Entangled Destinies. Mitrys trilogy vol. 3 ebook

Original title:

Kroniki Dwuświata

Sploty przeznaczenia, Trylogia Mitrys – Tom III

DualRealm Chronicles

Entangled Destinies, Mitrys Trilogy – Volume III

Copyright © by Paweł Kopijer, Gliwice 2023

Copyright © by PANKO company

All rights reserved

Cover art: Tomasz Ryger

Graphic & Cover Design: Anna Kopijer

Translation, Editing & Proofing: Marek Kazmierski

Typesetting: Andrzej Zyszczak – Zyszczak.pl

Layout: Firma PANKO

Styczyńskiego 3m1

44-100 Gliwice

Edition I

Gliwice 2023

Firma PANKO

ISBN: 978-83-967035-5-2

www: kopijer.pl

Fanpage: Facebook.com/powiescifantasy

YouTube – Paweł Kopijer

YouTube – boardgame: Mitrys

Viki epitis zoi kai tou thanátos.

Victory above all life and death.

(Vow made by Orogon soldiers)

GODS’ INFLUENCES

Age of the Sword, year 18,

Continent of Elise

Ea froze, sensing the unexpected presence of extremely powerful Dark Power. Alien tremors filled the grotto buried within the Fathomless Void, unpleasantly interfering with her own energy field. She straightened her back and focused on trying to detect what sort of magic was clashing with hers, a skill she retained as one of the few powers remaining of her former divine status. Her pale blue gown glimmered and sparkled with silvery reflections.

“Nemeth?!” she cried, now sensing the necromantic divinity’s signature frequency, something she would recognize any time and any where. Back during the War of the Gods, as the times before the Eternal Pact between the Light and the Dark was arrived at were called, her contact with this devilishly ambitious goddess had been all too frequent.

“Surprised?” the goddess’ voice rang out in the grotto a split second before her body materialized in it.

She appeared in a small field of moonbeam moss in the form of a pretty, even if pretentiously attired middle-aged woman. A carmine dress was covered in all sorts of trinkets and adornments, making it look fierce and dramatic. The moment she moved the air around her was filled with stifling amounts of lavender perfume.

“So you thought that by unifying your qi with the world of the mortals you would completely cut yourself off from your enemies and old friends left behind in Arsum, a dimension we shared through eternity itself?” Nemeth asked, her tone of voice aggressive and demanding.

Evermother thought for a moment about Horos’ Spirit Dagger, aware that in the current circumstances even a minor deity like Nem was a danger not to be underestimated. And yet she knew also that her former adversary from the world of gods, by taking on human form and appearing in a Place of Power, was herself risking a great deal. The immortals had good reason for generally avoiding entry into the material world and only did so in very specific circumstances. In both material and immaterial realms all beings were bound by certain laws which could prove fatal to even the hardiest divinities. This was mostly why the gods had created Aldens and Burghals to serve them and appear in the world of mortal beings and made contact with troubling physicality in doing battle as part of the eternal conflict between the Light and Dark sides of magic realms of reality.

“It’s not worth it, taking me on here and now,” Ea stated, sensing that the secret weapon, a present from the most powerful God of Light, reacted to her willpower. “Think of what you stand to lose!”

Nemeth edged forward slowly, her eyes fixed on one who was once one of the most powerful Beings of Light, grinning to herself mischievously.

“Not here, not now, too right… I came to see you for another reason. Though not unconnected.”

Evermother squinted her eyes in a typically human instinctive reaction. All the time trying as best to read the waves of energy emanating from this Being of Dark, in order to work out what her intentions might be. The intensity of Dark energy Nem was generating was overwhelming. ‘How is it possible this meagre little creature has this much power at her disposal?’ Evermother asked herself, realizing the scale of the danger she was facing.

“And so speak, what is it you want, and leave,” Ea demanded flatly, casting spells to conceal her unease from her Dark visitor.

“Well, well now…” Nemeth’s cheeky little smile turned into a mean grin. “How… Unwelcoming of you. The one who gives birth, who ushers in life, who sacrificed her divinity to serve the cause of creatures her Power birthed, has cause to be this unpleasant to one of her own kind?”

“The Dark and the Light were never of the same kind.”

“Is that right? Could one exist without the other? Is my domain not bordering directly on yours? Sister?” Nemeth asked, making her eyes appear hideously large and surprised.

“Let it go, Nemeth, I insist,” Ea asked, entwining the fingers of both hands. Due to a serious height advantage she was able to look down on her rival. “We both know what we’re all about and what friction between us can cause. Will cause… What is it you want of me right now?”

“You ought not to be this proud. Not no more,” the Dark Goddess growled, smacking her lips. She lowered her gaze and began pacing up and down along the grotto floor, sliding across piles of moonbeam moss which then stopped glowing and wilted almost instantly. “I came here to give you advance warning of a matter which happens to be very close to my heart. Soon enough, armies led by my servant, Semael, will occupy all of Elise, making all those who live upon it my subjects. This continent, just like Amadal, will become mine and only mine to govern. My Source.”

Evermother turned pale, and so Nemeth went on with a satisfied smile,

“You can do nothing to stop this.”

“If you think I am going to abandon…”

“As you did in the past?! Recall your Cellers, who prayed and bowed before you so fervently? How you did nothing when Gryvor the Gaunt was slaughtering them, when he was torching sacred trees in the Woods of Derath, drowning all of northern Elise in the blood of those who trusted you would protect them?” Nemeth glared, delighted to see Ea bowing and bending under the weight of all these accusations going back four centuries. “When you failed to stand up to a stupid, power hungry member of the Blessed line? I watched it all with deep, delightful glee, yet I have to say I was also shocked. Although it was all to my benefit, I couldn’t and still can’t work out how someone who surrendered their divine status in the name of unification with Earthly creatures could remain passive at such a time.”

“I… I did not… I was not able to interfere at the time. Not in human affairs,” Evermother sighed, her sky blue dress suddenly looking worn and shabby and grey as she swooned and seemed ready to fall to the floor.

“So, this time keeping your nose out of human affairs should not cause you any more trouble,” Nemeth said, watching Ea struggling to keep composure with great satisfaction. Yet her Light counterpart glared at her now as if she had just come to realise just how terrible the wave of cruelty about to wash over the continent would truly be. She clenched her fists and inhaled deeply.

“This time is this time. Butting in with your influences, you disrupt the preagreed rules and give me the right, the obligation to stand on the side of those who are true to the Light.”

Nemeth sighed theatrically, threw up her hands and gave Evermother a pitying look.

“Do let me make sure you are fully aware of how things stand at present. You might have once been a mighty goddess of the Light, but now you’re just a shadow of your former self. Your Source of Power has been, to put it mildly, eradicated thoroughly some four centuries ago, so you best get used… You know. For all those hundreds of years you were denied prayers, no one bowed before you, while I acquired new followers, new faithful, and now thanks to my alliance with a certain Blessed villain hundreds of human beings are burning in my fires. If you try to stand up to me, little sister, you will be made to pay the highest price, believe you me. No one will be able to stop me, not even your beloved Horos… Heh, he still hasn’t forgiven you for stepping away from the Circle of Light to rot here in the name of those stupid, frail, mortal creatures. People are and will always be just a source of energy for us, and your sick sympathy for their fates has been the cause of one of the stupidest decisions in the endless eons we gods have been around.”

Nemeth glared at Evermother as if all was said and done, but it wasn’t yet.

“Other gods will not remain indifferent, once they know what you’ve been scheming!” the fading queen of the Fathomless Void cried desperately.

“How would they know, seeing as all this time I have been able to keep this knowledge from them? You’ll inform on me? You are the one who decided to surrender the ability to contact the immortal in Arsum, hmm… Yes you! Remember how they all turned away from human affairs once the Pact of the Eternals was sealed? Now, their attentions are focused elsewhere.”

Nemeth approached, teeth bared.

“I will tell you now, if it needs saying, that if you stand on the side of those pathetic Archont descendants I will not hesitate. I will defeat you and make sure you never recover, never heal, never find any sort of peace.”

The whole of the Fathomless Void suddenly filled with such a powerful wave of magic energy it was as if Dragen himself – the god of hate, the most powerful one in the Dark Circle – had descended down to DualRealm…

THE BIND OF DESTINY

“Beor,” Noran said, turning in his saddle towards the armored giant walking beside his horse, hoping he was addressing the right twin, “Where did you come up with the name ‘storm soldiers’? I noticed your warriors tend to refer to the leaders of hundred strong units as ‘wargans’ but then when speaking among themselves they often talk about them as the storm ones.”

“I am Zoar, sire,” the heavy set warrior answered, smiling, as if totally used to being mistaken for his twin brother. “Storm warriors, also known as war storms, are so called because of the rituals they undergo which allow them to become the leaders of a whole unit or battalion even.”

Zoar adjusted the giant axe he had tied to his back, as the band of some dozen or more marchers trotted single file along a path which wove between rolling hills. The day was sunny and a light breeze carried upon it the pleasing smells of wild grasses and flowers.

“Those who want to lead others have to compete at a time when heavy springtime storms tend to hit the Orogon Hills each year…” he added, wiping the sweat from his heavy, hairy brows, set over dark eyes widely set apart upon a grayish face. The immensely thick plates of his armor creaked with his every move.

“I take it pretenders to being a war storm have to first beat the other pretenders before taking on the war storm himself?” Noran guessed.

“Sometimes, they have to battle each other in a melee fight. Those who survive the storms, and reach a specified place which is always exposed, have to then sort things out between themselves. As I am sure you’ve been told the hurricanes round our way are the most powerful of all upon Amadal. At times, none of the challengers actually survive till the storms’ end. At times, only one is picked by the storm itself. They do not live long enough to battle each other or the existing war storms often.”

Noran thought about this for a while without answering, his eyes focused on the ground ahead of his horse’s hoofs. He found it hard to imagine any weather front which could be wild enough to sweep away such mighty Orogon warriors.

“And who is this og of yours?” he asked.

“Simple. Ogami is a name we assign to all Orogons who are not officially warriors. Not counting women and children, this is limited to those warriors who have defamed themselves and lost their honor,” the giant growled and spat at the ground passing beneath his massive feet.

Noran enjoyed these chats, learning more and more about the twin brothers assigned to guard him, as well as other residents of the Old Continent. This birthplace of the human species, unlike the relatively young and primitive Elise, buzzed with all sorts of activity and civilized ongoings, novelties Noran observed with delight. Since passing through the Mitrys portal, he devoted each day to learning all he could about the politics and relations between the races on Amadal. Before now, he could only read about them in historical narratives which were hard to come by on the New Continent. Being one of the leading Silent Knives in the Leoville Guild did open doors and books before him which were shut to others, but learning about this world from dusty pages and seeing it all for himself were like comparing a tin outdoor bath with taking a shower under a thundering waterfall. He needed to know everything and more about this world and all its secrets if he stood any chance at all of defeating Semael. He had no doubts that someone as cunning as his current master must always be keeping secrets from everyone, including himself, even if he was chosen as his Champion. Noran had declared loyalty to the Dark Mage’s cause, but suspected his new master did not fully trust how loyal a changeling assassin might prove to be. Semael had taken Sylvan captive and was keeping him hostage in inaccessible Fortress Nemedor. If Noran dared step out of line at any time, it would mean certain death for his friend and mentor. The Draconian wrapped round his forearm was another thing keeping him bound to the Dark. The Burghal demon trapped within it did essentially turn Noran into an indefatigable warrior who was impossible to beat in battle, but this was only because Semael willed it so. The Dark mage was the true owner of this artifact and in practice could take control of Noran’s body any time he wanted, for as long as it took the young assassin to find a way of removing the damned bangle from his arm. Being himself held hostage to its power made him feel utterly uncertain and scared of his own self, especially when he recalled how easily it could take control of him as it had done during the recent confrontation in Cronogrod.

‘How can I go up against someone who is so careful and so demented when it comes to scheming and planning and manipulating everything and everyone?’ Noran kept thinking over and over again, unable to accept being enslaved to anyone or any Dark cause. For the first time ever he had been forced to stop himself attacking someone he knew was his mortal enemy, something which did not sit well with the freedom loving changeling.

He smiled to himself however when he recalled saving Sylvan’s life when they were attacked by that berserker, and dreamed in silence about being one day reunited with his old Guild mentor. Yet the scale of the challenges ahead were overwhelming even for someone as adept at suffering hardships and as magically endowed as him. One of the greatest problems he was going to have to face off against was Xorak, the incredible shapeshifter Noran now suspected could easily have been following Druvian’s plans and progress and interfering with their mission in ways none of them imagined or expected. It seemed almost guaranteed that Xorak must have been on their trail as they moved between Leoville and Goatley Keep, in order to then have them manipulated into descending into its maze of dungeons where they managed to avoid the Shadoween occupiers and stumbled upon, perhaps not by chance, the ancient mummy which was wearing the Draconian. Noran hated to think of how they had been duped from the very start and felt his stomach turning and his mind darkening over when he realized just how little he actually knew about what he had been made to go through.

“Zoar,” he said, pulling on the reins of his mount to slow the animal down and bring him in line with the marching warrior. “Tell me more about the shapeshifter working on our behalf as chosen by the Darkest One.”

“Eh, who knows…” the giant Orogon walking beside Noran sighed. “No one I know of knows that creature’s secrets. Nor do I think it wise to ask around about them either.”

“Few I suspect even know of his existence. Though I did hear you and your brother have been close to Semael for years, ever since he bestowed upon you two the honor of being his personal guard,” Noran pressed, knowing the mention of ‘honor’ was likely to increase the chances of this warmonger’s tongue coming untied. “Don’t you think it is remarkable how he is able to take on any shape he wills?”

Zoar stomped along in silence for some time, answering only when he felt it would be rude not to,

“He can only do so when he kills his victim in a bestial ritual… He must devour the still beating heart of anyone he wants to turn into and impersonate.”

Noran felt his heart stop a second when he remembered the young and fascinating Zig, now that he knew she did not betray their cause. He desperately needed to believe all those nights spent passionately embraced in her bed were still her. The alternative was unthinkable, and the very thought he had been making love not to her but that terrifying monster all along made him want to vomit. ‘Yeah, my pathetic Quork gambit in trying to make the Darkest One believe I would accept the title of the ruler of Elise as the prize for serving him dutifully cannot work… He can’t truly believe I will just follow his orders and be a kept man, no matter the stakes involved…’. He remembered well how Sylvan had taught him to play Quork when he was just a little boy and schooled him in some of the sneaky strategies one needed to know and apply in order to have any chance of winning against the most cunning players. He had learnt, in the short time he had known the Dark mage, that Semael liked to tempt those he planned to control with offers of power and high honors. No money was involved, no effort was needed to appeal to the lowest kind of desire to get results. As for Noran, only one prize mattered – to be able to settle scores with those who he felt had it coming. Sure, Noran’s heart was possessed by the Dark and his mind often dominated by it, but he had his own dark angles on life and his own passions to pursue. Semael was also unaware of the gift Noran had received from the lady of the Snowy Sanctuary. Something Bruneira had said to him in the passing might yet prove key in his own life and personal campaigns, even if the young assassin was still unsure how best to wield and use it to his advantage.

‘Your Darkest Highness has just added a most unique species of skorpena to his orangery, one which is the most venomous, the most enduring and deadly… I couldn’t give a shit about all your best laid plans, all your centuries of cunning. Your hourglass is about to be overturned and smashed for good…’

He sucked his teeth so his horse would hear and speed up a little so he could catch up with what was apparently the female leader of the band of human rebels they had taken captive. He had kept a close eye on the girl ever since they had attacked and overwhelmed her meagre rebel force. Once they set off, he made the decision to split their parties in two. The first was marched off to Nemedor, while his group, which included the girl alone, set off to meet Cruel Gar, the head of the northern penal colony. He ignored the evident displeasure this decision was received with by the twin brothers and the Arrakin guards assigned to them, nor did he care anything for the terror he saw in the eyes of Azek, the only Arrakin, Ulun-bey ranking shaman in their group, responsible for using the nefris neck brace. Noran was Semael’s champion and was free to make decisions as he saw fit.

‘I still have no idea why, you damned Dark devil, made me your right hand man!’ he sighed to himself, still trying to figure out the exact ways his new boss’ mind worked. ‘It’s not about my killing talents, not about the Dark which marks me, not even the Draconian I wear which was your doing all along. The grim twins you assigned to protect me I bet are also here to make sure I stay in line and do nothing which might displease or disturb your Dark Highness. Your Champion and your slave all in one. Another miserable joke played at my expense by cruel, entangled destinies. But seeing as I have to play along with this role of being the Darkest One’s chosen one I will do my best to profit from it all I can, even if I have to pretend to be interested in power and glory for a while longer…’

Noran smiled to himself, exposing the sharp fangs in his mouth and approached the young Sharim riding at the head of their marching line. From the very moment he saw her during their initial clash, he had the impression he knew her from somewhere. Not just knew, but felt attracted, attached to her somehow, as if their paths had been aligned and connected for longer than he could possibly know.

“Vinea, is that right?” he asked, seeing her stretch her back with her hands still tied behind it. “Or should I address you as Sunny Lady as did those we captured along with you?”

She only looked at him fleetingly, swaying along to the movement of the horse beneath her. He dared ask,

“Is it possible we have met before?”

“I don’t associate with servants of the Dark,” she croaked in a tone of voice which made it clear he throat was very dry.

Noran watched and thought her appearance to be both delicate and dangerous in equal amounts. He handed her a leather bound flask of water. She gave him a searching look, then took the flask and took a few slow sips, relishing the taste of the cool water before swallowing each sip. ‘Training, military grade training…’ Noran thought, admiring her self restraint.

“Thank you,” she said, surprising him with her soft and honest tone of voice as she handed the flask back.

“So you must be the ray of hope the rebels have been waiting for…” he stated without meaning to sound dismissive or insulting, although that was how his words seemed to come across. He felt she might just prove key to his future plans somehow, though he did not yet know how, and wanted dearly to keep on the right side of this woman they referred to as the ‘inheritor of the Blessed Bloodline’.

She avoided his eyes, looking instead over the uniquely black armor Semael had given him as a gift the moment they arrived on Amadal.

“Why… Did you take me with you, instead of sending me away with the others?” she asked quietly, now turning her bright blue eyes directly upon him. He allowed himself to gaze into them for a dangerously long while…

“I have reasons,” he then stated flatly, making it clear his orders were his alone to reason about. He glanced back to see if anyone else might be able to overhear their conversation, but all the other soldiers and guards were a fair few steps behind their horses. “I might let you know more in good time. For now, I mean to question you myself before the torturers in Nemedor get working on you.”

“Ask away,” she answered, smiling subtly. “Rebel plans, leader names, hidden weapons caches, secret passwords. I will tell you all you want to know as we chit and chat and enjoy this beautiful autumnal weather, so lovely for us to get to know each other better at such a charming time…”

Noran realized she was only getting him back for his dismissive tone earlier, yet still he felt angry that someone would dare talk to him this way. All the time also feeling… That there was something really rather charming about the way she smiled and the little dimples which appeared around her lips as she did so.

“Oh, and why not?” he asked, baring his fangs for her to see in a bold smile. “Tell me what I wish to learn and I may spare you any further interrogations at the hands of men less pleasant than I. We are at war after all. I assume you have plenty to tell me.”

“A war lasting for generations… Eh, what do you think? Are people born of such times afraid of a little torture? That they are unprepared? Unaware that it’s part of their destiny?”

“I don’t think it’s possible to prepare for surviving this sort of suffering,” he shot back dismissively.

“What would you know about it… You’re only ever on the side of those who dish out the punishment, never the one who has to take it.” She was now growling like a wild animal. “You must be bloody good at it too if the nastiest scumbag in our world chose you as leader of all his armed forces. Even though you’re just a kid still, as far as I can tell.”

“You look a little young to me to be claiming to be the saving grace of all the human species. Seems a little odd that millions have put their trust and lives in the hands of a little newly hatched chick like you.”

Vinea gave Noran a look filled with venomous passion, but he could also tell she was very adept at controlling her emotions and challenging them in ways he wished he had been taught how to do.

“Destiny and magic do not involve reasoned, rational thinking… I don’t have to go round claiming anything! As for those who have no idea about magic and a true calling to duty, they will never understand any such things.”

“The nefris I ordered to be removed from your neck has not bothered you for some days now,” he seethed coldly. “Still, I cannot see you trying to use any of your magic, none at all. Do you need help getting in the mood? Or is it just not your time of the month?”

She turned from him now and became so tense in her saddle, he was sure she would have leashed out at him if it weren’t for the ropes binding her arms and the dozen guards following them.

“Be proud and happy, little peacock, the young have the right to think stupid thoughts, only when… The lives of countless innocent beings do not depend on them.”

Noran groaned, trying and failing to keep as cool and restrained as his opponent. Yet, as soon as he was ready to spit something back, some insult or put down or belittling jibe, he realized their conversation really wasn’t up to the standards demanded of a meeting of minds which would decided the future of all Amadal, and Elise too probably.

‘Wow… Only a week ago, I would just have knocked her off that bleeding horse! And now… I am a new changeling,’ he thought to himself with some satisfaction. And surprise too, at how quickly he had learned to reign in his emotions in times of crisis.

Smiling to himself, he gave her a long, hard look, trying to read as much as he could from simply observing her facial expressions and posture seated in that saddle. Then there was the question of her rather lovely attributes, the graceful way with which she held herself and managed to emanate an air of nobility and calm around her. ‘Dangerous and daring…’ he repeated in his thoughts, hoping to remember the phrase for future use…

“We can finish this fascinating discussion at another time,” he growled, pointing with his hand. “We can see the fort up ahead, the norther lager. I now have to focus on something more… Pragmatic.”

He kicked his horse in the sides and rode a little way ahead. The view really was breathtaking – an angular, vast palisade built of mighty tree trunks surrounded by numerous towers was large enough to swallow any city he had ever seen or visited. The thick fortifications, strengthened in places with iron buttresses, showed the keep to be capable of safely defending itself and the garrison of a hundred or so warriors based inside it.

An hour later, as soon as they were within bow and arrow striking range, the gates opened slowly and four mounted warriors rode out to meet them. One of them was holding a pike with the lager coat of arms flying upon it – a carmine star pierced with a golden sword.

“Sire, allow us to speak in your name,” one of the identical twin guards behind him said to Noran, approaching the head of the column. Once again, the assassin had no idea which one of the two brothers he was now talking to. The guard walked ahead to meet the riders, whose grayish, severely scarred and pitted faces betrayed no emotion. Noran met their dark, deeply set eyes and nodded in greeting without saying a word, making it clear with his stance and the way he held his head that he was the leader they should pay respect to.

“Beor, Zoar! Greetings in glory!” the lead rider slammed his fist into the bloody emblem painted in the center of his breastplate, clearly recognizing at least two of the approaching party.

“Glory and victory to you, Gar, guard of the north!” the twin brothers roared in perfect unison, slamming their fists into their chests the same gesture of greeting. Zoar then hailed alone, “We come as sent by our lord, the Darkest Semael, led by our master’s champion.”

Zoar turned to look directly at the young lad wearing his most unusual black armor and nodded respectfully.

“Gar, I present Noran, Night Son, Semael’s Champion and the Dark elect.”

The largest of the riders, who was also clearly the leader, locked eyes with the assassin. He said nothing for some time, then slapped his breastplate softly as if swatting a flea.

“Is that so… Welcome, then… Champion.”

Noran shook his head, making it clear he was aware of how dismissive and disrespectful the man’s greeting truly was.

“May the Dark defend you and your kin, leader of warring men,” he seethed through gritted teeth, though smiling to show he was in control of his emotions and meant no offense.

‘I am the leader and master of all our Dark Lord’s armies, and this little soldier boy dares disrespect me in front of his and my men!’ he thought to himself, stifling the fires now starting to rage within.

“Chief of the north,” one of his riders then said, “Our Dark Champion comes to deliver a very special sort of prisoner package. The one they call the Sunny Lady.”

The lead guard smashed his fist into his breastplate and sneered,

“What an honor for me to meet one of our greatest enemies!”

His men repeated his gesture, banging their chest plates and causing an impressive clamor. Noran exhaled, unable to understand what was happening. He looked at the Orogons, then the girl, then back at the riders, trying to work out how such an unassuming opponent could attract such admiration from these battle hardened war hogs. Vinea forced her horse to take a few steps forward, nodded gently to the welcoming committee and bowed her head without saying a word.

“What is your bidding, Champion?!” the lager chief asked.

Noran leapt off his horse, smiling to himself but burning with rage inside. He then tossed a rolled up piece of vellum, locked with a special sky blue seal. Only the person it was addressed to could hope to unseal the rolled up document. The lager chief used a dagger to slice his thumb open and allowed some drops of blood to fall upon the blue seal. It popped open. The scarfaced warrior read ever so slowly, his features expressing anger with increasing intensity as he read on. He then gave Noran a look which made the assassin wonder if he would ever leave the wooden fortress alive.

“Noran, Night Son, the Dark’s chosen champion!” the chief roared, still reading back through the document. “Will you accept my invitation for you to stay the night in my camp for one night? I will provide a feast and hope to have the time then to discuss with you the matters our Darkest Lord writes about in this here parchment.”

Noran stared up at the mounted rider, wondering if he could take the giant in a straight up fight if it came to it… ‘Bloody Semael, not letting me in on whatever is scribbled on that damned document. Treating me like a blind messenger delivery boy. Keeping me in the dark while others know way more, the hell with it…’ Noran thought, but concealed his emotions behind an agreeable smile.

“I shall be pleased to sit at your table, Gar, gard of the north,” he said, acting as calm and confident as he could.

“And you, Sunny Lady, will you sit with the heads of my people at the same table this very night?” Gar asked.

“Take great care!” Noran seethed, taking a step back from his host’s horse. “She is not to be trifled with!”

Gar nodded gently at the assassin and gave his men a knowing look, then said,

“Champion, best you know the traditions of our Orogon race go back to the very beginnings of Amadal itself.”

He made his horse take a few steps forward to impose upon the dismounted Noran.

“Anyone who defeats one of our chief warmongers in battle has the right to speak for themselves. Anyone who defeated two or more Orogon warriors in battle has the right to choose the way they die. Those who defeat our best in a Duel of Honor have the right to leave freely and decide for themselves,” the chief guard recited from memory, flatly and decidedly, never taking his eyes off of Noran’s golden irises. “This is Semael’s prisoner, not ours. An enemy, perhaps, but if she respects our hospitality she can sit at a warriors’ table, drinking and dining along with all the other esteemed men of our company, indeed.”

“You serve Semael, am I wrong?!” Noran roared, finally losing his cool and giving in to the dark vortex whirling within, causing him to feel the old hunger for blood and the sound of bones cracking beneath his blades. “I am his emissary.”

“No need to raise your voice, Champion, I can hear perfectly well,” Gar stated flatly, squinting his deep set, dark eyes and clenching his fists. “You I know not, but she is very well known to us, yes. Many dead sons of my nation speak of her loudly enough for all to hear ahead of our meeting today.”

“Gar, your invitation is most kind,” Vinea said in a voice which powerfully cut through the tension forming between the two men. “I am however bound to do as the Night Son demands. My prison, my fate.”

The Orogon guard nodded and sat back in his saddle. Noran gritted his teeth and bared them to expose the fangs within. He then glanced sideways at Zoar and Beor, and although their expressions were blank he could tell what they were thinking about what was happening.

“Fine, War Gar, your place, your rules. Do not think I am disrespecting your traditions. If you say the prisoner should sit by your side when we dine tonight, I concur.”

He turned to look at Vinea, suspecting he saw some surprise and admiration in her big, blue eyes. Charmed, he said,

“Vinea, Sunny Lady, if you promise to return to bondage, I will not limit your movements during the feast.”

“I swear,” she answered firmly.

If the outside of the fortress was imposing, what impressed was how tidy and well constructed the wooden inner city was. Soldiers marched about in tight units, the air filled with the aromas of well oiled steel and burning wood mixed with the unique smell of Orogon sweat. The day was coming to a close, and the walled city was beginning to slow, only the sound of a blacksmith’s massive hammer audible in the distance. Before they reached a set of tall barracks, where they were to be accommodated, many of the warriors they passed stopped to glare at Vinea. Some put their clenched fists to their chests as she walked on by. They were all huge, monstrously muscled beasts. Even though Noran was tall for the places he came from, here he felt like a midget in a land of giants.

Only Noran, his two minders and the young rebel leader, now freed from her binds, were allowed to enter the sizable, two-floor building in the centre of town. About twenty Orogon warriors were seated round a long table made of dark wood, carved in the shape of a giant horseshoe. Noran noted that even when dining they still wore bits of their protective armor. He was directed to a seat next to Gar, while Vinea, Zoar and Beor were allowed to sit close by, along one of the horseshoe arms.

The feast began without any great fanfare or announcements. It was enough for Gar to start tucking into the food set out before them, which was when everyone else reached for their plates and bits of cutlery.

“How much do you know about this girl, Champion, eh?” Gar asked loudly enough to only be heard by the man he was addressing. Vinea seemed to be pleased to be allowed to tuck into the feast with her hands unbound. All sorts of alcohols were being poured and spilled about freely, only Noran’s personal twin guard restraining from the libation. The room filled with the noise of talk and even song, as well as the aromas of different hot dishes being brought in by servants.

“I am told she leads the whole rebellion,” Noran mused, also looking at the tall, slim blonde dressed in men’s clothing. “I am told she wields mighty powerful magic gifted her by the Blessed bloodline, and all the rebels trust her power will lead to victory.”

“You are told? I see you are not given to jumping to conclusions,” Gar said, gulping down some light-colored foaming beverage which looked a little like Elizian arraki.

“No, I am not. She has been captured and I am taking her to be questioned in Nemedor where she is sure to then be consumed by the Dark goddess’ blue flames,” the changeling wiped some grease dripping down his chin and set aside a plate of bones from an animal carcass he did not recognize, and did not care to find out what it might have been either. “So as you can see, whatever the legendary gossip about her may be, none of it looks in any way worthy of attention.”

“Gh…” the mighty chief of the wooden fortress glared with displeasure at the empty goblet in his right hand. “Yet she spent a few good years evading our spy networks, as well as the magic of that horrid Nefris Brotherhood. She killed a dozen or more Orogon warriors and maybe a hundred more little soldier boys too. Then we have lots of witnesses who were there at the duel where she bested Galion himself.”

He burped, poured more drink into his goblet from the nearest jug to hand and added in a more miserable tone,

“I knew him well, what a mean and dangerous rival was he. Crazy about hunting, never one to quit pursuing his prey or any opponent.”

Noran was lost in thought, poking with a toothpick at bits of meat stuck in his unusual teeth. It was dawning on him how much respect the Orogon tribe now had for the young rebel and how not only would he have to get used to it but perhaps learn to share in their admiration.

“I just can’t imagine how such a skinny young thing could take down a real seasoned warrior in hand to hand combat…” he said, no longer hiding the fact that he was watching the girl closely. “Not without using some devious magic tricks of course.”

“I see you have an eye for a pretty lady,” Gar joked. “Those pretty blue eyes, that strong neck, those lithe arms. But as is often the case, a pretty face can hide a very devious brain behind it. It’s easy to check, anyhow,” he concluded and got to his feet to announce, “Time for for a little exhibition duel! Hah! Who this evening is willing to impress us with their fighting skills? How about our wonderful new guests, Noran?! Night Son, Semael’s very own champion, the Dark Elect, versus the Sunny Lady in person! It sounds like a dream come true!!”

“Grand! Hurrah!! Let them combat!!! Duel time!!!” loud cries filled the dining hall as tankards and goblets were raised into the air in unison.

Noran closed his eyes, but then opened them to glare furiously at his host who was smiling mischievously, pleased with the mood in the room and the outcry he had initiated. Vinea was looking right at Noran, as if willing him to meet her in a battle of stares.

“You expect me to now fight… Semael’s own prisoner. How is that?!” Noran growled.

“Ooh, do relax, dear guest! No blood will be spilled in our house this night! You shall battle with wooden sticks, so the worst you will suffer are a few bruises, and your pride battered to a pulp.”

“How am I… To fight a girl. In public?” Noran asked, the skin around his golden eyes turning red in embarrassment.

“I see your male pride is already at stake!” Vinea cried, leaping over her end of the horseshoe shaped table and standing directly in front of where Noran was sitting. She bent forward and locked gazes with her captor. “Do you fear being bested by a girl in front of all your little worshippers, mighty champion?”

Noran rose to his feet, the dark vortex raging inside him more intensely than ever before.

“You are mistaken! And too sure of yourself, wench,” he seethed, leaning forward so that their faces were no more than a foot apart. “Any day is a good day for teaching arrogant fools how to behave in good company. I see the day of your lesson has finally come.”

“Yeah!” Gar roared, gesturing for his comrades to make room in the centre of the dining hall. “Get back and bring me some… Sticks, not too large. No magic, no deadly attacks, none! Understood?” he asked glaring comically at the two opponents. “You are only fighting to demonstrate what you can do with your bare hands, no real weapons allowed.”

Both Noran and Vinea nodded, gazes locked.

“At least they’re the same size and race!” someone shouted, and the room erupted with lighthearted laughter.

Noran noticed his twin bodyguards standing on the edge of the space in the middle of the room, ready to intervene if necessary. Someone ran into the room, carrying a pair of wooden practice swords which he handed to the two duelists. Vinea grabbed her weapon keenly and began walking in defensive circles, getting a feel for the weight and heft of her most unusual blade. Noran observed her movements and studied her positioning to see how good she was at fencing.

‘Trained to make best use of her speed, agility and cunning. A shame, for her, that is my fighting style too!’ he thought to himself. Waiting for her to attack, he prepared mentally a range of defensive options and strategies, but it was clear his opponent had the same strategy in mind and was not going to attack first. ‘I bet she thinks I am some kid who thinks he can get away with anything in a place like this. I best act arrogant and take unnecessary risks to make her feel in control…’ he decided, smiling to himself before taking up an attacking stance.

He lunged at her with conviction, finding all his strikes and lunges blocked and pushed back by the dull whack of her wooden weapon. The smile on his face broadened when he realized just how good she really was. ‘Come on, blondie, let’s see how quickly you tire and run out of ideas!’ he thought and began attacking from close range, making sure she could not find her bearings and be steady on her feet. They were now trading blows constantly, and Noran pressed towards her hard enough to force the young Sharim to leap back and on top of a side table. Next, he had to shield his face from a barrage of bowls and goblets filled with sticky and greasy liquids which Vinea kicked in his direction. Although none of the projectiles had any chance of doing damage, he was forced to take a few steps back and wipe his face. As he did so, the girl leapt off the table and rolled on the ground to get near her opponent and kick out at his legs. Now it was his turn to leap into the air to protect his shins from serious damage. Once she got to her feet, they went back into a steady rhythm of attack and parry motions, neither duelist getting the upper hand as moments went by.

Just as the crowd began to become restless and keen for a faster ending Vinea appeared to tire and slow a little, reacting with increasing delay to the blows flying at her.

“I have the greater reach and am faster than you,” Noran growled when they locked swords for a second. “Surrender, if you don’t want to earn yourself plenty of fresh bruises!”

“No! Not my style!” she literally spat back, sending some spit right into his golden eyes and leapt back to a safe distance. Noran wondered if the visible signs of her slowing down and becoming reluctant to engage more were really the effect of tiredness or merely an attempt to fool him, as he would have done in her position when facing a faster and stronger opponent. Then again, she should be suffering by now from days spent on the trail with limited rations to go on.

‘Fine, time to really see what shape you’re in!’ he thought and began to really intensify his attacks all of a sudden. Knowing now which parts of her body had taken the most extreme strikes he focused on those to increase the pain and pressure which came with it. Vinea for a moment lost her balance and wavered, an instant the assassin used to deliver something the Silent Knives called a “triple drapene” strike, which was so named after a deadly predator which could be found in the rockier parts of the continent. The edge of his blunt blade struck his opponent’s wrist, causing her to drop her stick and clutch with the other hand at the potentially broken limb. Roars of approval could be heard rising around the room.

“And so, our winner today is the Night Son!” Gar boomed, raising his arm into the air and giving the victor a puzzling look. “Glory be to Semael’s Champion!”

Noran looked about the room, pleased to hear compliments being made, even if they were not always phrased in the most formal of ways. Unable to really read Orogon faces and the feelings hiding behind their ever serious expressions, he glanced at Vinea who was leaning against a table, rubbing her swollen wrist. The look she was shooting him now was enough to kill anyone of a weaker emotional disposition.

‘Did I not say?’ he thought proudly, while also feeling pity for this fine fighter of a lass. He put his hand up, hoping the room would read his intentions correctly. Once a sort of silence fell over it, he put his hand to his breast and said, grinning with his fanged teeth,

“As I am a guest in a place of valor and honor, I must declare something to you all. I have fought countless times in my life and have never lost. Not since I turned ten. This Sunny Lady right here is without a shadow of a doubt one of the meanest and hardiest opponents I have ever faced. I want to now honor her skills and her defiance, me, her humble and well spent victor.”

He hit his collar bone with a clenched fist, wondering if he hadn’t gone a little too far with his victory speech. Looking around the room, he was pleased to find most of the soldiers and warriors around were nodding and muttering appreciatively.

“Well said, champion and master of combat today,” Gar declared, looking around his men before inviting them all to sit back down to continue the feast. “Our eyes have feasted on fighting enough, now time to fill our bellies! Let us eat so that when our time of victory and destiny comes we do not meet it hungry and weak!”

Noran glanced at Vinea, who was staring at him through squinting eyelids, as if waiting for him to strike again, this time with insults or jokes of some sort. Next, he was surprised to see her features relaxing and becoming softer all of a sudden.

“Only now do I feel worthy of fully enjoying this tremendous spread you have laid on for us,” he said to their host, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to then dig his hands into a massive chunk of roast meat on the table before him. As he was about to take the first bite of the meat he had plucked from the steaming carcass he realized the room had now fallen completely silent. Looking around the Orogon faces, he sensed something was amiss. All were staring at him, with the exception of the twin bodyguards. He looked up at Gar and then it dawned on him that everyone was staring at the armlet wrapped round the forearm he had just exposed.

“The Draconian,” Gar growled, unable to take his eyes off the dragon shaped design. “Forgive me, champion, I had no idea I was dealing with a hero this day.”

Noran recalled Thundir speaking with similar amounts of awe about the artifact, then went back to eating, unsure of what might happen next. Glancing at his companions, he saw they were ignoring the situation in the room. Not only as if they knew about the Draconian, but also realized the truth about it.

“So now at least I understand better the cruel demands the Darkest Lord made in his letter to me,” Gar announced, still staring at Noran’s wrist. “Semael’s Champion, let us quickly move to the reasons you were sent here, methinks.”

Gar then rose up and looked around the room,

“Warriors, the time for feasting has now come to an end! What has come is a time when we will have to pay tithes in the blood of our bravest soldiers!”

‘Who the hell is this oddball changeling?’ Vinea asked herself, stretching out on a spacious wooden bed, glancing up at a ceiling made wholly of thick, wooden beams. Though her chamber was securely locked, she was allowed to remain in it without being tied up again. ‘What is that damned Dark assassin plotting, for I am sure he has something going on behind those stark golden eyes?’. She closed her eyes, enjoying the freedom to stretch her arms out and then fold them behind her head, inhaling the pleasant aroma of woody sap which permeated the room. She tried to remember anything of what Evermother had shown her of scenes featuring this sharp toothed assassin, but she couldn’t recall any specific details. Only that she had been shaken by the visions which seemed to show scenes from her future, at an undefined time. Even though they seemed completely unbelievable now, she blushed at the intimately erotic charge she still felt when recalling moments of the vision when she had come close to Noran.

‘What would have to happen for me to actually fall so low as to demean myself by falling into that beast’s embrace?’ she wondered, unable to imagine such circumstances. And yet, some subconscious aspect in her was drawn to the idea, even delighted in it. ‘Yeah, he is on the Dark side for now, but he has goodness in him. He’s tall, well built, and what a fighter. Even his wild features and those fangs are… demonically… attractive.’

She shook her head and opened her eyes, trying to bring herself back to the real world. ‘Focus, Sharim! This is no time for romantic dreams. Your decisions right now will affect the lives of countless wonderful beings, now and for generations to come. They are taking you to be tortured and then burnt on some magic stake, this is no time for silly, romantic fancies!’.

Yet Evermother had chosen to show her those visions for a reason and now she had to work out what those reasons might have been. If he was to be a part of her destiny, then she would not be dying any time soon, surely, as per the visions. Not until the scenes she saw revealed in them came to pass.

‘But what if those visions were merely possible avenues in the future and not guaranteed to come about?’ she wandered after a while, unable to sleep. Then she recalled the words Reyvan, her relentless fighting mentor said to her once: “Never forget, Sharim. Death is the natural and essential part of any life. For warriors it should make no difference, not when your focus must be on the aim and the decisions needed to be made to reach it.”

She took a deep breath to still her mind and calm her feelings. A sore bump on one of her ribs reminded her of the duel she had engaged in only hours back.

‘Damn you, changeling, and your shiny golden eyes!’ she sighed in her thoughts, trying to massage the sore spot, but any time she moved it only made it worse. She then fell back on her training, focusing on a single question in need of resolving – what was the plan? What could still be decided upon?

One thing was clear – there was no returning to Elise. Committing herself to the cause of freeing the people of Amadal from the terror being unleashed by the Darkest Mage was more important than the mission the Eldest One had sent her on. She felt he would have agreed, if only he could communicate with her somehow. As to the question of stepping into Zoriana’s shoes was not something she was at all comfortable with. She had never tried to usurp anyone else’s successes or glory, yet she also understood what Great Ghrell and Glorfell had in mind… From their point of view, this sort of mystification could work to their advantage and inspire people to action. On the one hand, she was faced with a clear lie to live by, on the other a sea of suffering and terror for centuries to come. She accepted their tragic decision in the cell in Tryborg. Seeing as it was not possible for Thundir to get help from Elise, or even that he himself might return and lead the rebels to rise up, the rebellion leaders were running out of cards to play. The sudden death of the Sunny Lady would only increase the depths of their despair. She could not blame them, now they had seen how powerful her magic was, for trying to use it any chance they could. ‘Chance?’ she asked herself and then instantly answered ‘Certainly not’. Chance was not something she could afford risking bets on when things were this dangerous. She agreed to play the descendant and inheritor of the legacy of the Blessed Bloodline largely because of what Ea had shown her in the Fathomless Void.

‘Perhaps I am safe, but what of the other captives?’ she worried. ‘If they die, the risk that someone will finally unmask me as an imposter Zoriana will seriously increase. The majority of those who knew what the Sunny Lady really looked like are now being marched off to the dungeons in Nemedor, but there are sure to be others who could expose me’. She shook her head, realizing there was only so much she could figure out from her current predicament. ‘For the time being, I don’t know if I stand more of a chance of helping the prisoners if I escape from the convoy when I am still a stranger on Amadal, or by allowing myself to be delivered to Nemedor and then trying something there. As long as they don’t put that damned nefris bangle round my neck, I have a few choices I could possibly make…’

Her mind for some strange reason once again called up the image of the young Dark champion.

‘Who knows… What if he is the one who will yet turn out to be key in deciding what fates await?’.

“Attacking the Myriad? With all the forces at your disposal even?” Noran wanted to make sure he was really clear about the message Semael had sent Gar as delivered in the sealed vellum document upon their arrival.

They sat in Gar’s private quarters, talking alone seated at a massive table, surrounded by the skins of animals and various beasts which had been pinned up to the walls, lit by the dim flames of an open fireplace in the center of the chamber floor. Noran glanced around the room, trying to see how many he could identify, but most were unknown to him.

“You got it,” Gar answered, nodding his massive head. “We hit them at midnight, some two weeks from today. Three units of the best Arrakin fighters from the Northern Wastelands will assist our assault.”

“More than fifteen hundred armed beasts, not bad.”

“More than a few will not return, alas. Remember, we fight not only the woodland folks, but most of all the woods and their mighty magic.”

“So you’re not convinced we stand much of a chance of winning?” Noran asked, not wanting yet to fully reveal how little he knew about the realities on the ground in this part of the world and the thinking behind the Darkest One’s decisions.

“Much chance? Meh… We have no chance, all we can do is leave behind some burial mounds if they let us. Understand, the Darkest One tried to take the Magic Woods at the very start of his campaigns to conquer Amadal. With no success. The last time he tried his forces numbered almost ten thousand warriors with him leading the charge. They spent months laying siege to those woods. Then he withdrew.”

“So why now, why repeat this assault with only a handful of men compared?”

“For some hellish dark reason, I bet,” Gar growled, sipping from his goblet nervously.

“What if the magic in them woods has weakened of late? Has anything happened since the last campaign you can think of?”

The giant lager leader glanced at the assassin and nodded, pointing to his wrist.

“We didn’t have that thing in our midst. This was a long time before my time, but my grandfather fought in those battles of yore and I would have heard if such a legendary artifact, crafted by the gods themselves, had been at our disposal.”

They both fell silent, Noran staring at the flames in the middle of the room, completely confused. He then turned back to the letter from Semael which was spread on the mighty table before them. He reread it carefully.

“Attack until the champion carries out the task I have set for him and then joins you…” he read aloud.

“So what is this task?” Gar asked.

“So what if I do not know? Not yet… Our Darkest Lord clearly thinks he doesn’t need to reveal all his secrets, only issues orders and that’s it. It is a strategy I have never seen a leader use in my experience.”