Semael's Champion. Mitrys trilogy vol. 2 ebook

Original title:

Kroniki Dwuświata

Czempion Semaela, Trylogia Mitrys – Tom II

DualRealm Chronicles

Semael’s Champion, Mitrys Trilogy – Volume II

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: 978-83-967035-4-5

www: kopijer.pl

Fanpage: Facebook.com/powiescifantasy

YouTube – Paweł Kopijer

YouTube – boardgame: Mitrys

Ana skyr vahvistaa hannen verdaan je luada ruumiinsa je sielunzda.

May the Dark strengthen his blood and his body and soul compose.

(Incantation from the Changeling Ritual in the speech of the Dawn)

SEMAEL’S ELECT

Age of the Sword, year 16,

Continent of Elise

His anger kept on growing. The feeling of fear was so alien and irritating to him, so very much long forgotten, that when he experienced it once more it left him with no choice – only an outburst of pure fury could help him cope. This was the place he would soon find out if his carefully plotted plan would work or whether blind chance would put an end to two centuries of hard, careful work.

With impatient gestures he ordered the spot to be secured. Ten or more fleetly moving figures spread out across the woods. He knew now that no one was able to get in his way. His warriors took up defensive positions in a silent instant. The shadoween’s senses were incredibly alert and capable of sensing the slightest movement. He focused on four little piles of soil by the side of the woodland path. The shallow graves of killers who had served the Dark.

He approached, sensing the power emanating from the makeshift cemetery. The bastard of Oran was buried furthest to the left. This mighty owner of the double axe left behind a pile of badly mauled bones buried only a few inches beneath a pile of pine needles. He could still sense the Dark power the warrior had generated in fighting for his survival, it seemed to permeate the air around them. Next to be buried alongside the giant was Pale Marina – the peerless mistress of knife combat who originated from the lands of Icy Gales, as the Onyx Archipelago was commonly referred to. She’d been one of the few beings who had never shown fear when in his presence. The next shallow grave contained the remains of Mallor the Meek who had once upon a time been the ruler of the Black Arrakin clan, a formation he had personally marked with the Dark.

He approached the final grave. Here, power was at its most intense, almost shaking the earth around it. These were the bones which held the answers he was after.

He barked a short order and five gray-skinned beings instantly dragged along prisoners who could barely stand, positioning them around the miserable spot. The Shadoween commander, in charge of beings covered in armored silver scales, bowed to his ruler. Half the humbled warrior’s face was covered with a shiny mask of terror. He didn’t dare speak.

‘Best you have some good news for me, cold fool,’ Semael whispered to himself, staring at the final resting place of the one he intended to awaken.

He spread his arms and melodiously intoned one of the nekris incantations. Instantly, a blood red line appeared in the ground before him, linking the tied up prisoners in the shape of a pentagram. Shadoween guards simultaneously cut the throats of victims whose bodies were shoved forwards so that the blood spurting from beneath their chins would fall directly upon the chosen grave.

“Ally Skrywerk! Dark be, I have assigned to you, Dark blood I fed thee, on the soul of dutiful Nemeth, our Dark Dame, stand now before me!” Semael intoned in a low, rumbling voice.

Smoke began bellowing from the center of the pentagram, illuminated from within by a purple-green glow. Next to emerge from the ground was a slim, ghoulish figure.

“What cause have thee, oh Dark one, to disrupt the pain of my penance?” the ghoul seethed in a low, gravelly tone. “Have I not been faithful in my service?”

The mage stood up straight and extended an open hand in the direction of the ghost of the former commander of the murderous Black Spirits.

“Your declaration will now reveal the truth of this,” the mage mused, red sparks dancing between the fingers of his outstretched hand. “Or rather, I shall be the judge of this in an instant.”

Once a network of lightning strikes surrounded the ghostly apparition, it began writhing and howling in terrible pains. Semael turned his hand at the wrist slowly while extracting memories of the most recent moments in the life of his vicious servant. Suddenly, he clenched his fist shut, thereby concluding the spell. The ghostly apparition seemed to collapse and then vanished back in the ground. Semael’s face was now illuminated with the bright smile of triumphant glee.

‘And so my vengeful creation lives and the trail leads to Leoville,’ he thought with some relief. ‘It is high time to finally dice with the gods of the Light. To battle for the highest stakes.’

THE DEVOURER OF MINDS

Age of the Sword, year 17,

Continent of Amadal

I. Snake Gullet

Glorfell hurried his horse to catch up with the broad-shouldered Ghall who was leading the group of a dozen or so marchers. The tracker paid no mind to Glorfell, too absorbed in scanning their surroundings with his fierce gaze.

“How well do you know the Orogon Hills, Kagaven?” Glorfell asked, trying to get a conversation started. Yet, they both knew there was nothing easy going to chat about, seeing they were both rebels presently crossing territories occupied by their oppressors – the Orogon.

The Ghall’s mighty frame swayed upon his slow trotting mulon, which resembled a slightly overgrown pony. He took his time responding.

“Be stout of heart, sire,” he eventually growled. “We shall not lose our way.”

The handsome, dark haired man rode alongside, all the time wondering how to broach a certain serious subject. He knew that to suggest the route they had taken as chosen by a Ghallic nemrod was not the best one was like waving a stick at a bear mother guarding her newborn cubs. Kagaven was not a man who took having their clan capabilities challenged lightly. He was in fact an explosive sort of temper at the best of times, but Glorfell could not shake off the feeling that riding along the Snake Gullet canyon was the worst of all possible routes open to them. All the other trails leading to the the Devourer of Minds seemed a great deal safer…

“When trying to outsmart an opponent, choose the option they would never pick if they were in your shoes,” Kagaven said, as if reading Glorfell’s mind.

“And what if your opponent knows that is exactly the strategy you would apply?” Glorfell asked, deciding it was time to have this painful conversation.

“And what if you know that they know that you know?” the bearded tracker gave Glorfell a sneaky look, tinged with boredom and pity.

‘Yeah, that is what I should have expected a Ghall to come up with…” the warrior riding alongside Kagaven thought with a heavy heart. ‘Easier to eat a bowl of soup using a sewing needle than to get any sense out of his sort…’

He glanced behind him out of habit, trying to look past the other members of the highland Ghallic race which of all those bound by the Orogon-Arrakin covenant were keenest to help human beings in their battle to regain the former Magni kingdom. Gwyllyn, Hurog, Jazgen, Kritz, Ramar and Ghrell the Great – all stocky, covered in solid steel armor, their heavy labrysians trotting alongside them. If it wasn’t for the thick beards plaited in all sorts of ways, studded with semi-precious stones, they would look like heavily armored beetles. Untalkative and grim to be around, they were unmatched when it came to armed combat. This was one of the reasons securing control over a whole Ghall Mountain range might have seemed like a strategically wise move.

“Captain!” Zoriana cried, shaking the man out of a stupor. He turned his horse around in the direction of the woman walking in the very center of their group. She was the only one who could handle the terrifying creature they called the Devourer of Minds, hiding somewhere up in a cave among the Orogon lowlands.

“At your service, Sunny Lady,” he answered, using the nickname she had picked up when she began taking active part in the liberation movement seeking to free the human race.

“Glorfell, please stop with all this sunlit stuff,” the young girl demanded, sliding back the hood of her traveling cloak. A thick mane of dark brown hair fell over her slim shoulders. “We’ve known each other for so long, there’s no need for such formalities. I feel now like we grew up together in the same part of the Oroburk district, playing tag-team-toe in its streets and squares.”

“Which is not how we met,” he replied politely, happy to be able to admire her graceful countenance. “I am nothing more than a foot soldier to you, for though I may be a noble, you are royalty. Descendant to the Blessed ones, their veins flowing with the blood of the Magni as empowered by the gods of Light themselves.”

She bit her lip and looked away, knowing full well that the faint bit of royal blood flowing through her veins was not enough to claim mastery over an enslaved race of human beings. The degree of direct relation to the ancient bloodlines was decisive. If not for the childless legacy of the only son of King Fangern, the last of the true rulers, and the earlier treason committed by his uncle Gryvor the Gaunt, who abandoned Amadal and took flight, the Orogon race would never have debased and subjected them to the rule of that monstrous Dark lord. And yet she was aware that for the subjects of the ancient empire, oppressed for several generations by a forsaken covenant, they would still be fighting to reclaim their freedom and their rights.

“What think you, Glor, will our lives too be filled with sacrifices and suffering?” she asked, in spite of herself, unable to keep up polite pretenses any longer. “Will we have to bow down like our fathers, forefathers, great grandfathers and mothers in endless fear and derision?”

He hated such questions. What was he to say? That another uprising was going to be any different to those of old? That her stepfather was going to be able to secure assistance from the descendants of that traitor Gryvor and have them aid their cause from over some unknown Elise? Was he to pacify her with smooth lies, soothe her fears with naive promises he had no means of backing up? She had become dear to him, even more so than he had expected a few years ago, but he could not just small talk and white lie about such vital matters.

“I know not,” he declared, looking daringly right in her eyes. “But I swear on the Light, Zor, that no matter what the future holds for us all I will not stand down, will not waver when it comes to that which can decide our fate. And your fate too, my lady…”

Zoriana sighed as silently as she could, but her face revealed the battle now raging inside her mind and chest. She looked at him as if wishing to say something… But was unable to speak.

“Forgive me, lady, I now must attend to matters relating to the success and security of our mission,” he said, nodding and averting his gaze, then turned his horse around and wondered at himself. What was he scared of? When talking to this young lass he sometimes found himself acting cowardly in ways he never ever did on the battlefield.

He rode to the back where a red-haired giant brought up the rear – the only man he knew of who could match Orogons in both size and strength. These warwans, as the Orogons called their prized warrior class, were as tall as any horse and could wrestle bears and win at times too.

“Urunos, keep a close eye, especially on the safety of our lady here as we wade into the Snake Gullet. I do not trust this cursed place.”

“Sure, Glor,” Urunos grinned and nodded at his commander in a friendly manner. “As sure as the sun is to rise in the morning, by the Light!”

Glorfell answered with a gentle guffaw, charmed by the red-haired giant’s cheer. His size and indefatigable spirit were a boon at even the darkest times.

Kagaven, riding at the head of the group, raised his fist into the air, thereby stopping all those walking behind him. He then set off alone to explore some craggy rocks up ahead and stare out across the meadows behind them which would be the last section of open space they would have to cover before facing a dark, almost impenetrable forest. It took a while for him to return and nod to indicate it was safe for the group to march on.

They crossed the open ground and began skirting the dark woods – it took them almost an hour to reach the nearest foothills. The ravine which the path they were riding along then entered seemed to have no other end. It cut through high hills weaving in gentle curves, to then disappear in a wooded sloping valley. Zoriana thought to herself that it was fortunate that the canyon was so long, seeing as the landscapes which surrounded it really were remarkably beautiful. The sunbaked slopes which towered over it were covered in lush vegetation. Flocks of tiny birds flew in and out of low, twisted trees which clung to the tops of the canyon walls. A warm wind blew through it, carrying on it the scent of wild grasses growing down the ravine’s bottom and then over its tops.

The group of marchers formed a narrow line, Glorfell sticking much closer now to Zoriana who appeared to be turning her face to the sun and lost in a sweet daydream. Glorfell admired her calm in moments such as these, especially now that the canyon they were entering filled his heart with foreboding. He watched the Ghalls who led the way nervously looking all around, their backs straight and tense, evidently not enjoying this part of their journey. Everything he had learned and then experienced in countless battles now combined to fill him with a sense of alarm and negative aura, the words ‘damn’ and ‘danger’ ringing in his ears like alarm bells.

At some point, he noticed the sight and sound of something appearing on the upper edge of the forest they were skirting. What he saw once he was able to focus on the object in question was a slim woman running in their direction from some distance away. Her movements were fluid and rapid over uneven ground as she pulled a sword from behind her back, even though she was wearing a suit of light armor. There could now be no doubt the figure was human, which only mean one thing – she had the be Death’s Emissary.

“Urunos!” Kagaven roared, grabbing his sword and using it to point to the approaching foe just as arrows began to rain down upon them. “Cover Zoriana!”

Racing at breakneck speed down the rough slope Vinea did her best to assess the situation. The men surrounding the woman stood little chance. The numbers of Arrakin assailants was overwhelming, but that in itself was not the worst thing. That would be the three heavily armored and armed warwans now charging the traveling party.

‘I have to stop the Orogons. Right now. Let’s hope the woman being escorted is a mage and can stop the magic Arrakin shamans are sure to unleash…’ thoughts flashed through Vinea’s mind as she ran, euphoria beginning to fill her muscles and joints. ‘Blessed be Amadal. So much power to unleash! Remember, simple, strong decisions!’

Vinea raced past the marchers and faced off against the three warwans now charging like armored boulders. Years of training kicked in, making all her movements fluid and automatic. She cast a force spell as soon as she saw them and now two of the three were felled by it as if some giant foot had tripped them up. They hit the ground, kicking up a low cloud of dust and grass. Only the warwan bearing a massive war hammer kept moving, apparently protected from magic spells by some sort of special shielding mechanism.

There was no time to think… In a flash, Vinea attacked using the “scorpion” strike – her sword embedded itself in the eye socket of one of the fallen Orogons. It went through his skull and embedded itself in the ground beneath it. The other fallen Warwan got to his knees and lifted a massive mace fitted with deadly spikes into the air, but Vinea, reinforced with a speed spell, evaded his blows without trouble. Twisting round the beast’s back, she whipped the edge of her blade across the front of his throat, almost severing the spinal column. The armored monstrosity groaned and slid back down once and for all…

Without waiting, Vinea leapt at a much less dangerous group of lightly armored Arrakin foot soldiers. She could see how the speed with which she had disposed of their three fierce champions now filled their eyes with terror, slowing their defensive movements. She could hear the Ghalls behind her smashing into the armored bodies of the three Warwans she had felled a moment ago. ‘Magic, fear and magic!’ - words flashed through her mind as she wondered how best to deal with the rest of the Arrakin assault force. Thinking back to her school on Orin and the tricks she had learned to use to win training combat sessions against other students, she decided the “kiss of fire” would be best used under these circumstances.

With a sweeping movement, she felled the warrior nearest to her, clearing some space into which she could lift her free hand. She only intended to set one of her opponents’ hair on fire, but the amount of magical power now flowing through her body resulted in the man being turned into a human torch which set all the grass around him on fire. The explosion had the desired effect, and more – Vinea was pleasantly amazed to find a hundred and more Arrakin soldiers now looking around them in panic, some turning to look at the hills they had come down from and the woodland cover they were now starting to sorely miss.

Wavering a little on legs weakened by the discharge of magical energy, she turned to see what was happening behind her. The last warwan, bleeding all over the ground about him, was doing battle against a red-haired giant being supported by several Ghall knights. Next, she saw the young captain leading the Ghall party charging the warwan on horseback. He blew through the armored monstrosity’s guard and dealt a sword blow to its face. The warwan roared in pain, lifting his arm to place a hand over the mouth now gushing blood, opening his underarm to another, deadly sword blow.

Vinea sighed with some relief, feeling the first wave of adrenaline leaving her body, but also aware that in spite of massively superior enemy numbers the tide of battle had now turned in their favor. She watched as the Arrakin force trembled and then fled. And so, their reputation as cowards turned out to be true… Some were climbing back up the slope so quickly they were dropping weapons and bits of armor all over the place.

“Who are you?!”

She turned in an instant, the growling voice not friendly in the least. The dark-haired leader of the mounted party leapt off his horse and approached, keeping his guard slightly up. Vinea swallowed before answering, trying to clear her dry throat. Whatever she was about to say would not only decide her own safety, but also perhaps the outcome of her mission.

The man’s dark eyes drilled into her as he neared even closer.

“A mercenary,” Vinea managed to croak. “At present without an employer.”

He stopped at a distance which allowed free movement in case of attack, a position which filled Vinea with apprehension. He stood there and watched her intently.

“In times of enslavement not many bother to hire loose swordspeople,” the man said, pondering something intently. “In this region your only hope is with the Tryborg towns folk, but that would…”

“Glor! Zoriana!!!” The loud cry disrupted Glorfell’s speech. The dark haired knight turned and saw the long-haired warrior carrying Zoriana’s lifeless body, running towards them. All those who had survived the assault gathered round them now, and Vinea was allowed to stay and watch.

“I failed… I failed to protect…” the mighty warrior kept mumbling, now laying down the body with a crossbow bolt embedded in its shoulder on the soft, grassy ground.

“Make room!” cried a lean man, dressed all in black, and bent over Zoriana. It was now clear she was still alive, but unconscious. He was about to reach out and touch the bolt embedded in the young woman’s shoulder, but then froze. He looked up at Glorfell who was then bending over them both and said,

“Those markings… You know what that means,” he uttered, pointing at the feathered end of the projectile.

Glrofell’s face tensed up, his mouth hanging open once he saw the markings for himself.

“A Dark bolt…” someone in the gathered crowd said, followed by hushed whispers to the same effect.

“Leave us! Now.” The commander’s order was clear, but his voice seemed to waver with pain. All those who had started to talk and stare now stepped back and walked off muttering to themselves, getting busy tending to their own injuries.

“Glor…” the young woman’s voice was barely audible.

They looked at each other as if they were now communicating intently merely using the silence between them.

“But why?!” Glorfell growled, breaking down. “Why you?!”

“Glor, quick, the Dark magic, my heart…” Zoriana whispered. “Nothing changes. You will… Find it… End it… Promise!”

“Yes! You shall… I promise.”

“That girl… The one who helped… She has power. Great, great… Speak… Find out.”

The woman’s face seemed to relax, the eyes closed and some time passed before the man bending over her reached out to close her jaw shut too.

II. The Bloody Signet of Archont

In spite of grieving over Zoriana’s sudden death and the loss of hope which followed this disaster they were ready to set off straight away. They all knew that being trapped in Snake Gullet was no place for mourning, those sorts of processes would have to wait.

Glorfell moved and issued orders as if he too had been mortally wounded, as if he had been cursed and turned into a lifeless marionette. His eyes glared blankly all around, as he asked for Zoriana’s body to be taken up on a wooded hillock some way off from Snake Gullet. Uronos was to carry the body up there, and the great warrior too seemed to be functioning in a completely automated trance. Before they began the burial rituals, he posted a watch of three soldiers to keep an eye on Vinea.

The young Sharim could not understand why, after she risked her life to warn them of the attack and coming to their defense, the captain still mistrusted her so completely. She understood that the deceased was a person of some great importance to them and her death was a visible blow to them all, but still their behavior emanated with something she found impossible to grasp. She stood back and busied herself observing each member of the riding party in turn. All of them had one thing in common – they seemed equally determined and angry in their grief and evident aura of hopeless abandon.

Eventually, the nobleman who led the party approached her as the rest remained silent. As silent as if she too were about to be read her last rites.

“You fought bravely alongside us. For which we are truly grateful… yet.” Vinea was taken aback by the severity of his gaze, as if the captain had made up his mind to do something terribly final. “I am sure you know by now we are part of a resistance movement and cannot take any risks which might jeopardize our cause. Who are you, what are you doing here and why did you stick your young nose into business you are not involved in?”

Vinea stared back at the man, unsure of what to tell him. If only she knew more about the political goings on across Amadal, she might stand a better chance of telling him what he wanted to hear. She had only left Elise a couple of days back, and these were the first living beings she had come across. She regretted now getting involved, rather than finding some sort of quiet inn where she could sit alone and listen in to conversations which might help her find her bearings.

“And so?! What will it be? Shall you speak?”

Under the mean, watchful gazes of all those gathered round her Vinea reached into a pocket and took out a tiny ring with a bright red stone set in it.

“My answer,” she said, holding up an open palm with the ring placed on it, as her heart beat wildly in expectation of whether anyone on Amadal would recognize the significance of this gesture. Seeing as the ring was meant to be shown to mages or the blessed and not this odd random collection of travelers and races.

“What is this meant to be?!” the tall nobleman seethed. “Are you trying to bribe us, or what?”

Glorfell seemed to relax a little, as if amused by the gesture of this young girl taking out some sort of trinket as if it were a powerful talisman. When Vinea said nothing in reply, he chided,

“What is this supposed to tell us? None of us have seen this ring before or heard of it, as far as I can tell.”

“And therefore…” Vinea replied, her voice as firm as the hand holding the ring. “The one who gave it me was wrong about its value.”

As she put the ring away, the group around her began growing restless and she to feel a growing sense of dangerous unease. Was another fight about to break out? Just because they were all so sad and angry about the death of one person?

“I know… What that means,” a hoarse, yet strong voice seemed to stop everyone in their tracks. A mighty powerful looking though short Ghall with a mighty axe strapped to his back approached her as the rest of the group parted and stood back. The dust on his face was mixed with blood stains which also covered his braided beard. He glared at Vinea in a way which did not hold any positive promise.

Next, he extended a hand the size of a loaf of bread towards her. Vinea took the ring back out again and placed it in the warriors’s open palm. The man studied the object for some time, then handed it back, nodding and growling to himself.

“How is it that the ancient Bloody Signet of the long gone race of Archonts is now in the possession of a young human warrior lass?”

Vinea found the harsh tones the question was phrased in hard to decipher and answer satisfyingly. Still she tried,

“I was given it by a very old sage, one who can still recall the time before Gryvor the Gaunt’s expedition, and told me to use it when the need arose. It was meant to secure the trust and kindness of those I came across in my travels.”

“Never speak of Gryvor the Gaunt’s treason as an expedition,” he barked, turned on a heel and walked away, saying: “She speaks the truth though. That ring is the Mages’ Bloody Signet. It secures her safe passage among those faithful to the Magni.”

A strange sense of relief and almost joy seemed to pass through the crowd of travelers. She could see them now looking at her kindly and with relaxed curiosity. One by one, they walked off, leaving Vinea alone with the young commander.

“I am Glorfell, son of Heron who was son of Egis,” he said, extending a hand in greeting.

“I am Vinea,” she answered, gripping the man’s hand as fiercely as he gripped hers. The man’s brows shot up in amazement.

“Your mother was either very brave or very unwell if she chose to name you in a fashion which could have you dangling from the nearest tree, and then skinned and chopped to bits by any Orogon worthy of their name.”

Vinea shrugged, once again unsure of how to reply. Glorfell looked off into the distance, apparently considering something intently. Finally, he sighed heavily and announced,

“This day, we lost two valiant warriors. Will you join our party as we travel to the other side of the Orogon Hills? Having seen you in action, I am willing to offer you two silver moons per day in payment for your blade by our side.”

“If you add to those five stars, we have a deal,” Vinea replied, daring to risk a little negotiations in the style of any ordinary mercenary. Two moons per week was already a princely sum, in fact.

“We set off now, with no delays,” he answered, and she had the impression he was starting to smile a little. “Stay close, and I will introduce you to our ways. We cannot afford any… Unfortunate misunderstandings, you see.”

Glorfell walked away to say something to one of the Ghalls who then ran off in the direction the Arrakin assailants had vanished. The rest agreed to plot a new course along the wooded hill tops. Once they were on the way, they did their best to get as far away from the ambush setting as they could. Not even the bother of having to carry the injured on stretchers slowed them down. For the first hour, everyone saved their breath for marching and not talking. A mood of despondency, despair even hung over the lot of them.

Vinea went over all she had witnessed in her mind. ‘What is this resistance movement and some enslavement they mentioned?’ she asked herself, trying to piece all the puzzle fragments together. ‘From what Keor told me, the Orogon are a noble race which lives by the sword and could never establish oppressive rule over other races, while the Arrakin were the very opposite. The last group anyone would want to align themselves with. The cruelest of all. And what was the ruling king of the Blessed bloodline doing about it all?’

“Three things you must keep in mind as you travel alongside us,” Glorfell said out of the blue, appearing suddenly next to Vinea. “First of all, you shall be killed by any of our number if you so much as step out of line and try to betray us. Next, by aligning yourself with our cause, you become an outlaw and can be killed on the spot by anyone in the service of the Orogon masters. Third of all, you’re the only one fighting among us who is doing so for money. I say this to avoid any misunderstandings in the future…”

Vinea nodded, and looked up at Glorfell to show she had heard his warnings. He walked alongside her, leading his horse, tall and proud. His movements were steady and strong, but his keen eyes moved over everything fleetingly as if concealing lots and lots of hidden thoughts going on behind them.

“By the way… You took a great risk using magic openly earlier,” he added, glancing at her inquisitively. “The Nefris are sure to take notice and follow in time, those damned Dark spies… Everybody knows that since Semael started to rule over the whole continent every mage he finds on the loose ends up lost in his blue flames…”

Vinea looked down to try and conceal the shock she was experiencing. ‘What sort of ruler would murder mages and what would he stand to gain?!’ she thought, shaking with grim foreboding, starting to realize that her mission to explore a completely unknown world was likely to turn out to be much more dangerous than she had estimated.

“I can hold my own,” she stated, trying to keep her voice steady and resolute.

“Your life, your doing, but do not tread lightly among our lands. Those Nefris demons do not tire and do not give up. To die by the burning columns is said to be the most painful of all the ways to go.”

Now was the time to ask questions, Vinea realized… Politics, magic, all the things she would need to succeed in the mission the Eldest One had charged her with. Yet she also knew she had to tread carefully so as not to arouse suspicion and become a potential threat to these outcasts.

“What of the legacy of the Magni?” she asked, changing the subject from the painful notion of what might happen to her if…

“You ask of Zoriana? There is no one left who has the Blessed blood running through their veins. The Dark One and his Orogon dogs have succeeded in eradicating the last of the Blessed among us with extraordinary efficiency.”

‘How!? How is this… Why?!’ Vinea demanded to know without saying a word. ‘How can this be?! The line blessed by the gods of the Light has ruled over Amadal since time immemorial!’ All she was hearing was terrible news, especially considering the dying out of the Blessed line on Elise where she had only recently arrived from. ‘Is my mission doomed to fail before it even began?! Whatever next?!’ she kept asking herself, starting to trip upon the rocky path in her inner confusion.

“The Sunny Lady was… The last spark of hope we had,” Glorfell said, his voice and breath seemingly expiring with the last few words.

“Knowledge passed down from generation to generation assures us that the gods have promised the Magni bloodline would be as eternally secure and enduring as the gods themselves,” Vinea whispered, raising her voice a little in defiance of what Glorfell was insinuating.

“The gods… Damn them. The Dark deity Semael has aligned himself with has for two hundred years triumphed over the best of us. Where then are these legendary masters of Light?”

“All tyranny in time finds its rightful opponents and end,” she said, trying to lift her voice and Glorfell’s spirits with it. “You have dared stand up and challenge your Orogon oppressors. Surely there are other places on Amadal where the Dark does not have domain over.”

“There are enclaves, here and there, but few and very far in between. As we all know, the only bane of Semael’s life is the Myriad community which has been holed up in the damned Magic Woods ever since Oroburk’s rule collapsed. The only thing is, they have no intention of moving out beyond their little magic kingdom. All their resources are focused on resisting all the raids and raping, pillaging hordes which roam their borders, ignoring the lords of Tryborg and focusing their energies on the damned Arrakin who serve the king.”

“Plans, then. What do you plan to do next?” she asked, lifting her hand with the palm facing Glorfell to show she meant no offense asking such a direct question. “I know I may not be the one you want to let in on all your secrets, but just tell me in general so I know where we’re all heading towards…”

Glorfell glanced at Vinea, then fell into an extended silence before deciding to make a declaration,

“Efforts were made to ask for help of the inheritors of the blessing still alive and well on Elise. The continent Gryvor fled to. Our expedition was organized to discover if these efforts ever came to anything. We are heading for a place where… We will be most likely to find something out in this respect.”

‘Dear Light! It seems both continents are now trying the same thing – to make contact with the descendants of the Magni race’ Vinea thought, horrified by this history making irony.

“Now, young lady… It seems we all have our secrets. Now, seeing as your blade has been offered in service to our cause, perhaps you too might want to tell us something more than just flashing about the Archont signet in silence?”

Their eyes met and the young Sharim felt a deep need to open up and share whatever came to mind with this noble and decent seeming man. But before she opened her mouth, she did all in her power to stifle such emotions and keep her cool so that some secrets would not be revealed all at once.

“My secrets do not belong to me alone,” she said, as if speaking to herself. “I have been entrusted by those who have faith in me. People I myself trust and admire… I too have already been forced to see the eyes of someone I cared for to close once and for all.”

“I see…” Glorfell replied, nodding his head. “Oh, dear. So we are both in mourning.”

In time, they stopped by some moss covered rocks to set up camp for the night. A narrow, whispering stream emerged from between the rocks. Vinea watched with interest as a simple burial ceremony was organized for the deceased princess. They covered her grave over with a large white stone and stood by it without saying anything, their blades and weapons extended towards it in honor. Once everyone had walked off, only their captain remained by the white stone a while longer in silent contemplation. A little later, he assigned night watch duties to everyone in the group, except for Vinea. Although a little taken aback by this lack of trust, she was grateful that she would not have to be woken in the middle of the night to stand watch for an hour or two in the complete darkness.

She then offered to help tending to the wounded, and Ateo, the only medic in the group, accepted her offer with a miserable groan. Kagaven turned out to be the most heavily wounded. Two solid crossbow bolts had pierced his breastplate. As far as she could tell with the medical knowledge she had acquired anyone with such extensive injuries should have been dead and cold a long time ago. As for this scout, he not only was able to breathe still, he was actually up and about hobbling slowly.

“You’re doing incredibly well,” she said while gently changing his dressings.

“So you say,” he answered as cooly as any weapons grade steel could ever be. “I do hope the ambush which cost the life of our precious Sunny Lady had nothing to do with your appearance in our midst.”

Vinea looked up, starting to tire of the sense of constant fear and mistrust which seemed to permeate this group of rebels. Still, she understood this man could be in a great deal of pain and so she soothingly replied,

“It did not, no. I saw the attack coming from far off and decided to come to your aid. Which is what I did, that is all.”

Kagaven growled in acknowledgment, but it was clear she was going to have to work a lot harder for a lot longer before his mistrust would begin to thaw. She moved on to see how Ateo was getting on with the other, less seriously injured patients. She did her best to assist the medic who was dressed all in black and hard to see in the fading light, and did so even when she thought he was not quite following proper medical procedures as far as she had been taught. The young medic moved fast and with complete confidence, and in time learnt to approvingly nod when Vinea did something he thought was innovative and sensible in tending to the wounded.

“Do you not think we should up the magical potency of the medicaments we are using before sleep?” she asked as she cut up pieces of cloth and infused them with ointments taken from the medic’s bag.

He looked at her without making any other movements. In time, she looked up from her work and realized he had no idea what to say because he did not have such skills at his disposal.

“I have not met anyone who was blessed for a very, very long time,” he said, sounding a little embarrassed. “None who would openly speak of their skills. It is said all my ancestors knew how to use magic. They were proud of being able to heal all sorts of ailments, even those affecting the soul. They felt they were fully fledged Laras, those who help maintain vitality and balance in all things. I was born in times when the use of magical powers is not common. On Amadal at present this is limited to the shamanic spells cast by the Arrakin and creatures marked with the Dark by Semael, but as you know this is never used to save or prolong lives, quite the opposite…”

Ateo shrugged his shoulders sadly. Vinea was starting to get her head around what was happening on the Old Continent. Seeing how lives were completely dominated by the Dark and violence, without the magic of the ancient Archonts, without Blessed monarchs, oppressed by ruthless races which had been charged with enslaving others in the name of the king.

“Yet you… if you wish to and can…” Ateo said, looking up at last, “Should aid our cause, for we need everyone, as long as they are healthy and willing, to stand by us, you know.”

The Sharim placed her hand on his wrist and held onto it warmly.

“I shall do all I can.”

She wished she could communicate with the Eldest One and ask his opinion about so many things… Above all, considering what she had discovered on Amadal, was she to return to Elise as soon as was possible? Or should she continue her fact finding mission, no matter how dangerous it might have become…

And the very idea that now emissaries of the Old Continent were heading his way, in order to be heard by… Whom exactly? Kings who were at each other’s throats, none of them being of the Blessed bloodline? Or else perhaps Darzans, the descendants of the ancient Archonts?

Tired by the use of healing magic, the lengthy day and the miserable confusion she found herself submerged in Vinea decided to make the best of a whole night’s sleep under steady guard. ‘Maybe it’s the last time I get this chance…’ she thought as she fell asleep…