately carved designs. Designs the Felah’s own status tattoos were modeled after. At the base of the stairs were two archways. One leading out of the temple and the other leading into the room of worship. Medora knew Acacia would walk to further with her.

There were scuffles and voices outside of the arch. Other Felah warriors awaited Medora to escort her to the small ship she would sail to the main continent of Ekaria. Medora pulled Acacia into the center of the entryway to say her farewell.

The stared at one another for a moment. Warrior and Seer. Heartbonds.

“There will be fighting in the south. Do not land at Kasgard,” Acacia injected into the silence.

“No more visions, my love.”

Medora swiped a hand down Acacia’s face and kissed her softly.

Acacia brought her own hands up and pulled Medora into a deeper embrace. When they broke Medora saw that her lover held a necklace that had been on her neck only a moment before.

“This must stay here. That is my last vision for you. Your sisters in arms await,” Acacia whispered into her ear.

Medora slipped away, squeezing Acacia’s hand one last time.

Outside the temple, ten Felah warriors waited. They were all members of Medora’s party. They stood ready, armed with a variety of weapons. Medora strapped her pack to her back securely and check that she had all she needed. At her side were both a dagger and a battle axe, her choice weapon.

“Warrior Penthesil, are you ready?” an older woman asked.

The woman was covered in old battle scars, her black tattoos fading. She was the leader of the party, and indeed a leader who reported directly to the Chieftess. Her eyes were dark green, like the forest that surrounded them. Her body a deep shade of olive and hard from many years of fighting.

“High Warrior Gueron, I stand prepared.”

“Then this escort will take you to the shore. The ship has been made ready for you. All of the supplies you will need for this journey are there. The waters are rough tonight the scouts report. Be wary. Travel well, your Chieftess and kin wait for your safe return.”

Medora and High Warrior Gueron grasped wrists.

“May the Spirits follow your path.”

“May they watch over your days.”

The warriors exchanged salutes and Medora turned to join the Felah to lead her to the shore.

Inside the temple, Acacia watched her heartbond depart from behind solid stone walls.

“You may come out now, Highness.”

The Chieftess of the Felah emerged from the sanctuary.

“Oracle.” The Chieftess of the Felah nodded curtly.

She stood several inches taller than Acacia and her skin several shades darker. The tattoos the Chieftess bore were the color of dark blue. Before taking the leadership of the Felah she had been a great Silker, revered through out all of Heart. She wore her venom soiled skin like a trophy, burns up her arms and along her neck. The hunters of the Felah spent much of their days killing off the large poisonous spiders that flourished on their island. Over the years the blue tattoos of the hunters became sinuous with that of the Silkers. Now they did the job of both. Hunting for wild game and battling the creatures for the silky thread and poison sacks used in the city defenses. Chieftess Tynet had many great stories. She did not realize her greatest was yet to come.

“I thank you for your patience and for your service to the Spirits,” Acacia said, leading them back into the room of worship.

“The Spirits show us our path. I trust you Oracle to not lead me astray. But I must know, will Warrior Penthesil return to us on Heart? She is one of my best warriors… nay, she is our best warrior. Our Marked. I would be lying if I told you I did not fear for her safe return. It is highly unusual for us to send one of our own, let alone one of such great importance, off the safety of our lands. The Felah stir, they fear the outcome of this as well. I have not even sent an emissary to the Malor to tell them of this decision. Foolish, I know, but I do not look forward to their response. She belongs to all of Heart, as do you Oracle. It is selfish to send her on a fool’s errand on my behalf.”

“It is not a fool’s errand. You know this well. It was been foretold by my forbearers that Ekaria grows ever closer to its own destruction. How will the Marked of Heart know that it is time for their hands to come into play if we know nothing of what passes outside our islands? Heart has been too secluded for too long. We have discussed this before. Your predecessors were mistaken in ceasing the line of scouts. Once a noble endeavor for a young Felah, now unheard of. You are right in reestablishing it.”

“Yes but Medora? Marked of Strength? I could have sent anyone. It is only at your request I choose her.”

“A piece of knowledge I would like you to keep to yourself.”

“Of course Oracle. All conversations with you are privileged. You have not answered my question.”

“She will return.”

The Chieftess sighed with relief.

“Thank you Oracle. I will rest easier tonight knowing this choice was for the best and the will of the Spirits.”

Cheiftess Tynet nodded swiftly her good-night and started for the door.

“Highness,” Acacia said from the center of the room to the retreating form. “She will not return alone.”

Chieftess Tynet did not turn but paused a moment. Her figure tall and strong, yet Acacia sensed the shiver that ran through her body. The leader of the Felah continued her exit. Outside a personal bodyguard waited out of sight to bring her back to the High House.

Acacia stayed in the center of the sanctuary, standing stiffly and silently. Around her the alters to the fifteen Spirits of Ekaria stood in marble. The cuts were exquisite. As they should. No mortal hand carved any of this standing structure. Acacia could hear them on the edge of her thoughts. They wanted to speak to her but she did not desire council with them this night.

“Brother Vim I have done what was necessary. This you know full well. I trust you to keep my Heartbond safe as she walks the trials of this world. She serves you well.” Acacia left it at that and exited the room for her bedroom several floors above.

***

Medora found she was quite apt at sailing. She had only trained for a few days with the Fishers and they did not venture far onto open seas with their small boats. She had a map and a star heading that would take her to the main continent. The map was provided by Acacia, a simple drawing on leather that from the looks of it may have come over on the original ships that brought the first Hearts to the islands.

The little boat had only one mainsail, as most of the Felah watercraft did. The Malor used much larger shipping vessels, even if they did not travel far from the main coasts of Heart. They tended to favor deeper water fish for their cooking, whereas the Felah sought food sources into the woods that covered their island.

Medora’s lips automatically curled when her thoughts brought her to the Malor. She hoped she would not run into any of them while leaving the islands. They usually did not sail the seas around the northern Islands belonging to the Felah, but one could never be certain. She turned the small vessel into the wind and began sailing due north.

She glanced back at the coastline as it started to shrink in her vision. The Heart Islands we very large for small island nations. It consisted of three main islands and several very small that framed the larger. It was called Heart when the first settlers landed not only for its shape as it appeared to the lookout high in the sails, but also because of the great joy the people felt at finding solid ground after so many days at sea. The Felah, Malor, and Common temples had stood on the Islands before the arrival. How long they had stood, none of Heart knew, save Acacia. The natural choice for settlement had been on the center Island where the grounds were welcoming and there was space enough to flourish. The tribes that had been hunters and gatherers on the main continent could resume the life they had left. Of course, as the population grew so did the problems among the Felah and Malor. The intensity of their differences only increased on the Heart Islands and lead to their eventual separation. Medora was of the belief that it was better this way.

The height of the water waves were beginning to gain in size and Medora was beginning to struggle with control of the small ship. She felt like she was being tossed about like a leave on a wave. She would be happy once on dry land again.

The seas really suck at this point and she has a hard time and there are many nautical words that are thrown in here for fun and a taste of hardship. Medora is thrown off of the ship at some point and has to swim back, nearly drowns. It’s all very heartbreaking.

On the seventeenth day Medora leapt to her feet, nearly toppling the boat. There was land on the horizon. The night’s wind had brought her within sight of the main continent of Ekaria. Medora scanned the coastline looking for any sort of harbor or city life. It was still too far away to tell, but she did notice the landscape was completely foreign. It looked nothing like Heart, and this worried Medora. Would she be able to navigate this foreign soil?

Medora knelt in the boat and closed her eyes. She prepared herself for a prayer.

“Vim, my Spirit, I will need your guidance. Give me strength. Istar, Spirit of the Heavens, please let your stars continue to lead my ship to safe harbor. Windar, Spirit of Air, let your divine breath fill my sails so I may speed to my journey across Ekaria and do the will of the Spirits. Lumus, Spirit of Fire, I will need your warmth on this foreign shore. Dai, Spirit of the lighted hours, give me sun so that I might see my path. Lun, Spirit of Ice and Cold, I fear I will walk through lands governed by you that I am prepared not for. I ask you be gentle and let me pass without harm. Nigh, Spirit of the darkened hours, protect my sleep and let me dream only of my duty. Ekaria, Spirit of Land, I tread on the many places you have made. Help my feet travel to where they need to go. Wattarri, Spirit of the great waters, you have carried me far on your ocean, I ask you carry me but a little further. Gardene, Spirit of Nature, let your beauty in this world inspire me as I travel. Verity, Spirit of Truth, I ask that you do not shield the harshness of this world from me and let me see and know all that I must to help my people. Drake, Spirit of the beasts, I seek your protected to nourish me as I walk. I will take only that which I need to survive. Graven, Spirit of Death, I ask you not to take me before my duty is finished. Motha, Spirit of Birth, I thank you for this generous life you’ve granted me and every day I try to do it justice. Etern, Spirit of all Time, I ask you not to consider me but to watch over your own Marked, my Heartbond, Acacia. I must know she is well to keep my mind on the challenges that lay ahead.”

It was long and she spoke aloud so that her voice carried over the water. The fifteen Spirits of Ekaria were always addressed individually in prayer as they governed different aspects of the world and the lives of mortals. Medora owed her allegiance to Vim, who had Marked her as his hands in the mortal world. Her hands automatically searched for the necklace that she always wore. The necklace of Vim, passed down through the ages since the Spirits had left the mortal plain. It was only after a frantic search she remembered Acacia had taken the necklace from her for safe keeping. She reflected that it had probably been a good idea, considering the struggle in the water that nearly took her life. Still, its absence saddened her.

The coast of Ekaria grew larger and she was able to begin making out areas of the land. According to her map, she should be heading to an area south of Kasgard. Acacia had said that her best bet of help would be from the city-state of Malya which lay several days journey south along the coast line. The Malya were the last to retain their worship of the true Spirits, and perhaps they continued still. Medora could see structures in the distance that must be the outskirts of Kasgard. The mountain line was to the north and should lead directly to the heart of the city. But this was not important, as she would not be landing anywhere near to the city. Acacia would not forewarn her without good reason. Usually, her Heartbond was good about not divulging secrets of the future lest it change their outcome. However, as she once explained, the warnings and hints that she speaks have always been spoken in the tapestry of time and change nothing, nay not speaking them would change the future’s outcome. Medora tried to follow the line of logic but it was lost on her and she trusted Acacia to do as she must. The will of Etern. And she trusted herself to do the will of Vim.

Long ago, as a young girl she sought the Great Communion with Vim. It was not unusual to receive the Mark at birth or even at a young age. However, one was not usually able to commune directly with the Spirit of their Mark until a later age, one when they had the understanding of the commitment. Medora, oddly, expressed a clear comprehension for her purpose in life at the age of six years. The priestesses and council of the Chieftess, after much deliberation, sent her on her quest early. If truly Vim chose her, they feared no danger to the child. Medora set forth into the woods Heart, wood filled with dangerous creatures and The Dark Ones. It was towards them she walked. Naked and armed only with a dagger, it was the greatest test she would be put to.

She recalled that journey with bittersweet reflection. There were wounds that would never heal and scars that would never fade. But her fight was not unrewarded. There, deep in the jungle, she found herself in such dire circumstances that the very core of her being called in need to the Spirits. She vowed her very life to Vim and all that he stood for if he would lend his strength to spare her life. The trade was sealed and she was saved. A six-year old Felah gained the power and strength to fight off and kill four fully grown Dark Ones bent on spilling her blood. She had felt his power surge through her body. Her arms were like steal as they held off the attackers and threw naive punches that killed instantly.

Medora marched back into the city, covered in blood but bathed in the radiance of The Marked. She was tattooed that very night. A Warrior. It was predestined.

She felt him with her now. On the edge of her thoughts. But his presence was muted, as the Spirits had left the mortal grounds, empowering their chosen few. During her Great Communion, she was allowed to glimpse his thoughts. His plans for her and his will. It was then up to her to lead a life that would fulfill this glimpse. She hoped she was. This journey was not something the Felah Chieftess had ever asked a warrior to do. Though she was ever loyal to her tribe and her leader, she wondered if it perhaps ran contrary to the path Vim had set for her. Though Acacia seemed quite set on her going forth into the world outside their borders, which had to be a sign.

The land was quite close now and she began searching for a safe place to land her craft. The coast was very rocky and had many sheer walls in places. If she continued on a more southerly direction there appeared to be a small cove with a low cliff face. One she could climb and drag the ship from the water. She made her way there, the wind seeming to take her directly. She offered a silent thanks to Windar.

After another hour she was finally ashore and the small Felah sailboat hidden in nearby brush as best it could be. Medora kneeled and gave thanks for the solid ground Ekaria had allowed. She gathered her things, as it was yet only mid afternoon. She had plenty of time to continue walking. She pulled out the map and the dark linen cloak that was folded tight in the leather bag. She covered herself in the robe. Her sparse leather bindings and fur coverings were well hidden underneath. She did not know how the native people of Ekaria dressed, as she had never had chance to see them. But the ancient writings described them as being very different from those of Heart. All Ekariaians were descendent from the five Klans created by the Spirits themselves. The Heart were kin of the Lydor Klan, sent from the shores of Ekaria thousands of years ago. There was no record of how the other Klans dispersed, only of their origins.

The Kin were created from the bark of the birch. Their skins were light and their fur was like a fall forest. The Misyle Klan from river stones. The Lur. The Pae’la from iron. They were black skinned. The Malhyl from grape vines. Their hair twisting like vines and skin olive and deep. The Lydor from the many colored sands of the shore. Their skins in every shade but smooth and unmarred by fur or hair.

Medora did not know what to expect. None of Heart did. Perhaps Acacia, but she held her tongue on the subject. It was something Medora must find on her own. She pulled the hood over her bald head and tied the rest of her supplies on to begin her journey. She would walk north past the backside of Kasgard to observe the fighting there Acacia spoke of. From there she would walk a path leading around the northern coast of the continent. Generations ago, there had once been Heart Scouts who had made short trips to the main land. Little of their documents still existed, but it was said the great empire of the Kindol resided in the north. It was to them Medora made her way. Something in her heart told her there was the source of the unbalance.

Lots of walking described here.

Medora finally reached a village sizable enough not to raise suspicion of her origins. She bundled the robe tighter around her body and made sure the wrapping she had put on her head was secure. Somewhere she expected there would be room to stay. A common house of some sort. In the great Felah city, there were houses built and supplied just for the sake of travelers from the outlying settlements who would come to trade or seek worship at the temple. Perhaps there would be something of this sort in this outlier village of Kasgard? She walked slowly through the main thoroughfare looking at the pictures on the signs.

Half way down the street was a shabby looking building with a sign hanging crookedly picturing a goblet and grapes. Medora guessed it would be safe stopping in to see if this place had meals. It may also be a good place to hear the locals speak of the surroundings.

As she entered she noticed a wretch of a girl huddled outside the building along foundation. She was deathly pale and covered in a garment that had once been white. Her dark brown trusses were matted and hanging in her face so that Medora could not see her eyes. She looked away and continued into the building.

Inside it was far livelier. For looking so shabby outside, it was filled to the brim with merry folk. Medora looked for a secluded place to sit. Along the wall there was one open table and a stool not far away. Medora seized it and sat with her back to the wall. Few had noticed her entrance and with the low lighting even fewer could see her differences. For that she was thankful.

A serving woman dropped leather tankards onto the table next to her to the glee of the patrons sitting there. Then she rounded on Medora.

“Well? What can I get you?”

Medora concentrated on the words that were so similar to her own language.

“What can I get?” Medora said, repeating the words slowly.

The woman rolled her eyes. “We have the usual fare and wine and mead.”

Medora glanced around at the surrounding tables. A man was eating a plate of some sort of meat with red gravy. “I’ll have that,” she said pointing.

“Wine or mead?”

“Just water.”

“that’ll be 3 bronzes, then.”

“I’m sorry. I do not understand.”

“The meal, it costs 3 bronze pieces. Do you have any coin?”

“I… no I haven’t any of your local coin. Will you accept this?” Medora pulled a ring from her ear that was solid silver.

The woman held it a moment, flipping it once. “Alright then. Here, in fair trade.” She passed back several bronze coins from her apron pocket. “This is plenty to cover your meal and a room if you wish plus the change.”

“No room is needed, thank you. I will however take extra bread or dried fruits to travel if you have them on hand.”

“I can find you something, Lady.” The woman nodded and made her way back through the room.

She returned a few minutes later with a plate full of what looked like thin white ropes all covered in the same red gravy. On top was a chuck of meat that seemed coated in breading. Medora bent low to smell it. There was an acidy scent and an overpowering whiff of the garlic herb. The woman also sent down a mug of water that seemed fairly clean.

“There you go friend, and here is a small basket of traveling bread.”

“Thank you sister. May the Spirits bless your path,” Medora said almost automatically before she realized how odd it would sound.

The woman stared at her a moment, grunting something and walking away, throwing one glance back. Medora cursed herself and vowed to watch her words more carefully. Being a scout was much more difficult that being just a simple warrior. She took the cutlery and began eating the foreign meal. The meat she found was the breast some sort of poultry and the substance it was on tasted of wheat. It was not displeasing. Medora cleaned the plate and drank down the water in one gulp. She sat back to listen to the conversation of the room.

On her left two well traveled men were drinking and talking loudly.

“—Well, you can hardly get anything into any of the Misyle ports nowadays. There’s Kindol troops there helping to collect trading taxes. Ate up half my profit last time I was there. If the Misyles want to buy anything they’ll have to send ships themselves, I say,” the one with hair on his face said. The other was nodding in agreement.

On her right, two couples were eating together. The women spoke quietly to one another while the men were singing and thoroughly enjoying their wine.

“I heard there was a cave-in a few nights ago down in the Kasgardian mines. Nothing serious, a few were injured. I’m planning to head there on the morrow to visit the market. Do you need anything while I’m there?”

“Oh some new firestones if they aren’t running out. I hope that cave-in won’t ruin their supply!”

“I doubt, there are so many tunnels down there. Shouldn’t be short none. I’m going to look for some fabric…”

Medora turned her attention to the men on her left once more as the women’s conversation veered from important topics.

“Heard that Elys had a convoy from the Lumur Republic visit their royal house,” the one without the face hair said.

“What did they want?”

“Hard to say, I think they were looking for support against Kindol invasions. You know their western towns are all being overrun. Never cared for the Lumur myself, but it’s a pity they can’t hold their own against Kindol because I certainly don’t like them.”

Medora stayed to listen longer but they too eventually diverged into personal topics and drunkenness. At least she had discovered Kindol’s arms had spread to the west coastal lands of the Misyle traders and were attempting to take Lumur to the north as well. She’d be prepared to meet some of their aggression as she passed through the countryside. Medora stood and took her basket of travel provisions and headed for the door.

Medora exited the small inn. She slipped her hand into the basket and pulled one of the hard biscuits out. This she slid into her own pouch. The wretched girl was still huddled outside of the building looking terrified. Medora hunched down next to her. Something in the young woman’s face broke Medora’s stoic indifference to the people of the main continent.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

The girl was startled out of her daze and looked up to Medora’s face.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m supposed to eat now.” It was a very odd statement. Medora wished she could make sense of it.

“Why do you not have some of this bread? It is too much for just me. Take this basket, there is food to travel,” Medora said handing over the food.

“Do you think I ought to?” the girl asked, genuinely concerned about the rightness of the act.

“Eat? Yes. It has been given to you. And without it you’ll die.”

“Oh, it’s too late for that I think…” Again her words seemed strange. But she took the food anyway and began munching on a biscuit.

Medora stayed by her side while she ate slowly. The girl stared off as though she were looking out over the sea. Her eyes unfocused and spacey.

Medora thought it best to keep the girl speaking. Perhaps she would say where she was from or how she ended up on the street like this. “My name is Medora Penthesil. I am a stranger to these parts of the world.”

“As am I. My name was Bryn. Bryn Helkyrie. I think I have to change it now. Before I get to Kasgard. I think they take it away once… once…” she trailed off into silence.

“I would not travel that way. The future looks dark for Kasgard,” Medora confided. She did not want this disaster of a girl to be caught up in the fighting there, if indeed battle were to break out there in the near future.

“She doesn’t die. You should know,” Bryn said suddenly, looking directly at Medora.

“What? I do not understand--” Medora started.

“I don’t either…voices,” she raised a head to her forehead and pressed. “One voice….I can’t sleep…”

The young woman was obviously ailed in the head. There appeared no external injury but her speech was incoherent and meaningless. Was this the girl Acacia referred to in her vision of Medora’s journey? What has she said? A moment she would be required to use her strength but must not. There was a ship she was to return by. This did not feel right. She had not been challenged in anyway that would move her to fight or overpower anyone. And she was somewhat inland, besides it was far from her time to return to Heart. Medora hated that she should leave the girl along the side of the road but her journey must continue. At least she had some food to eat for the present time. Maybe a kinder person will stop and look out for her.

“I’m sorry I must leave you like this Sister Helkyrie, but my path lies elsewhere. I hope that the Spirits will guide you to yours.”

“They cross. The paths all cross. Kasgard. Things will be better in Kasgard,” the girl continued, her eyes back to that unfocused stare.

“Can I not persuade you from going to that city? It will go ill with Kasgard.”

“It goes ill in all places.” Her voice was disturbing, like it wasn’t even her own anymore. “Look at me. I was ill wasn’t I? I can’t remember.”

Medora walked a few paces and turned back. “Be well Sister. Look to the Spirits.”

She placed a hand on Bryn’s shoulder. The girl looked up at her again, the dark hair falling away from her face. Their eyes met and Medora felt something indescribable pass through them. Medora was again torn. Was Bryn the women she was meant to help? If she left her side now, would the opportunity rise again? She closed her eyes and reached into her heart.

Vim, are my feet to keep walking from this place?

There was an undeniable urge to step forward and her question was answered. Bryn Helkyrie had other directions.

“Good bye, Sister.”

She did not wait to hear if Byrn became coherent enough to say good-bye.

She had many miles to walk yet.

***

The Enslavement of Eskil Aud

Only a days ride away, in the City doomed by the vision of Acacia, a man named Eskil Aud buried himself into the corner of a dirty tavern. He frequented the place often after a hard day’s work, yet nearly no one there knew him. He sat covered thick in dirt and grime from the mines much like the rest of the men in the tavern, a mug of strong ale in his hand. The serving girl and one of her friends were speaking not far away. They were under the impression that Eskil could not hear them. This however, was a wrong assumption. He had very keen ears.

“There he is again. Brooding as usual,” the serving girl in the red dress said with what must have been a roll of the eyes.

The other one laughed quietly. “Ah, but it’s still a sweet sight isn’t it?”

The server sighed and continued. “That it is. Wish he come sit out in the middle somewhere. Have a better chance to hear him talk. Think I’d die if he ever said more than two words to me!”

“Ale, please?” her friend laughed. The girl joined in.

They were having a right good time on his behalf. Eskil narrowed his gaze and sunk lower into the chair. He just wanted a quite drink before returning him, was that too much to ask? The day had been difficult. It always was in the mines. Especially since only days before they had had a cave in not too many tunnels away. No one died, thankfully, but it was still a disaster for the company. He double checked that his pickax was still leaned against the side of the bench he was sitting.

“I can’t tell if it’s the dirt or if his hair really is that dark. Whatever the coloring, I’d not mind putting my hand through it,” the server continued.

“And those eyes! I saw them for just a moment as he walked in tonight. Like rich melted chocolate…”

“I did see him first mind you,” she replied a slight edge of curtness in her voice.

“I wouldn’t dream between coming between you and your fantasy,” the other girl said with a bit of a giggle. As if it was ridiculous to claim when her friend had barely spoken to Eskil. It was ridiculous, but Eskil didn’t mind hearing the jealous canter.

“I’m going to go talk to him,” she said resolutely.

Eskil dropped his eyes to his drink, least they figure out he was listening. The serving girl all flashy with her red dress sidled up to his table.

“Another ale, friend?”

“Yes, please,” Eskil said handing her the mug without making eye contact, careful to use only two words. He liked to keep his mysterious air.

“Of course, friend. Anything you ask,” she said with a very flirtatious voice.

Eskil watched the movement of her skirts as she walked away. Perhaps he would come back tomorrow and engage her in a real conversation. See how she’d like that.

He watched her fill his mug from the keg on the wall, smiling back at her friend, who continued to sit at the bar.

Watching the silliness of the girls nearly distracted Eskil from hearing the noises outside the walls of the tavern. Indeed, he seemed to be the only one who heard anything amiss. The rest of the patrons continued to eat and drink in merriment. Eskil was already on his feet when the door burst open.

A rush of wind and a flurry of noise stumbled in with the man who had thrown open the door. He looked ragged, out of breath and completely white with shock.

“Ships! Warships! The Kindol are attacking! The port is already lost… we need… we need every man and woman able to weld a weapon or the city will fall… warships, there’s so many!” he pleaded loudly into the tavern.

It took but a second for every man inside to be on their feet the same as Eskil, their tools already in hand. Eskil grabbed his pickax. The first man to the door helped to lift the messenger to his feet.

“Friend, I will continue to raise the alarm, you’ve done your part tonight,” he said, clasping the man’s shoulder and then ran out into the chaos of the night.

The rest of the tavern quickly exited, heading to the sounds of battle.

Eskil was as the tail end of the group, being farther back into the tavern. Before he exited he turned back to the girl in red, still holding his mug of ale.

He swept her up into an embrace and kissed her harshly on the lips.

“I doubt tomorrow there will be a chance for that conversation we’ve yet to have. Run home. You and your friend. Run home and lock yourself inside. If you have a weapon, hold it tight and strike true,” he spoke directly into her ear. He felt her heart beating so rapidly he thought she’d burst.

He released her and ran out into the night.

Outside, he could hear the sounds of battle coming from the port area of town. Men were running down the street holding swords and tools of every variety. Surely by now the cities defenses had been overrun and the fighting left to the working folk. There was screaming from many directions. Eskil followed the scattered crowds moving down the roads. However, he turned from the direct fighting and headed into the area that housed the cheaper dwellings.

The area the screams and cries could be heard from.

The Kindol warriors had made it this far into the city, at least some of them.

He ran past several homes on fire and several he knew there was struggling going on inside. He ran straight for his home. The little hovel he tried desperately to maintain.

He was within a hundred feet when he saw the door open. He slowed his pace, out of sudden fear.

Eka, his young sister, staggered out, her clothes torn and hanging loosely. She was balling uncontrollably and her face covered in blood. She ran right to him, her words were screams and unintelligible.

She was not the only one to exit the home.

A man in Kindol armor followed. He was a large brute and his face bearded. He was still buckling his belt. There were claw marks bleeding on the side of cheek.

Good Eka, made him feel some of the pain too did you?

Eskil knew instantly what had happened and was charging at the man even before the brute knew he was there.

The pickax slid through his skull quite easily.

Eskil stood there breathing heavily, the handle still in his hands as the body slumped to the ground. He then proceeded to step on the man’s face and pull his tool turned weapon from the Kindol’s bloody head. His sister was still screaming behind him.

He turned, the reddened pickax charged in his hand.

“Eka! Eka, pay attention! Get yourself to Madam Gault’s and hide in her cellar. Have her treat your wounds. Eka, are you listening?!” Eskil yelled over her cries.

She nodded, tears spilling down her face.

“Then get there, and I will find you when this is done. Many Kindol will pay for what he did to you, Eka. You can be assured of that at the very least. Now, go. Do not think of this until you are safe. To Madam Gault’s. Go, now.” He kept speaking until she was on her feet again and running away from the waterside inland to some of the better homes.

When she was out of sight, Eskil turned back to the row of homes he had passed up. He would not be passing any by on his way to battle.

***

Bryn Helkyrie dragged herself through the plains, well away from traveled roads, toward the great city-state of Kasgard. The words of the strange woman still echoing in her head, but she could not resist traveling to the city whose future was questionable. Something there was calling her.

When she rose above the hillside, she noticed the smoke first.

Kasgard was burning. Houses. Ships. Buildings and markets were going up in smoke. Why she started running toward it she didn’t know. As she neared the city walls, she could hear the screaming. People were dying in there.

***

Eskil was in the thick of it. Kindol men and Kasgardians were all around him, locked in brutal fighting. He had done quite a lot of damage up in the miner’s dwellings. His clothing was soaked with blood – his enemies as well as his own. He had been cut deeply on the arm but there was no time to think about it. Adrenaline was rushing through his veins and his heart was pumping as hard as the server girl’s was when he had his arms wrapped around her. His arms as red as her dress.

A Kindol warrior fell beside him.

Eskil raised his pickax to take another life. And another after that. The Kasgardians fought with ferocious self-defense while the Kindol systematically destroyed parts of the city. Eskil’s lungs were burning and the streaming cut on his forearm was paining him greatly. There was just too many of them. He looked around briefly, and could see they were loosing. At least they would go down taking as many of them with them as possible. He raised his pickax to strike again and felt the crushing blow to the back of his head. The last thing he saw was the ocean horizon. There were more ships coming.

Eskil knew no more.

***

“Eskil! Eskil wake up!”

Someone was shaking him.

Someone was shaking him very violently.

Eskil Aud drug himself into consciousness greeting the horrid headache that met him with a fair amount of cursing. It was dark out and the air was thick with the smell of smoke. The man who woke him was another miner with whom Eskil worked along side of most days. They weren’t exactly friends, but seeing a familiar face upon waking when he thought he was dead was welcome.

“Aden? Aden what has happened? Last I recall we were fighting down by the docks, and there were so many of them. So many ships…” Eskil said quietly.

“There isn’t much time for talking. They are rounding everyone up. Kasgard has thrown down its arms. We were no match, we’d all just be dead. Lord Bazan was the one to call us down from fighting. It seems he might be the only ruling class left alive. It’s all very unclear at the moment. All I can tell you is that we are being rounded up. The strong and fit men in one group and all the rest in another. This does not look well for us. You must pretend to have no injury. We will clean your head as best we can. They will kill you on the spot if they think you’ll fall invalid later. They killed Auztin because he was coughing up blood. We have to get you on your feet.”

Aden slipped his hands under Eskil’s arms and pulled him to a standing position. He immediately felt dizzy. He lifted a hand to the back of his skull and it was met with a wet matted mess he knew was his own blood. The thought made him even more light headed.

“Easy,” Aden reassured.

The other man walked him steadily toward another group of people. One of them ran up to meet them and shouldered Eskil’s weight as well. Soon a woman started washing his head but he could not see her, he kept closing his eyes. The fire light in the distance pained him something fierce.

“Here, smell this. It will make you alert. Keep it near so you will look alive when they come to take you.” She put something in his hands that felt like a clutch of weeds.

He brought it to his nose slowly, inhaling deeply.

It was a rush of sense and Eskil felt wide awake. His eyes shot open and everything lost the fuzziness it had only moments ago. The woman was elderly, and looked rather panicked. Aden was still standing at his side, as was the other man whom he did not know. Around them, Eskil could see small huddles of people. They were all standing at the bay. Buildings and ships were still on fire or smoldering into ashen ruin. Kasgard was a complete mess.

There were bodies all around. Kindol warriors and many Kasgardians. As if to answer his searching eyes Aden continued.

“We’ve been moving the bodies. They haven’t told us not to. But they will not allow us to carry them to the graveyards. Instead we’ve been laying them out in a line over there, near to the water’s edge. We don’t know what else to do.”

Eskil nodded and looked down to his feet. He began to wonder if Eka has made it through alive.

“I was going to move your body, when I found you alive still. Your heart beating, but your face, so bloody. You looked dead. Perhaps that is what saved your life. The Kindol who dealt you that wound must have moved on.”

“Yes. I am fortunate he did not deal a killing strike. What’s that? Listen—“

Their conversation was interrupted by the blowing of a low horn. Conversations ceased among those still at the waterside. A northern voice was heard loudly over them.

“Those of you able to walk come forward to the harbor master’s building. There you will be told what to do.”

Eskil looked around and saw that many started walking toward the door without question. He gritted his teeth. He wished he had fought to the death. This subjectaction was going to be worse that being dealt a killing blow. He walked with the rest of them. Aden still at his side.

Inside the harbor master’s building the Kindol had set up a small stage. A man who looked like he was of some importance to them was pacing about at its center.

“Is that all of them?” he asked a man to his right. A stiff faced warrior.

The warrior nodded swiftly. The man jutted out his chin and began to address the crowd.

“I am Lord Wargrave, and I speak on behalf of your new King. King Rune of Kindol. The King has decided that your mines are of great value to him, as the largest and only source of Flamestone. As you can see, a large and heavily armed contingent of the Kingdom’s army has taken up residence here. We will be housed in the north and west side of the city, taking what homes we wish. You will all be moved into the hovels and small domiciles that the miners had previously hibaitated. Those of you will skills or professions are encouraged to come forth and present yourself as such. If you do not, you will work in the mines along with your fellow slaves. The women and able bodied elderly and children will find their work in feeding and cleaning. The first tasks your King sets for you will be some rebuilding of his newly acquired city. I would have the men exit out the door to my right and the rest of you to the left where you will be examined for your usefulness. Continue.” Lord Wargrave finished without flourish. He simply walked off of the stage and out of the side door, his personal guards at his side.

Eskil looked around to the confused faces of the Kasgardians in the room with him.

“Slaves? Did he say slaves?”

“Are we to be prisoners then? What are they doing with those that can’t work? What of the sick or injured?”

“Can we go back to lay our fallen at rest? He said nothing of it!”

similar exclamations were heard throughout the room. Eskil pushed his way through the stalling group for the door to the right of the stage. Best to meet this fate head on. If he was to be a slave than he would be sure his captors knew just how he felt on the matter.

Eskil walked out onto the other side of the harbor and was met with a ferocious site. Men already who has been through the harbor house were working on building a fence. A fence to keep them in the cheep and run down side of Kasgard. Others were dragging and pitching bodies into great fires. There was no sigh of them women. Eskil had little time to figure the mess out before a Kindol guard ceased him.

“He looks well enough. Strong… Were you a miner?”

“I am a miner,” was all Eskil allowed.

“Join that working group there, they are bringing bodies from the city. Burn them all.”

Eskil flinched. They were burning Kindol bodies as well. No regard even for their fallen. It was disturbing. Eskil however, did as he was told.

“Wait, Kasgard, go first to that firepit,” the large man said, pointing to a pit of hot coals were a group of men were standing about.

Eskil turned and headed for it.

All around him were Kindol armed with large swords and trained bows. There would be no use to run. He walked to the pit. As he neared he saw a man thrown to his knees while guards held his arms out. He struggled, pleading and screaming. Another large brute pulled an iron from the fire. Branding.

They were branding the captured Kasgardians. Eskil stopped dead in his tracks. By now there were men lining up behind him, following as he walked. He turned to look at them, seeing the realization register in their eyes as well. Eskil swallowed hard and kept walking.

He would not scream.

He met them with hard eyes and kneeled himself, holding out his right arm. They had branded the previous man’s right hand. A large circle with some sort of emblem on it. The guards grabbed onto his shoulders ready to hold him down or keep him from turning away.

Eskil said nothing but stared at the brute with the iron. He had fair colored hair he covered with a thick helmet. His armor was sooty and looked heavy. His arms showed many marks of burns. No doubt this was a job he did often.

He brought the iron down on to Eskil’s outstretched hand with relish. Eskil could see the glint in his eyes. He could see the small upturn of his lips. Eskil did not scream. He took in the sensation of the burning skin and the smell of it all. The burning bodies. His burning hand. He would remember this always, and when the time was right, he would make this brute remember too.

Eskil stood, his knees weak, but he forced himself to walk several feet unaided away from the guards as they grabbed the next man in line. He brought the roots in his other hand up to his nose once again. The scent of the marjoram and lavender awaking him once again out of the haze of pain.

The work group he was to join was walking back out to the street. There were guards escorting them, ordering them where to go. Eskil joined the back of the group, trying to ignore the searing pain of his hand and the dull roar in his head. This had not turned out to be a relaxing night. He was amazed at how one drink in the local tavern had turned into a night of darkness and death. How Kasgard, only yesterday had stood as a free city-state of the Flame Coast, and now it was nothing but another acquisition of the Kingdom of Kindol.

He supposed it was fitting, as the Kasgard Lords had sent the Emissary from the Lumur Republic away empty handed as he pleaded for aid against the wave of violence in his own country. Eskil shook his head of the thoughts. The Kindol would not hold this land for long. Surely the surrounding city-states and villages would come to their aid? Least they fall into their hands as well.

Eskil lifted a body and tossed it onto the ripped piece of mainsail the working group was pulling along. He spoke to no one. The pile of half burned carcasses was growing. The Kindol loved their flames didn’t they? Eskil found himself just staring, unable to move as a girl’s body in a red dress was thrown onto the canvas.

***

The Warnings of the Ghost Rider

Bryn was running.

She was running as hard as she had ever run before. It did not help that she had barely eaten for days. It did not help that she was barefoot and still wearing the rags she had made of her funeral gown. Yet she ran. She’d seen the faces of the dead. She’d seen the faces of the killers. She had to warn Elys. Kasgard had fallen in so much fire and blood. She had to warn her family. She had to warn Garen. Someone would listen, wouldn’t they?

Ran until the sun rose around her.

Her feet were raw and bloody and her lungs burned so hard she could not breathe. There was a village just up the way, she could see the tops of the roofs and the little towers of smoke from their cooking fires. The smoke made her gag. All she could taste on her lips was scent of the burning homes in Kasgard. She dragged herself further. She would have to warn this town too. She couldn’t just leave it to be burned to the ground.

Her running pace and dulled to a slow walk, it was all she could do to keep moving. Her limbs wanted to fall to the ground but she would not let them. There was a barn coming up with men working around it. Their bodies thick with sweat.

Bryn tried to yell, but her voice was failing her. No water. She hadn’t drunk water in what must have been ages. She hadn’t even noticed her lips were cracked. She put her hands to her face and hair. She must have been a sight. The men had stopped working and were staring at her. Some with looks of fear.

“Kasgard…” she choked.

They continued to stare at her dumbly. One started to approach, his shovel still in his hand.

“Kasgard has fallen!” she finally managed. “The Men with fire came. They’re burning everything!”

The man close to her looked horrified. She couldn’t tell if he believed her.

“There was so many people dying. So many fighting and dying…you have to believe me! Kasgard has fallen!”

She moved toward him and he stumbled backward, just like Garen had done.

“I must get to Elys. I must warn them, don’t you understand? They’ll be next. The Kindol Firemen.” Bryn looked back and forth to the eyes of the men, looking for some sign of sympathy. Some sign of understanding.

Her face hardened. They would let their village burn because of fear of her.

“GIVE ME YOUR HORSE!” she yelled at a younger man holding the reins to a plow horse.

One of the men started running for the farm house.

The others lifted their tools higher, almost threatening toward her.

“Give me your horse, NOW!” Bryn screamed taking several steps to the man.

He suddenly clutched at his chest. His face turning rigid. He dropped the reigns of the horse and fell over.

The other men ran to him. Bryn’s mouth dropped, but she didn’t have time to think of what had happened. She took the reins and pulled herself up onto the horse’s bare back. Her father had taught her to ride and she would do his lessons justice this day. She kicked its sides with her bloody heals and took off at a gallop.

The men were yelling after her but she paid them no heed.

She took the horse through the main street of town.

“KASGARD HAS FALLEN!” she yelled as she thundered past the market row. “KASGARD HAS BURNED!”

At least she would cause a stir if not convince them the great protector city-state had been taken over.

The horse was a good beast. It ran steady for her at a strong pace. She would reach Elys by nightfall hopefully. The road was empty as of yet, but she prepared to herself to call to them if they passed. Her dark hair flowed out behind her and the skirts of her dress mimicked it. She looked the part of a specter on the fly.

When the sun had sunk below the horizon she began to the dark silloettes of the mountains that surrounded Elys. She spurred the horse on harder. She knew it must be killing the thing, but they had a duty to perform. It could rest when they had called their warning.

It took her another two hours to reach the gates of Elys.

She passed under the archway leading in.

People on the cobblestone streets jumped out of her way, throwing themselves against the walls of buildings, gasping and crying out.

Bryn started screaming. She screamed of the dead on the streets. Of the fires. She yelled of the ships.

Finally she reached the gates of the Nobel house of the King.

Guards had already started toward her, their weapons drawn. But it was too late, her cries had stirred the occupants. She could see figures throwing back the windows above.

“Hear me Elys! Kasgard has fallen! Their mighty harbors have been invaded. Their soil runs red with blood and their buildings black with ash!” She scarcely felt like the words were hers. “Look! Look at me! I wear the dress I was buried in not far from this noble home! I beseech you! If I am demon! If I am an ill omen then here my ill news! Many have died in Kasgard and many will die here if you do not heed me! The Kindol Firemen come for you! Look for their ships on the water, they will bring with them your death! Elys! Arm yourselves!” She reared the horse and took off once more for her home.

----

The horse thundered with her strength, like some unseen force was giving them another wind enough to do their deed. She felt alive with purpose and the poor beast was an extention of her. She took it through the field that skirted the city and up the road that would lead her to the villa that had been her home. To the family that had forsake her. That had buried her.

She spurred the horse on. The home was coming into view. It was dark, but she could still see the waving of the morning cloths draped from the railings and windows. Though she was still so far away, she started screaming her warnings. It was like something else was driving her. It was like the strange little voice – it was like a voice but not as formed – that she heard in her head as she drifted to sleep was egging her on. It was commanding her now. Do this. Do this.

Bryn kept yelling until she saw candle lights appear in the windows. Until she saw a man with a torch appear in one of the doors. It was her father again, and she was close enough for him to see her. A white ghost. A white demon in the guise of his daughter once again bringing terror to his home.

“I come to warn you! Kindol makes war. They have taken Kasgard to your south and they will come here. Father! If you take me for dead, then know that so many others have joined me and I would not have you or mother, or any of our family lay in that tomb! Flee this place! Elys is strong, but they can not stand up against this force. Kasgard and its high walls and its hard miners fell. Elys will fall along side. Flee, father, flee I beg you!”

His face was so filled with fear and his mouth hung open.

“Your body is gone!” he yelled finally.

Bryn rode up closer. She knew that she must be a horrific sight. Her cloths in tatters, her face and body thin like a corpse. Her hair wild like beast and her eyes like those of demons.

“I went to look, I went to see that you laid how we left you. Strewn with flowers. But you were gone. They took your body. Is this why you can not rest? My daughter! I will not sleep until I return your body to his place, so you can be at peace!” He kept speaking, his voice shaking.

Had he not heard a word of what she had said? Kindol was coming to kill them all, what use was it to worry about her body now?

She leaned in close, and knew it was cruel to do so. “The glass was broken from the inside,” she said hauntingly. “I will rest when you and all my kin are safe from the hand of Kindol. Flee. Tonight. Flee to the mountains. To the Lumur. To anywhere that does not burn.”

This time he heard her. She was not yelling. She was speaking plainly, her voice horse and dark. If it was possible, he looked even more horrified. Bryn pulled the reins and took to the night. She had only Garen left to visit this night. The she would ride south. Malya. Lhyl. Arca. And every village in between. She would be a riding sign of death. They must all know. She felt alive for the first time since she walked from the tomb. Alive to keep others alive. She would move like a plague on the wind, faster than any fire. Faster than the Kindol warships.

***

A Feat of Strength

6th day of Lunara
Village of Copse, South of Misyle

Acacia,

I’m sure you are deep into the ceremonies welcoming Winter today. It is the sixth day of the eleventh moon. I have now been away from you, my heart, for ninety-six difficult days. Nearly four moon cycles! The time has gone quickly for me, as I travel a little nearly every day. As I have written before in this journal, my travels have taken me from the walls of Kasgard through to the Lumur republic. I will not go into the trials there, as I have already detailed the horrific battles and scenes there. The Lumur are sturdy people and they will stand the longest against Kindol I think. I have now made my way south west to the lands of the Misyle Traders. There are no battles here, it is however, disturbingly peaceful. The Misyles carry on as though these were normal days, but it is the life of a fallen tree. You have only to disturb the surface and you find the worms and the bugs eating away from underneath. The Kindol have spread their influence so deep into the leaders here that it is a wonder they do not consider themselves within the Kindol borders. I think there are few here who see that. They speak of their great Ally. Their great protector in the north. How good trade is now that they have backers and customers in the Kindol kingdom. They welcome the men of the Kindol army onto their ships and along their streets. I’ve heard them say they feel so safe now. What was it like before? Were there murderers and criminals running free? I do not think they remember. The traders are traders first, they never had a standing army to my knowledge. City guards perhaps. But now they leave security to the Kindol. I have stopped in the cities along the coast. Eventide. Gale. Celestial. And now I make for Misyle itself, near to the north border of the country. After I make my inquiries there I will cross through the western mountain into the lands of the Kindol themselves. I fear my differences in appearance will mark me as a target and I have spent several nights thinking of some way to let me walk among them unnoticed. Today I will hold my own welcoming of Winter, perhaps Lun will bless me with some insight on this cold day. I love you always.

M

Medora signed it simply and closed the journal. She could not afford to send these reports, she didn’t even know how she could. However, she continued to write them every day. They contained valuable information about the continent and how far it has strayed from the path of the Spirits. Medora herself could hardly believe how much had been forgotten. The Flame Coast spent their energies worshiping false gods and goddesses. She wandered into a temple in one of the northern villages and found a tall statue of a woman who looked much like the people of the area. In her hand she held a basket filled with grains and fruit. She was some goddess of harvesting and at first Medora thought she was a remembered version of Grassi, but it became quite clear that the people prayed to her for their own selfish purpose. She was a goddess of profit, not of nature. They could have cared less for the plants they reaped, just for the money it brought them. That was what that goddess represented, not the joy of the growing something from the earth. These were not Gardeners. At least not like the Felah Gardeners. There was no balance in them.

The Lumur maintained some of the structure of the faith, but they pledged themselves to the elements. Water, air, fire and earth. At least the great Wattarri, Windar, Lumus and Ekaria were in their thoughts. Medora, however, did not think it was enough. But perhaps their tribute to a few of the Spirits was enough to keep them strong in their fight against the Kindol. She had joined in along side them in many villages that she passed through. As she continued her travels she had heard of the tall mysterious stranger that had taken up arms with the Lumur. The woman in black. It had grown so much among the villages and cities in the East who were fighting the hardest to keep their homes that as she entered the gates of a place called Thicket the people there took her to the town’s hall and showered her with tributes. They did not take it well when she refused their gifts. Had they forgotten also? That was the path of the Marked of old. The Marked who waged wars under the pretense it was the will of the Spirits. It was their fault the worship of the Spirits had been abandoned on the main continent. She would not walk down that path, not for any prize. Although they were disappointed, they soon understood that her refusal did not mean she would not fight along side them. She stayed in Thicket for a week’s time.

Medora had then traveled through the mountains to make her way to southern cities belonging to the Misyle traders. Her travels here had been very enlightening into the way the Kindol was waging its war. They fought the Lumur Republic because Lumur would not treat with them. They would not ally themselves. They would not support the King there. However, the Misyle invited the Kindol into their homes. They sent lavish gifts to King Rune. They welcomed the armies and they did not bat an eye as statues were raised with the image of Rune. Perhaps it was because the traders had not a King of their own. Only status by success. He who was rich controlled the others and right now that man was named Verdan. Verdan had even taken a Kindol bride. Something that now seemed rather fashionable among the other well to do men of the Misyles. Medora reasoned they would have to fight the Misyles as well as the Kindol when it came down to it.

She neared the city of Misyle now, traveling by horseback. A hearty creature given to her by the Lumur. Riding it was much like riding the SOMETHING of the Heart Islands. Something she did on a rarity at home when they traveled to the center isle. She preferred to walk, but because there was so much distance to cover, she felt it was necessary at this point. It was easy to blend in with the other travelers on the main roads because of the growing chill in the air, many were covered thick cloaks and scarves. She kept her head and face wrapped and had thrown on another cloak, taken from a dead Kindol warrior. Without showing her hairless head she could walk among them fairly unseen. Her height was similar to theirs and she was thin and athletic very much like their trim frames. The only thing anyone seemed to notice was her lack of eye brows and eye lashes. She saw them glance up at her eyes. Some she could tell couldn’t place their finger on what exactly was different about her, but they still thought her odd. This was something she would have to figure out how to remedy before she walked into the kingdom of Kindol.

Presently, she was passing through the gates of Misyle. There were Kindol guards at the gates who eyed her as she rode in. She wondered if they recognized the make of the cloak, but she did not waste her time thinking about it. Inside the gates the city was a bustle of activity. It was said you could find anything in a Misyle market place. Medora found herself believing that it could be true as she looked over the tables and booths that littered the roads, not to mention the store fronts behind. There was nothing like this on Heart.

The city of the Felah was large and housed perhaps 5,000 in its walls. There were many small settlements on the island as well, but none of those had more than 100 Felah living in them. The Malor were similar, but their main city was nearly double the size with very few outside settlements. This city of the Misyle must have held 100,000 people and all of them seemed to be out and about trying to sell one another objects of uselessness. Medora kept riding.

“We have a fine selection of jewelry lady!” a boy called to her, holding out a small copper bracelet.

“I have no need for trinkets little one,” was all she said.

“Dried herbs! Three bunches of lavender for one bronze! Chamomile and Thyme…” a woman was singing.

Medora made her way toward the areas that held the larger manors and the more upscale shops. There she would look for lodging, and hopefully more gossip and news.

Medora finds out some tidbit of information and spurs on her ride to kindol. Perhaps that Rune claims he is a god.

Medora took the horse up the mountain pass. It was growing dark, but she did not care. She would ride on until she was too tired to move or the horse gave out under her. She must see the sin of the Kindol king with her own eyes to believe it was possible. Even the grave mistakes of the Marked of the past never tread on such blatant blasphemy against the Spirits. Never did they label themselves gods walking the surface of Ekaria.

It was perhaps her anger to this piece of news that caused her not to hear the highway men that shadowed her in the woods. The snap of one of their feet woke her out of her thoughts. She was careful not to change her pace or flinch her head in any manner. Now it was quite clear, there were at least six of them, three on each side. They would be armed, swords and perhaps bows. She wondered if there would be more ahead of her, waiting in the middle of the road and while she was distracted by their presence, the others would circle around her, some staying in the woods, arrows trained on her. She moved her hand slowly to the handle of the axe and slipped it out of the loop holding it to her waist. She kept it hidden under her cloak. They would see it soon enough.

She spied them ahead of her from a good distance. They were trying to hide themselves behind some larger boulders along the side of the road, ready to spring out. If she hadn’t been looking for them she doubted she would have noticed. She supposed many travelers never did. She was ten horselengths off now. They would step into her path at any moment.

Medora kicked the horses side and urged it into a gallop. The men leapt out, holding their weapons out, one with a sharpened long for piercing riding animals. He held this out to stop her. She pulled the axe from her cloak and as she turned the horse way from the spear at the last second she brought the blade down in to the crevis of one of the men’s neck and shoulder. He fell instantly. She turned the horse around expecting to meet the men trailing her in the woods. They had sprinted out, seeing that she had sped her pace. Four of them were on the road coming at her, the others she reasoned were still hiding in the woods.

In a flutter of robes and material she lept from the horses back, she could fight better on the ground. The animal was still foreign to her. Quickly after landing she brought her axe to meet the stomach of a man on her left. He doubled over, dropping his sword. Two down. They scrambled now. Surrounding her closely, blades plunging toward her. She moved swiftly knocking them away from her body. Medora knew it would be difficult to get a killing blow in now that they were all so close. From her other hip she drew a dagger and with practiced precision she flung it into the head of one of the assailents. He screamed once before stumbling backward and falling to the ground. Three left around her and two in the woods. They would begin taking their shots at once she killed another of these men, she didn’t doubt.

She continued to knock away their blades with increased speed. There was a moment of debate in her head. Was this the moment she was to lay down arms and strength? Every ounce of her told her she must continue to the Kindol capitol at all costs. And so they must feel the wrath of a Marked. And not just any of the Marked, one marked by Vim, he who lends his almighty strength to his followers.

A battle cry left her lips and the hood fell from her head. Some of the men swore, her appearance was almost evil. Black cloaked with nasty black tattoos over her head with foreign looking rings through her ears and her mouth opened in a vicious happy grin. She reasoned they had the first inciling that this traveling would not be easy to rob and they may have made a mistake in choosing her to attack.

To their surprise she dropped to a crouch bringing the axe. They had only a second to wonder why she did this as she sprang up so quickly, yelling terribly. With what looked like practiced ease she seized the blade of one of the men as it went to strike her and bent it right out of his hands. This she threw violently with amazing speed into the woods. The cry issued from there let her know she had hit the man hiding. She turned her wrath to the three men still near her, one unarmed. It was time to show them she was something to be afraid of.

The unarmed man pulled a small knife from his belt. They widened the circle around her, not knowing how best to proceed. She laughed a wicked deep laugh. There was a cutting sound in the air, an arrow. It missed her. Another followed, this one she did not move for, but simply brought her free hand up and snapped out of the air, throwing it to the ground. She heard a collective gasp. The moment was all she needed she flew at the man with the knife.

Her axe cut through him so quickly none of them had time to react. His body fell into halves and washed her with blood. She turned on the other two with a roar.

“Time for you to die, men of evil. Men of fortune. Robbers. Thieves. The Spirits have spoken and you will meet them shortly!” she screamed launching herself at one. The other ran to the cover of the woods, tripping over his own feet. She sliced threw his blade and straight into his neck, cutting the head off. He fell to the ground with his commrads. She ran into the woods, her strides long and powerful. She caught up to the two fleeing quickly. She grabbed them from behind and threw them to the ground. She threw her axe down as well.

“You two cowards I will kill with my bare hands because your blood does not deserve to touch the axe of Vim!”

They scrambled to stand but Medora leapt into the air and landed her feet onto their backs, a blow so hard they whimpered with crushed lungs.

One she kicked over and stepped onto his throat, crushing it so completely he died instantly, his head cut from the body. The other still trying to breath looked up at her.

He whispered, “Monster!”

She pressed him down with one hand easily, and pulled open her robe.

“Marked,” she replied. “Marked.”

He looked at the symbol unable to comprehend its meaning.

“And you have been judged unworthy. Vim tells me you are weak.”

She snapped his neck with two fingers.

Standing, she arched her head high and yelled, blood and venom serging through her veins. “PEOPLE OF EKARIA YOU ARE WEAK! VIM SAPS YOUR LIMBS OF STRENGTH BECAUSE YOU LACK HONOR! RETURN TO THE SPIRITS! RETURN TO BALANCE AND YOU SHALL NOT SUFFER! STAY ON THIS PATH AND I, AND THE OTHERS MARKED AS I AM WILL SEE THAT YOU FALL!”

She yelled once more and took the man’s fallen blade. She bent it into the shape of an “M” to mirror the upturned triangles on her chest. She threw it to the ground next to the bodies.

“Your will done my Spirit.”

***

Medora walked into the lands of the Kindol. On her body she wore the clothes of the fallen highway men. On her head, she wore one of their scalps. It was a horrific act, but the thought came to her as she lamented over arriving in the kingdom with no disguise. With a band tied around it, you could not see where the skin was cut and the hood up helped to further the deception. The hair was blonde and would blend in easily to that of the Kindol who were mostly fair colored.

Her skin she could do nothing about, she was darker than all of them, but oddly, the highway men were mixed. They were not Kindol, but not Misyle either. Men of the mountains. Men descended from the mixing of the five Klans. Some with hair as light as the Kindol, but skin dark like the Lumur or olive like the men of the Flame Coast. Another of the men had hair black like a Misyle but his eyes were clearly almond shaped and slanting, like the Kindol warriors she had seen. Men of the mountain, they had no allegiance.

Perhaps the Kindol would take her for a mountain woman. She did not know if they traveled into the cities, but there was a chance. Her bloody battle axe was strapped again to her side and the dagger retrieved from the skull of the fallen man. She raided their bodies for monies. On them she found a detailed map of the area, as well as several bronze pieces. She threw the bodies into the woods for the animals to eat. At least, Drake’s kin would be served by their deaths.

The journey to their capitol city would be long by foot but she intended to see just how badly the country had strayed.

It did not take long.

The first town she came to had at its center was a statue of Rune. It was much more ornamental than the ones in Misyle, covered in red and orange jewels. Flowers and offerings were strewn at its base. The sight made Medora sick. She turned her head and saw a temple had been built as well. A temple to a mortal man. It took great self discipline not to walk in and throw over the alter.

Some more stuff happens here.

***

A New Brand of Slave

Eskil Aud awoke to the drums as he did every morning now.

All of the slaves rose from the crowded hovels where they slept in groups trying to stay warm. The cold months had started and the Kindol army kept the firewood for themselves. Eskil and his sister had opened their small home to six other Kasgardians, a family who had lived on the other side of the city. They had lost three of their kin. It seemed no family had made it throw the take over without a death or severe injury. What was worse were the deaths after the battle had stopped. So many of the weaker people, the invalids and the elderly were killed not by swift blade but thrown into the fires that burned the bodies of the fallen. It was torturous to watch. The images of nights that followed the battle were forever imprinted on the Kasgardians. They had not love for their captures. It boiled under their skins.

Eskil stood and pulled on his heavy boots. He would travel to the mine with the other men and the women would be taken out in working groups to clean and tend to the armies needs. The women would be allowed to come back before the men were released from the mines to prepare meals for all of the slaves. The ate swill, not fit for animals, but it was all they had now.

The three brothers of the family followed Eskil out of the home and into the street. Many men were now there and they walked as a group. Eskil found Aden among the group. They had started to become fast friends. At least, as well as you could be under the circumstances. They attempted to stay together as they climbed the path to the mine entrances. The Kindol chained them together by the ankles and gave them their tools to work. If you stood next to one another in line you had a better chance to be chained together in the group of six. Aden did not say anything to him as they walked. They hoped it had not been noticed they preferred each other’s company. Many of the Kasgardians had adapted this. It seemed the only way to get through the days, to have your friends by your side.

They neared the entrance to the mine. Several Kindol were there, the chains on the ground at their feet. They moved silently, their faces cold and hard. The Kindol on the right had a mace the size of Eskil’s head, covered in sharp points. They had a good system for keeping the men working, that was for sure. Eskil stood while the chain was attached to him by a young boy. Not big enough to work in the mines, but he would be soon. He could see in the boy’s face he knew he’d be clamping these on his own legs not far in the future. Aden stood behind him, being chained as well. The four other men Eskil did not recognize today. On occasion they would be together with other men they had worked with at one time. But not all of the slaves had been miners. Many of the miners were dead and gone. Being some of the first to the fight. Many of these men were just average workers, sailors or the such. They had learned the mining skill very quickly after the enslavement.

They walked into the dark mine entrance all being given tools to dig. They followed the other chain gangs down into the depths. The small torches lighting their way. They passed many guards holding some of the most nasty weapons they’d ever seen. They’d seen them do nasty things to men’s faces as well. The Kasgardians were now not a very pretty group of people.

The reached their station and began to do the back breaking work of condemned men.

It had been this way for four moons now. They were into the month of Lunara, in fact, it was just past the first day of winter. Eskil had rapped his hands with bits of cloth to keep them warm as he worked. At least the mine heated up from the bodies and being cut from the wind. Aden groaned as he hit the wall with the pickaxe. Veins of Flamestone were extremely hard and took long hours to dig from the surrounding rock.

“Well you haven’t said anything about the new additions to the working class,” Aden whispered.

“The Lumurs? They’re a sturdy lot. I expect they will work just as hard as us,” Eskil answered.

The day before several ships had pulled into the harbor carrying more slaves to Kasgard. They were men and women from some of the Lumur villages. They said they were on the west side of the republic, close to the Kindol border. They had fought long and hard, but in the end their towns were swallowed up by the kingdom. Their Lumur brethren still fought in the north. It would be a long a fierce campaign to reach their capitol.

He had not spoke to them, but he did sit and listen to the conversation they had with the Kasgardian leaders and the evening meal. They spoke in low gruff voices that matched their smaller height and stocky bodies. Their skin was several shades darker than the Kasgardians, and their hair black and straight instead of the curly waves most of Eskil’s people had.

Aden glanced around for the nearest guard.

“If they keep pumping slaves into this place and sending the armies out to the surrounding cities, we may soon outnumber them,” he said very quietly.

“Elys fell and they did not bring them to the mines as did Malya.”

“But the Lhyl, they are here too.”

“True. I guess it will remain to be seen how many they expect to do this work. Perhaps enough to mine around the clock. I wish to know just what they are using all of this flamestone for. We never minded this much when we were exporting it. No one bought it in the quantities they take it.”

“they are lighting many more fires that just that of their home cooking flames.”

“That is true.”

“Hush…guard.”

Eskil and Aden worked silently for nearly an hour as a guard had come to stand just behind them. He started to move on to another gang just down the way from them. They picked up their conversation once again speculating on the deeds of the Kindol.

In four months time, the Kindol had turned Kasgard into their base of campaigns throughout the region. They first moved up the coast to Elys. Rumor was they found it nearly abandoned. But after careful search, they found many of the Elysians up the river and in the foothills of the mountains hiding out. Whether they were put to death or set to work there, they did not know. However, Kindol now had a second front to fight the Lumur if they so chose. Just after that they moved south and took Malya. Lhyl fell easily, its people simple folk who did not have the strength to fight. Arca had yet to fall to the Kindol. They fought hard, their battlements reinforced by some miracle of foresight, but the sheer numbers of the Kindol were overwhelming them. He reasoned in a month’s time their walls would fall and they would find themselves working along side the Arcians as well. The Kindol were now slowly moving through the countryside taking villages and farms as they pleased. It seemed that every day another ship full of fighting men arrived.

Eskil had no doubt that in a few months time, the entire country would be overrun. It was only a matter of time. He hoped the Lumur stood up to them as long as they could. After that the only hope was the Misyles, but everyone knew they pledged their alliance to the kingdom of Kindol well before their king started waging war. He wondered if the Escape Islands had been hit yet. The small islands far to the west that was the home of pirates and families descended from a group of persecuted people among the Kindol. They wore the faces of the people of Kindol, but in them dwelled a hate for the kingdom so strong they raided only ships flying the king’s flag. Kasgard had often traded with them, as they had avoided the Misyle cities for many years now. After that, well, there were only those no one knew even existed for sure. It was said there were peoples to the south on large island nations there. Fierce tribes of cannibals. Their teeth sharpened to points and their bodies tattooed with the blood of their victims. No ships strayed into their waters. Then there were the Pale. A legendary race far to the north who lived in ice and allowed none into their borders.

---

It was not practical to wish that these outside parties would come to their aid. There had to be some way to resist this. Eskil looked chanced a glance around at the miners. There faces were drawn, depressed and broken. The unfortunate thing about the battle was that nearly every lion hearted leader among the Kasgardians had fallen in the first wave. The military leaders were all gone. Almost all of the original fighting force that guarded the city were also dead. That left the miners – quiet hard working types and the nobler blood who were far in land when the battle began. Lord Bazan was a smart man, very cunning when it came down to it. But these last few months had broken his back. Eskil saw him at the dinner fires only a week ago and he looked like a wild animal. Starved. His cheeks hallow and none of the airs of the high class he was formally a part of. He still walked among them, checking on the health of his people and did what he could to lift their spirits, but there was no rebellious leader in him. His eyes were dead.

Eskil hit the wall with his pickaxe hard and groaned. Anger was rising up in him. He felt his skin growing hotter and his brow furrowed. They had killed Kasgardians. They had murdered the leaders. They had taken their city, a city built on the blood of their fathers. They had crashed walls put up by the first sons of Kas. They had burned buildings as old as the mines. And what did they care for? All they wanted was their precious flamestones. Dark red and black rocks taken from the veins of their mountain. Stones that had merely to touch one another to start sparks and fire. Valued to all on Ekaria. It was their livelihood and the Kindol had no right to it. Not one. No, these mountains, these rocks, these walls, these streets, this people belonged to Kasgard. It was time they remembered it.

Eskil was still fuming with anger as he walked out of the mines that night with Aden still at his side. The other man caught his eye and reflected some of the frustration shown on Eskil’s face. Aden was strong but he was not especially bright. He would follow though, Eskil believed. He would follow if asked. As they exited another boy was there to unclasp the irons. The tools were taken from them by the guards and they were left empty handed for their work. The path back to the slave dwellings was long and draining. They were exhausted from being overworked, but pressed on to eat that little bit shit food before they passed out into dead sleep. They passed through the newly erected fence around their own homes. A pen to keep them from going anywhere the Kindol did not wish. You left in a working group and you returned that way. Guards watching you constantly. Your body was checked over as you entered the prison, but oddly, not as you left. Eskil had made a note of this.

He stopped at his home to try to clean himself. The dust and dirt from the mine covered him. He felt like he had been coated in it for ages. Never clean. Eka was not there, neither were the women from the family living with them. The men entered shortly after him and did the same. Wiped what grim they could from their faces and hands. All four of them left together to get into the line serving food. He realized quickly they had gotten in line behind Lord Bazen. He was just and dirty as they, but his clothes were still of a higher make. Nearly tatters now.

Eskil ventured, “Good evening, Lord Bazen.”

He turned, his eyes haunted. He nodded. “Just Bazen now I think, lad.”

Eskil’s eyes darkened. “Always Lord, sir. Always. They can not strip that title from you sir, you were born with it.”

Lord Bazen’s mouth curved into a sad smile. “It is hard to remember that some days.”

“Yes sir. But remember we must.”

As they talked, a small boy came wandering through the group. He was carrying a letter and holding a hand to his forehead.

“Sir?” his little voice rose up to them.

Lord Bazen looked down at him and immeditalty dropped to his knee. “My boy, what is it?”

“A letter sir, I was sent to give it to you.”

“And your head, what’s this?” he asked, taking the letter and pulling the boys hand away.

“I said something out of turn sir.”

The boys head was bleeding from a gash that covered half of his forehead.

Lord Bazen gasped. Eskil watched as the lord ripped the cuff from his own sleeve. He pulled the button off and threw it to the ground and applied the makeshift bandage to the boys head.

“Here, come with me we shall see if we can get this cleaned up.”

“But the letter sir, they said it was important.”

“Nothing is more important right now that getting this cut looked at, alright?”

The little boy grinned up at Lord Bazen and followed him off to one of the houses. Eskil watched with awe. How could a man who cared so much for his people be so afraid to act? Perhaps he was so in fear of letting more of them die. Eskil would be more afraid to let a boy like that grow up a slave and know no life of freedom. The line was moving. Before he proceeded, he stooped and picked up the discarded button from Lord Bazen’s shirt.

He studied it as he walked, the little bit of firelight highlighted its embossed symbols. It was a family crest. A noble symbol, one that no doubt was still engraved on one of the homes to the west occupied by some Kindol general.

Always a Lord. He will remember that, even if it is up to his people to show him how.

Eskil flipped the button over a few times and walked forward to get his dinner. A woman handed him a bowl of a stew. There was little meat in it, but it would do. He also got a chunk of hard bread and moved toward the fire ring. Many stood around it chatting in low voices. Many would take their meal home to eat out of the wind. He ate, all the while twisting the button between his fingers and staring at the low flames. The coals were hot and glowing. Aden sat down next to him, already finished with his food.

“You look very contemplative tonight, Eskil.”

“I am through contemplating, my friend.”

“Oh?” he looked intrigued.

Eskil stood and found one of the long wooden shards that were being used as a fire poker. He used his nails to pry the end apart slightly. He jammed the button into the wood so the shank held it in place facing out. Aden was watching him closely, but saying nothing. Eskil thrust the poker into the coals. After a few minutes he pulled the stick out, the end of it was smoking and the button glowed red like. He grinned, slightly madly and handed the poker to Aden. Aden held it unsurely and stared at Eskil blankly. Eskil turned his branded hand over so the palm was facing out.

“Here, right here in the center.”

Aden’s eyes widened when he realized what was being asked of him, but he was quick to understand why. He pressed the heated button into Eskil’s flesh, burning a new brand into his hand. One side slave, one side Kasgard loyalist. He did not flinch, just has he had reacted when the Kindol burned their symbol into him. However, on this branding he took a fierce pride in, so much that a devilish grin was forming on his face. Aden pulled the poker back and put it back into the coals. Eskil looked over the mark. A perfect circle at the center of his palm with the Bazen coat of arms clear to any who saw it. Red and puffy, but it would heal well.

“Now me,” Aden said stiffly, holding out his own palm.

Eskil smiled. So it begins.

***

The Unsettling of Lysand Tryle of Heart

Lysand Tryle stood on the beach looking out over the pier where his ship was docked. It was a sleek vessel and he was quite happy becoming a crew member. He spent so many years on his father’s small ship learning the art of Sharking, but it had been time to move on. After one year on a real Sharker ship, he felt like a seasoned crew. They would be leaving again soon. They had come back to the City of the Malor for a weeks time to take on supplies and a few new hands, what with the accidents. It was usual that a Sharker ship would loose men on an outing. It wasn’t a very safe job. Not like the professions of those on land. Malor here in the city did such tedious useless things. The only ones he had any respect for were the Malor who stood guard and trained as warriors. Them and the few who tended to the healing rooms, he had had to be under their care many times. One felt safe when you knew the hands of the healers were taking your falling crew members.

Lysand slid his hands around the back of his head and stretched. He continued his lazy walk down the beach back to the hermit like dwelling her father kept. The bright blue of the water complimented his rows of tattoos that lined his back, arms and head. They followed his spine like tiger stripes stretching out around his ribs. In his ears he wore a few silver rings and one long piece of leather that was pulled through his lobe. On the bottom of it was a large shark’s tooth. One he had pulled from the mouth of the beast himself. He rubbed his hands down his bare chest and stomach. There were scars there. His upper body was riddled with them, but he wore them like badges of honor. They were something that earned him respect from the other Sharkers on the new crew. From the first day he stepped foot onto the ship, they knew he was a Malor who knew what it was to Shark.

The home he grew up in neared. It was sent back from the water some distance and buried in rocks like it wanted to be a cave. His father was a strange man. He did not like living closely to the other Malor, but he was not unsocial. Every day he would take his small ship out with his meager crew and Shark for hours on end and return before sundown. After all was put away and the day’s catch was cleaned and prepared for market he would hike up to the main streets of the city sit with the other elder Malor in the parlors smoking and drinking. At night he would hobble back down to his home and rest. He would wake and do the whole thing over again. The man was a creature of habit. True to form, he was not at the home when Lysand entered. It would be many hours after the sun and sunk below the sea before he would see his father.

Lysand, however enjoyed the quite and lay back on his small bunk. His hands automatically falling onto his chest and tracing the intricate veins of the scars. Most he could remember, but some happened so long ago as a child that their origin was lost to him. He knew he should be out with the other members of his crew enjoying their time on land, but there was some nagging feeling that had him upset. He found he could not enjoy himself in their company at the parlors or walking in the markets. There was something dark brooding at the back of his mind. However, he could not place his finger on it and resigned to not think of it any more tonight. Already he had walked the entire length of the Malor beach to try to clear his head. It had helped in some manner, but it was rising up once more. It felt like some piece of information that he was supposed to know, but could not quite grasp. Perhaps he had forgotten something of importance and it would come back to his thoughts if he ignored it long enough.

Lysand tried to remember that he was a simple man. There was nothing that he should find himself worrying about. He would wake in the morning and go about his business. He would join his fellow crew and head out onto the vast blue ocean and begin their hunt for the schools of larger deep water sharks. They would be out there maybe a months time and return again with their hull full of salted shark meat and skins and the whole process would continue. He was considering this, half a sleep, when his father entered.

The man was shorter than Lysand by a head and his skin was wrinkled with age. He was perhaps sixty summers to Lysand’s twenty three, but the man still moved with speed. His tattoos were a dusty grey, but very similar to Lysand’s. They tended to mimic family lines. They were long curved stripes, like tusks almost. One curved over his hairless head over his left eye, almost identical to Lysand. Around his neck was a string of sharks’ teeth separated by beads of various colors. Cinden Tryle was his name, but he went by Tryle only among the Malor. Tryle shuffled quickly into the home and lit a waxy candle, waking Lysand from his dreamy thoughts.

“Back so soon?” Lysand asked.

Tryle just grunted. He busied himself putting what possessions they had away in their proper place. Lysand always managed to mess the home up when he was back. He knew it fustrated his father, but he found it actually quite humourous. Lysand smiled sideways as he watched the old man stack dishes grunting all the time.

The candle light caught the flickering of Tryle’s light blue eyes. Lysand, himself had dark, almost black eyes, something he assumed he got from the Felah that birthed him. Tryle never spoke of her, and it was just as well. Lysand didn’t much care for those sorts of stories. He himself never ventured to the center island during the waning of the summer months when the Heart copulated. He had very little interaction with the Felah at all, really. It was not something he felt badly about either. Most Malor his age felt the same. They could be damned, for all he cared. The Felah were cruel and foreign. They hid in their forests, high in their trees. He personally assumed they were warped being so close to The Dark Ones on the north island.

Again he reminded himself he was a simple man and the goings on of the Felah really did not concern him. Those were topics for the High House to worry over, not he a low born Sharker.

“What is ailing you, boy?”

“What? Oh, I was just thinking about leaving tomorrow.”

His father grunted again.

“I am.”

“Your brow is furrowed. You do not furrow it when you think about being back onto the water.”

“There will be new hands. It will be trying to teach them how to do the job well.”

“You are a good teacher. This you know. Every hand on my ship has been guided by you. Some are growing old enough to join your crew. Perhaps I should persuade some of them to speak to your captain at the sunrise.”

“Perhaps, at least I would know they know what they are doing. Who are you thinking of sending?”

“Sidian. Or perhaps Artimis.”

“Sidian is keener. Bright lad. Artimis is strong though. Either would be an asset to us, and a great loss to you.”

“I can stand to send off my best when they are read. I sent you did I not?”

“Yes.”

“One day perhaps you will come back to this small sailing. I spent many years on the large ships too. But one day you may desire a simple life again. The ship will be yours one day to do as you please.”

This time it was Lysand’s turn to grunt.

The talked for a short time more of various things and then put out the candle to sleep. Lysand again had to push the anxious thoughts that were rising in the back of his mind away. If they bode something ill, he would deal with it as it came.

***

The sun was low in the eastern sky when Lysand strode down the pier. He wore loose linen pants that cuffed tightly around his calves. They were a fashionable set that he purchased some time ago in one of the nice parts of the city. They were of a good make and cloth so he knew they would be durable, yet they looked strongly of traditional Malor wear. He went bare-chested as he always did, but slug a leather belt around his waist holding a pack his set of curved knives. The rest of the crew was assembling outside of the ship, a few men aboard.

Sidian stood among the hopefuls waiting to speak to the captain about joining the crew. Lysand walked aboard and sidled up to the railing next to some of the others on the crew.

“What do you make of them?” one asked.

“The one with the green hash mark tattoos is a good strong lad, very smart and quick on the uptake. I taught him myself, from my father’s crew. I’d take him aboard in a heart beat. The others, I haven’t had the chance to size up. Do you know any of their background?”

“The one with black marks—“

“the curved thin marks or the thick blunt?”

“Thick blunt. He looks strong enough. Was a Fisher from what I can tell. Thinks he’s ready to move up in the world,” he said with a laugh. “The one with the light orange, he’s from an outside settlement. Don’t know anything about him, but he was well spoken and helped load the supplies yesterday if you remember.”

“ah yes, I remember noticing him now. And the one with the light blue?”

The Malor on his left laughed again, almost cruelly. “Son of a Scribe. From the High House.”

Lysand joined in his laughter. “He won’t last a week if he’s allowed on the ship. Has he even seen the water before?” They all laughed.

Lysand’s smile faded as he realized the man they spoke of was staring directly at him. His face was long and thin, his body lean but toned. He had only two silver rings through his ears and his tattoos were like sharp triangles reaching around his skull in even increments. His skin was pale like he spent little time in the sun. He wore a light sleeveless shirt over his upper body with thin leather straps over it to some bag or quiver on his back. His forearms were wrapped in fine leathers. Even from a distance Lysand could tell his clothing was expensive and of fine material. His pants were similar to the ones Lysand wore only in a bright blue color instead of the dull grey. He was still staring at Lysand and it made him uncomfortable. His eyes were grey and unreadable. His nose long and narrow and his mouth seemed almost nonexistent.

---

Lysand didn’t like the look of him one bit. He had a suspicious air to him. His demeanor was completely different from the men at his side who anxiously awaited the Captain of the Sharker ship. They spoke easily with the Malor around them and glanced to the end of the dock over and over again. Sidian was pointing to the sails and the masts of the ship, he seemed to be quizzing one of the Sharkers. The two with black tattoos were speaking to the one with orange, pointing back to the city. The Scribe however, continued his sizing of Lysand. He found it difficult to meet his eyes.

“I don’t much care for him.”

“None of us do either. Hasn’t said a damn word since he arrived. Arrived early too. Well before the sun was in the sky.”

Presently, Captain Holoquin made his way up the pier. He was followed by a small entourage of family and the second mate. The first was on the ship already, watching over the preparations to leave. Lysand recognized the captain’s son, Harmis, and his Heartbond, Lidar. He picked up the small boy and swung him in an embrace. Harmis laughed and hugged his father around the neck. The captain set him down and turned to Lidar. They said their good byes and Lidar took Harmis back down the pier. Captain Holoquin and the second strode up to the ship.

He was very tall with broad defined shoulders. His tattoos were a dark midnight blue that jutted out at many angles from his back. He slid a hand down his smooth head and smiled at Lysand and the men around him.

“Sizing up the new hands are you?” he asked casually.

“Aye sir. We were deciding just how they’d fair. Taking bets on how long the Scribe will last, sir.”

The Captain turned a crooked grin. “Well, I think I’ll bet in favor of him lasting out the tour. Spoke with him yesterday a good turn. Still, it will be an interesting change of moons, no? The boy from the settlements is a hunter… though I