Lord of the West

Sinister Plots









The carriage creaked and groaned, and the old lady felt every jolt, every lurch, and every bump in her rheumatic bones. She could see nothing, her eyes blind, so she had no way to measure her time, no way to know if she had only travelled a few miles or many. Lady Thett had not left Echostone hall in ten years. And it had been many more since she had ventured out of the Core de Imperium. Now she was heading out to the West, she had not visited those mountin ranges since her cousan's clandestine wedding to the duke. Pulling the fur throw about her she shiverd remebering well the inclimate weather of those passes, and the people who were as stark as the landscape. Still it would be worth it in the end for her revenge.



Belle her uncomplaining maid, whose temperament was as bland as unseasoned porridge sat by her, but even she, was perturbed by of her mistress’s sudden declaration to travel. For weeks she had thought that her mistress had been driven mad by the loss of her sight. For days her mistress had screamed and howled like an animal after her nephew had visited her taking from her the ring that bore the soul of Samigina.






But once that breif interlude of madness had passed, Lady Thett sat and scheemed, like a spider spinning it's web, she worked, pulling strings to set things in to motion. The last witch would have her revenge. She knew that she could not take on her nephew directly. He was too powerful, too dangerous. However Lady Thett had seen at once the chink in her nephews armour. That girl, she could be his downfall, like her cousin, his mother had been his father’s downfall. Darcia may be cool and calculated normally but she suspected should the girl be put in harm’s way all his careful policy would be thrown to the winds. Lord Darcia was not heartless as he believed himself to be, but he was utterly ruthless in protecting what he considered his. Her nephew already feared that his soul was almost beyond redemption, and it had been slowly but surely eating him from within, he believed the girl to be his deliver. He sought to protect the girl, and the old witch suspected that her nephew would try never mention his darker deeds to the girl, but if some way could be found to reveil the dark stain on Darcia's hand's to the girl it might destroy him. If she could then Lady Thett's revenge would be complete as in all likely hood Darcia would become the monster that he feared himself to be, destoying all that he loved along with him.



Lady Thett had travelled to the Imperial city and sought out the one who could help her advance her plans. Someone greedy, foolish, someone with their own grudge against Lord Darcia. With her third eye she had found such a person, Lord Edouard’s only son Terent. It was fair to say that the apple had fallen very far from the tree. The young man was nothing like his prudent and dutiful father. Lord Edouard might be pompous and might not scruple to walk over bodies to get what he wanted, but he was still a man of principle and his ruthlessness,and cunning was entirely bent in furthering the Empire’s interests (that his own interests coincided with those was a happy coincidence.)He was man who worked hard, belived in duty, a sober man, a cautious man, the kind of man who was impossible to bribe. Exactly the kind of man Lady Thett disliked for those reasons.



Terent was rotted through to the core, as if the slimy and stagnant waters that ran under the docks of the Imperial city ran through his veins rather than the blue blood of the nobility. This city of vice and pleasure corrupted many of its occupants like that, whole generations becoming sunk beneath redemption, the young emperor included. Sargon had been spoiled by his courtiers, his every will catered for, and his every small achievement praised, his flaws ignored. The once great city was falling in to decline. And the Emperor who was meant to lead this once great civilisation was too indolent to see beyond his own comfort. As it was she had sought out Edouard’s son, knowing his plans. He had been happy to accept her services when she had sympathised with him over his scaring at the hands of her nephew. He feared her, true - but he was to intreeged by her powers to cast her aside. The preening fool lapped up her every word.



However the whole situation proved to be more fortuitous then she could have ever imagined. Terent through his father’s connections had managed to hire himself some Nhemian witch hunters. They frightened her truth be told, being what she was, but not as much as her nephew frightened her. Terent might be a fool in many respects, but it was clever of him to hire Nhemian’s they were perhaps the only ones with the skills to kill Lord Darcia, as strong as he was. He was perhaps the closest thing to a warlock that was left in the world, had he been trained further he would have been unbeatable perhaps. The Nehmians knowing this would kill him gladly for that alone. But as it turned out Daen the sybilla he had procured had a mark on her head. She might be blind, but her third eye was never more clear. The Nhemian’s wanted the girl dead, and they would do anything to secure that, they were driven by a furvor that was almost fanatical, almost madness, they desired for her blood was driven by a deep fear, and a secret. Which was good, as Terent wanted the Emperor himself dead in exchange and only a mad person would agree to such a bargin.



Lady Thett’s agile mind had swiftly come up with a plan. Intrigue had always come naturally to her and she had found herself enjoying herself. They had met at one of the arena’s that Terent patronised, if the Witch hunters got out of line then his trained fighters would soon subdue them.



Peredur and Geir were there names, both of the once feared Oror clan. Two hundred years ago the sight of the unicorn brand on the chest of such a man would have inspired terror in the breast of a woman like Lady Thett. How times had changed, now they would serve her, a true witch. The irony was not lost on her.



Terent had welcomed the Nhemian’s with a great speech that she had paid little attention to. The witch hunters to were not impressed by the young Lord Edouard’s intricate words either. “We were told that you know where the girl we are looking for is and how we can get to her.”



“Indeed.” She had heard the clink of glass, as Terent pored out three drinks.



“We do not want to waste our time.” The one witch hunter said. “Tell us the terms of the contract.”



“Now that’s what I like about you, no nonsense.” Terent laughed, he banged his hand on the table, rattling the glasses. “Well now, I will gladly tell you where that girl is. It was her that did this to me. Well Lord Darcia was the one who whipped me, but it was the bitches fault.”



“Then she is with Duke of Marchadia.”



“Yes. And he will not give her up easily.” Lady Thett interrupted drawing attention to herself. She could feel their eyes upon her.



“What do you know of him sorceress?” the one demanded. “Now we know where she is what do we need either of you for?” They did not like nor trust her, but it mattered not, they would listen.



She smiled, and hummed to herself, pleased. “I know much of Lord Darcia.” She said, drawing out her nephew’s name. “He is strong, very strong. He has mastered the demon sword Bherith, and he did that as a boy. He will not be easy to defeat, even but such strong hunters such as yourself. He loves the girl and he guards her always; he will protect her with his life, this I have seen.” She raised one finger. “You will need Terent’s help to separate her from him.”



“And how will you do this if he is as protective as you say?”



“I have my ways.” Terent had drawled.



“Tell us, or we leave now.”



“My father had an agent who has been working for Lord Darcia. He will get you the girl. But you have to do something for me first.”



“And what is that?”



“I want you to kill someone for me.” Terent said his voice soft and dangerous.



“Who? Lord Darcia.”



“No. But feel free to kill him. Actually no I want him myself, he should pay for the humiliation he dealt me. If you can capture him.” Terent paused. “I’m getting off the point. “I want you to kill the Emperor.”



The room fell silent for a while. But then a Nhemian broke it. “And how do you propose we do that?”



“However you chose.” Terent laughed.



“The emperor is the best guarded man in the lands. It is suicide.”



“It will cause a blood bath; Nhemians will be hunted once more in reprisal.”



Lady Thett once more saw it as a good time to intervene before the young noble man ruined everything with his loose tongue. “You have two young men travailing with you. They can travel with the Verangain guard; you are both to old to do it. They will kill the emperor, but they must wait until they are deep in fighting. That way no one will know who killed the Emperor, and the duke will be blamed for everything. The reprisals will be to the West and not the East.”



“This sounds like dreams?”



Terent interrupted, “I have already persuaded the Emperor to go on an expedition to the West. He seeks to tame his cousin.”



“Is that true sorceress?”



“It is.” She said. “Things are already in motion. Follow the army and you will get the girl on a plate. Send the boys, let them kill the emperor, you have no love for him anyway.”



The Witch hunter’s left to confer amongst themselves. When they returned they had decided to agree and take the job. “Good.” She had purred. “Your only difficulty may be in convincing the two young men.”



“They will do as they are told.”













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Somewhere between Lake Nurr and Lake Morlyn, with Mount Elbrus bald at their backs separating them from the North, Veione found that the mountain bald of its winter snows was like an ominous barrier between them and the relative safety of the northern shires of the duchy.



“It has to be here somewhere!” Kef groused.



“Perhaps you read the map wrong.” Veione replied pettishly.



“I don’t make mistakes like that.” The burly captain grumbled, muttering in to his beard as he pulled the map back out again.



Veione was suddenly struck by thought. “What was the town that Alwen came from?”



“He’s lord Bute’s son. So Heronswall castle.”



“No, I didn’t mean where he comes from. I mean the town that he rode from to tell us that it had been raided?”



“Oh…Oh.”



“It was this town, it was Pritbur. I knew that they had put it to the sword I had not expected……...It has been completely wiped off the face of the landscape.” Veione said sadly.



Kef pointed towards a slight rise in the south west. “There, it should be there.”



Veione nodded, now that he knew where to look he could see against the sky line charred wood like a striped forest. “Keep the men here.” Veione said.



“I don’t know, I don’t think you should go alone.” Kef said.



“I have Eureale with me.” Veione shrugged, “And my horse is fleet.”



“That wasn’t what I meant.” Kef replied giving Veione a funny look, but Veione only glanced back, puzzled as to what his friend meant. He frowned but did not turn back, needing to be alone. Time alone when you were with an army was a rare commodity. And Veione felt as if he was going insane, all he needed was a few moments just to clear his head. He rode out across the plane; he let his horse have its head. His dun sprung in to a gallop, glad to stretch it’s legs. He pushed his horse on, riding like a boy, racing the wind, running from everything, as if by running fast enough he could escape everything, his failure, the restless sorrow that ruled his heart, and his responsibilities. He had a brief vision of his horse tripping and being thrown, snapping his neck, and he almost welcomed the oblivion. But even with his rains long, he knew that his horse was sure of foot. Perhaps he could just keep going, riding in to the horizon, in to distant lands where his face was not known as he once had, though he supposed that his notoriety might follow him wherever he went.



The blond captain was used to commanding on his own. However ultimately Lord Darcia had the custom of overseeing operations, he was not a man who left anything to chance. It made Veione uncomfortable to know just how much faith Lord Darcia had in his abilities. He didn’t even tell them how long he intended to be away, all Lord Darcia had said was, “I have to go to her.” Truth be told Veione had been frightened of his lord’s intensity. The men may not have been able to tell, But Veione could see the barely suppressed rage of his lord, the red flash of his eyes and more worryingly the fear once his lord had mastered his demon sword. In all his years by his side Veione had never seen Lord Darcia betray any fear, never. But that night he had seen dread in his lords eyes, and it had terrified Veione.



Veione hated to be left behind knowing that his Lord was going to a fray. It rankled more knowing that Vespa was there and in danger. Veione was not sure what was keeping him with the men in the south, like this he was no good to anyone. The night had been one of the longest in Veione’s life. His men were spooked, and there was nothing that he could do to settle them. They had been routed dispite Veione had not been beaten on the field for ten years, he had the larger force, they had the best strategic position, he had done everything that he should have and yet they had lost. It had been his own dammed confidence that had lead them in to trouble. He should have sent a scout to check on the rebel’s position, and their forces, he hadn’t, else he would have known about the cannons. He could have warned his men. He hadn’t because he was sure that he wouldn’t win. He had committed the cardinal sin of warfare, he had underestimated his enemy.



Come dawn and the canon fire had eventually stopped and he finally managed to convince his men to make another approach. He lined up his whole force, charging up the bank of the stream. Once at the top they only found one terrified priest who was chained to one of the cannons, the rebels however were gone, melted back in to the woodlands and the extent of his failure was revelled in the cruel light of day.



The heath changed in to untended oat fields, he rained in to a walk. Stretching his hands out and he let his hands brush through the long golden stalks. Soon the burnt out carcass of Pritbur came in to view and his horse came to a halt, snorting and shaking it’s head.



Gently he nudged his horse on. He circled and urged his horse down the dry ditch and then to jump over the ruins of the stockade fence. It was like a scene from high in the mountains where the Miew had got to a village. Only this was a whole town not just a small herder’s hamlet, and men of Marchadia had done this. He let his horse pick its way through the rubble and charred remains. He remembered the refuges that they passed, they might rebuild, but the town would never be the same, and the memory’s of the violence would not be erased.



It reminded him of fifteen years previously, the three years of hard fighting that had heralded Lord Darcia’s succession. It was a civil war that had pulled Marchadia apart. Veione had returned from his time spent in the Imperium. His father had all but exiled him for his youthful indiscretions. He had been a wild fire eater as a young man, a duellist, a gambler, and a womaniser. Truth be told, his exile had made him, and though he spent some time in the Imperal city wasting what little money he had, he soon ran out and was encouraged to seek employment. He became a sell sword, a mercenary, and it was in this time that he learned his craft. He did not return to Marchadia until his father had written to him informing him of the troubles in the west for after Duke Andromalius’s death. Civil war had broken out.



The Duke’s brothers though that the ducal crown would fit best on their heads. Andras, though young, only fourteen was not going to give up his birth right without a fight. Veione had been expected to return and support his father against the bastard boy, and he had returned intending to be the obedient son. Until his father had pointed out that he too had clame to the ducal seat as the son of the Duke’s sister. Nothing good could come from all of them squabbling over the crown like eels after bait. That night Veione had left Bala heading back to the Imperium, determined never to return to the West. But as chance, or fate would have it he had come across a burnt out town, like the town he stood in now.



He had sat on his horse as he did now, looking down at the devastation, the town then had not been burnt to the ground but it had been abandoned, left like a ghost town. He rode through to the market square, and there in the centre he realised that he was not alone.



A lone knight knelt, his sword before him as if in prayer. He seemed unaware of Veione’s presence. After a while he stood, placing his blade back in his scabbard, he turned and faced Veione, the familiar face calm and impassive. The young duke stood watching him, his grey, blue eyes impenetrable. Veione was surprised, they were in the heart of his uncle’s territory, and if the young duke was found here by the southern nobility then he would surely be killed.



“Where are all the people?” Veione had asked.



“Hiding in the wood’s probably.” Darcia had said, quietly he seemed calm but was defiantly hostile as he turned and mounting his black war horse that was standing patently awaiting it’s master. Veione recognised the horse, Gunner, one of the finest stallions that had ever come from Bala’s stables, and one of the most difficult. The old Duke had given it to his son hoping to teach him a lesson and embarrass him a little. Yet Andras had triumphed, Veione had remembered that summer well as the eleven year old boy (Not without some tumbles) had re-broken and trained the wilful stallion. Veione a competent horseman had offered advice, and had watched with approval as the boy had schooled his horse with patience and determination.



“Where is your army.” Veione had asked, if Darcia was here, then his supporters would not be far away, in witch case Veione could be I allot of trouble.



“I have no army.” Darcia said. “Where is yours cousin?”



Veione had chuckled. “Well I wish you luck then Andras.” He then turned his horse and went to leave the way he came.



“Wait!” He pulled up, hesitating. He sighed, all he wanted to do was leave, but there was something in that quiet yet authorative voice that made him pause. Need perhaps. Andras had always been a lonely boy, his father had made sure that he kept himself properly aloof, there had been no one at Bala of his own age and rank to grow up with, and he had no brother’s with which to share his burden. His father had brought him up to be a Duke, a warrior, he had never just allowed him to be a boy. Veione though older had played with him when he came to Bala, preferring the quiet lad’s company to his other cousins, who the nicest things that could be said of them was false and unpleasant.



The young duke drew along side him. “Why are you leaving Veione? Are not supporting your father?”



“No. You can keep this can of worms I have done with this place. If you were wise you to would leave this accursed land too it is a hopeless cause.”



“I will be master yet.” The young duke said flashing a smile reviling his very white teeth.



Veione looked thoughtfully at the young man. “Why are you here alone? You must have some supporters?”



“Precious few. They murdered Sir Oswald, they meant to slay me while I was sleeping, but he sacrificed his own life to help me escape.”



“The captain of the horse, so I was told though not in those words.”



“Do they make him out to be a traitor?” Darcia asked.



Veione nodded, he had seen old Sir Oswald’s head on Bala’s wall, his blood staining the white walls. The Captain had been Andras’s tutor and unofficial body guard, the father that his own father had not been. He knew that Andras would know the degradation that Oswald would suffer once being called a traitor, his body ripped apart by horses. The young duke’s eye’s glittered slightly, but he gave no other sign if his feelings. Instead he continued on calmly, explaining his tactics.



“The men of Bala support me, and the men at arms there. Some of father’s most loyal supporters might. I came here to call out the Fyrd, the free towns owe their independence to my Grandfather, and I had hoped that they remember that debt. But this town is deserted.”



His plan was a good one, there was an untapped recourse of men at arms within the burr towns, one that his cousins would have no doubt had overlooked. The young duke might have only been sixteen, but he was a boy no more. “You had best go to Confluence, it is the biggest town in this place. Get them to follow you and others would join.” Veione had advised.



“Confluence.” Darcia repeated, he smiled again pleased with the idea. The young Duke sounded very certain. It was not a question. “You will not leave. You will help me.”



“Will I not?” Veione laughed. “You do not know me sir. I’m leaving this place going back to the east. Andras I have been away a long time, I am not the man you once knew, I have become a rouge, and a scoundrel! A sell sword, who sells my skills to the highest bidder.”



“I do know you Veione.” Darcia replied, “And I have a mind to make you the captain of my horsemen. It is very fitting I think, the bastard duke should have a scoundrel as his captain.” Veione had laughed at that. The young duke had captured Veione’s blue eyes, with his own silver gaze. “This place is in your blood, just as it is mine. It’s wounds are our wounds.” Veione could never say what passed between them, but he found in that young man his master. He had promised himself to accompany his cousin just to Confluence, to make sure that he didn’t get in to any harm. Fifteen years on and he still stood by his side.





Veione jumped down from his Dun and caught hold of a handful of ash, letting it fall from his hands to be caught by the wind. Darcia’s words echoed in his memory. “This place is in your blood, just as it is mine. It’s wounds are our wounds.” Lord Darcia had been a man long before Veione had. Veione who had seduced scores of women, who had campaigned all over the empire, who had won and lost fortunes at the table, and yet that virgin youth was more man then he was. For many years Veione had told himself that he had stayed because he nowhere better to go. But he knew now that was not true, he had chosen to serve, and Lord Darcia had been right; Veione could not stand by and let the people suffer, not while he had breath in his body. He may have failed yesterday, but that did not mean that he would again. He headed back to his army where Kef was waiting for him.



“I was worried.”



Veione laughed and flashed a singularly charming smile. “Why, it’s not like I could be ambushed with the army not quarter of a mile away.”



“I was worried that you might not come back. Time was you might not have come back when you were in a mood like that.”



“I have grown up since then.” Veione said simply. He then turned to his men and began to order them with a vigour and purpose then he had felt for many days.









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The Imperial city truly did not sleep. Even when that darkness had reigned and the night was at its zenith people continued inhabit the streets, and men continuously loaded and unloaded ships in the docks nearby. Tonight was proving to be just as heavy and hot as its predecessor. It was late spring but the days were already humid, the air smelled of a mixture of the human waste, swampy lagoonus river water, and the rubbish that accumulated in the streets. Koto could see why those affluent enough left the city as summer approached. He felt as if he could not breathe, suffocated by the warm putrid air. He swatted at a fly and then wiped his sweating forehead. His slightly curly hair was frizzing slightly, and the two long braids he refused to forgo were irritating the skin on his bare shoulders and felt hot against his cheeks.



Koto moved to the window of the inn that looked over the dockside into watch the sun setting, watching how the lights danced over the oily, stagnant river water. He had learned however that there was no use in hoping that darkness would bring him relief, for nights in the Imperial city were just as noisome and sweltering as the day. The young Nhemian warrior was beginning to wonder why he had been so exited about leaving Nheim. At least in Nheim silence ruled over the nights.



It was not yet full dark, yet painted whore’s already called their wares like fish wives leaning from open windows or loitering on the street corners. It seemed that nowhere in the city there was someone selling themselves, women of all ages, some only girls children who painted their faces to look older, others old women who tried to look young, there were even boys dressed as women. Something for all tastes as a brothel madam declared from her doorstep. In the city where if you were willing pay it was reputed that you could buy anything Koto could well believe it.



He had set out with two other experienced members of his order disguised as Northern trades men. They had travelled through the Midlands, and then in to the Core-de-Imperium right to the Imperial city itself. Once in the city they were to wait for the Imperial who had hired them to seek out the traitor Daen and the noble she had allied herself with. At first Koto had been awed by the shear size of the city. He didn’t understand how, Peredur, Geir and even his cousin Larne could walk through it ignoring everything, shutting themselves away in the inn waiting to be summoned by their noble contractor. Armed with a guide book that he had procured Koto when he managed to steal some time to himself saying that he was going to pray in the temple of the Sun, he had instead absconded to explore the city. He felt like a naughty child, but it was not quiet a lie, he did go to the temple of the Sun, but after he had lost himself for a while in the city.



Mawnaws stretched as far as the eye could see in any direction, a forest of houses that had sprung up at the mouth of the majestic Negessa river. There were temples, tall spires, trade ships from all over the empire, libraries, theatres, markets selling everything under the sun. Even the poorest areas charmed Koto with their own peculiar rakish charm, not even the fifth and poverty could tarnish the experience in his unseasoned eyes. In the business district of the city clerks scurried to and fro with arm loads of scrolls, masked men and women alike strolled indolently down broad paved streets, jewel trembling upon them like rain drops on leafs. The women sashayed past in near transparent layers of silk, the fabric parting to reveal their long golden legs right up to the thigh. There were street performers, dancers, bards, minstrels, troubadours, exotic dishes sold along the streets, strange animals, and goods from all corners of the world. Koto soon discovered that the saying that anything a man could want could be brought in the markets of Mawnarws was true. It was different from his home, it was new and exiting, and that made it a wonderful morning.



But the novelty of the Imperial city however soon worn off, and the spell was broken as the sleepy hours after noon approached. He had simply wondered, letting himself flow with the general current of the population heading back to the docks. The streets opened up in to a huge market, auctioneers voices were raised over the general din and Koto wondered what they were selling.



“Plenty of work left in this one!”



“A good doer. You won’t have to feed them much.”



“Look at this hair. And these blue eyes, you won’t find a finer piece. Look at that muscle.”



Koto pushed through the crowd, wanting to see what manner of animal they were selling. Up on the wooden plinth knelt a naked, blue eyed, young man, an imperial man standing besides him holding the chains that were attached to his wrists and ankles. He stood with her eyes down, her face blank of all emotion, broken. People, they were selling people! Slaves, but slavery was meant to have been banned in the empire? Surely there had to be some explanation, perhaps they were convicts?



Shaken Koto struggled away from the auction and found his way in to one of the open sided buildings. Like the arched buildings that vendors set their stalls up in. In lines seated on straw were people, many were naked, all were chained at the ankle and writs to the stout wooden posts behind them. There must have been hundreds of people here in the market. Huddled away from the rest of a group in a corner were two young girls, twins, no older then sixteen, their hair was red brown like a Nhemian’s. He approached the sisters, but when one looked up fearfully he saw that her eyes were deep brown, and not the paler colours of his people. They must have come from the north lands.



“Helo.” He greeted them softly. She did not answer him. He kept his voice soft and smiled, using the glamour that all Nhemian’s were gifted with to radiate trustworthiness. “Where are your clothes?”



“They were taken from me this morning.” The braver of the two said. “Slaves are always sold naked.”



“You are young to be away from your family.” Koto said as he took of his cloak and covered the twins with its folds. It was too hot a day for a cloak anyway. He knelt down to speak with them. “How came you to be here you are from the north aren’t you?”



“Yes, we lived not far from Hur’s ford.” The girl explained. “We were taken from the fields while we working near the river. Men came and bundled us up in sacks and then took us away in a boat.”



“Slavers?”



“We came here and they call us convicts. But we have done nothing wrong!” The other girl said, tears in her eyes. “They beet us and call us liars when we try to say otherwise.” There were bruises on their body’s that lent weight to their testament. “You believe us don’t you young sir?” He held her hand and skin to skin knew her to be telling the truth.



“I do.” He said.



“Fine pieces aren’t they?” A solicitous voice said from behind him. Koto stood and faced an aged imperial. He looked Koto up and down with cunning eyes, which lingered on his leather purse. He would be disappointed to find that it held more throwing stones then coins. “Twins are so rare, especially such pretty things like these ones. Even if I sell them singularly they would make quite the price.”



The girls looked pleadingly up at Koto. But he already knew that he did not have nearly enough to buy the two girls. He didn’t even have enough to buy one. He managed to back away from the situation murmuring something about coming back. Once outside he ran to the nearest temple. After a while he managed to swallow back the bile of his disgust and walked back out in to the street. He found a fountain and washed his face. He sat down for a while and looked at his merger coin hoard. Perhaps he could offer his horse as well. His masters would likely be very angry with him, but he could explain the situation to them. Resolutely he walked back to the slavery market and once more found the market hall where he had seen the girls. But they were no where to be seen. He found the slave master sitting legs akimbo in the shade with a whip across his knees.



“Where are the twins?” Koto asked.



“Oh so you did come back Well you will have to wait. I have sent them to be branded.”



“Where?” Koto didn’t wait for a reply. He let his instincts and his nose guide him to where the smell of burning flesh was strongest, a smell that he knew only to well. Franticly he searched the lines of brands men. At last he found the girls, but they were the other side of the line. The quieter of the two was jerked forward but a burly man and tied over a wooden saw horse so that her back was bared, a metal coaler about her neck.



Koto started forwards but a strong hand grasped his shoulder. “Do not interfere Koto.”



“But..” He struggled in his masters grasp trying to shake the hand off.



“What good will it do?”



"God has set everyone free. No one is made a slave by nature." Koto spat. He was rewarded by an almighty cuffing that knocked him to the floor.



“Interfere Koto and they will see it as theft. You will end up like them, or worse.” Peredur dragged him up by his collar and marched him through the crowd. The cries of the girl as her flesh was scalded by the red hot iron rang in Koto’s ears. His master took him past a huge building, with walls that reached up right in to the sky, a vast coliseum. A portcullis was open some way above them, and down a stone shoot Koto could see maimed bodies sliding down the gory slide in to an awaiting high sided cart pulled by four large horses. Peredur shook him. “Yes that is what happens to those who brake the laws here, slavery or a gruesome death in the arena. You would be wise Koto not to cut such a conspicuous figure.”



“Those girls were not criminals.” Koto answered defiantly.



“I didn’t say they were.” His master admitted. “Most likely they were children sold by their parents to avoid starvation.”



“But they said they were taken.”



“And who is going to prove that? The whole city was built on the backs of slaves. If they do not get slaves from somewhere then they will look to getting them as spoils of war as they once did.”



Koto was shocked, but he had heard the stories of how the Imperium had raided Nehim before it’s submission stealing away young men and women to be used as slaves. “In Nheim we would help.”



“This is not Nheim Koto.”



Koto found himself shaken out of his revive by Lanare. “Come on sky gazer, we are going.” He sighed and got up. There was something very strange about meeting their employer at night. But then Imperials were strange.



They followed their masters out in to the night. Street lights lit their way, the light flickered and shifted. Ignoring the harlots, and drunks jostling them they moved swiftly down the streets, Koto paying little attention to where they were going until they arrived in Arena. The famous Arena aria of the city disgusted him. The Imperial city was supposed to be the heart of civilisation, but how could they enjoy such needless violent spectacles? There was no justice, no honour to be found in letting wild animals eat half starved prisoners. He pulled his sawed gloves on, to avoid coming in to contact with the misery that seemed to seep like fearful sweat from the pours in the stone. Gier, Peredur and Lanare had already done so. His masters lead them up to a small marble building shaped like a crescent, leading them up what Koto supposed was a side stair way.



They walked around a lit gallery. A handful of nobles watched a fight between two gladiators in the open air arena below. There was another door at the end of the hall, it was closed and two servants stood either side. They stood and waited until a repldecent figure dressed in crimson and gold approached them with languishing steps. An hunched woman was beside him, her servant leading her. She must be blind he thought.



“Wait outside.” Peredur ordered looking at Lanare and Koto both.



Koto kept his face impassive; he was not yet old enough to escape a cuffing if he showed a disobedient face. Lanare looked like he might argue, but thought better of it. It didn’t mater if he was the next in line; their master’s word was law. Their masters followed the masked nobles in to the room.



“I like this not.” Lanare said.



Koto nodded in agreement, all the secrecy was beginning to bother Koto, in fact and more things seemed to be bothering him at the moment. He knew that pretending to be Northern traders was chaffing Lanare’s his proud nature. Apparently even though been a witch hunter in Nheim was a very respectable and influential position, the empire was hostile towards them. Koto thought that this was very hypocritical, for centuries the emperor had hired Nheimian witch hunters as his personal assassins to take out magically powerful nobles. The cryptic secrecy of this particular mission was making Koto uneasy, though of what he could not say.



They wondered back outside to the street and decided to go for a wonder, heading away from the horror of Arena and in to the wide streets of Spires. Koto took off one glove and ran his bare hand along the smooth walls. Eventually they stopped outside a older building, upon it’s gates a large red shield, a raven rampant upon it, it’s ebony eyes glittering in the darkness. “This is the place.” Koto said.



“What place?”



“Look.” Koto said, gesturing to the shield. “Daen was here.”



Lanare took off his own glove and placed his hands next to Koto’s his eyes closed. “It was a while ago, months ago. That must be the crest of the noble she went with. There were men of great power in these walls.”



“I sensed it too. There was skill too for they leave nothing of themselves behind, nothing but the impression of danger.” Koto lay both his hands on the wall and concentrated. The stone was sun warmed still, like a bed when someone has just left it. This dark and filthy city was not a place that he would have ever wanted Daen to be. He remembered how she moved in the black silk robes she wore, graceful, and fluid. The thought of the filth of the city touching Daen upset him. He remembered the look that she had worn when they had betrayed her, just because women were not allowed magic, he had known then that the girl that he had loved had died that day. He sought out any lingering emotions, and all he found was dread. “Perhaps we were wrong about her. All I sense is fear.”



“It is not for us to decide Koto. We must do our duty.” Lanare said gently. Koto hung his head. Lanare was right once a judgment was passed by the Helge then it was up to them to see it done, not to dispute it. “Come on brother, we must go back.” His cousin offered.



Slowly and in silence they made their way back. Their masters did not emerge for some time and the news that they brought did not make Koto and Lanare any happier. They were informed that they were to go undercover in the Verangian guard and travel with them to the West, but for what purpose they were not told.






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Darcia raised his eyes to the horizon. His heart felt curiously light, he had not felt so glad to return back to his home since he was a young boy. He paused at the bend in the road looking to where the hills parted to reveal the seat of his dukedom. It was dusk, and it would be dark by the time he reached it’s open gates. The sky was purple and fushua, there was a tension in the air, static, as the warm air of the day collided with the cooler air of the mountains. Thunderstorms were a regular occurrence during the Marchadian spring and summers.



Bala lay before him, like an open oyster shell on a cloth of green velvet. His city, his home, where his woman waited for him. He smiled at that, and tested the words. Daen would be his wife, his forever. Loneliness would be banished as a thing of the past for him now.



He had met up with Capatin Veione and Kef after a two day ride. His men though weary from Rhayd had new spirit, a mixture of the breif rest in Bala and the victory had their. Vespa and her men had joined him in his march, swelling the ranks of his army. It seemed that thier good news was timely, for Veione on arrival had told him about his own force's recent defeat, it was grim news, yet the only repercussion of the incident in the long run seemed to be that it lit a fire under Veione. Darcia had never seen his cousin so focused. And he did not miss the hungry look in his eyes when he spotted Captain Vespa. Daen was right, there was something going on there.



The Rebels marched towards Lord Sindri’s castle, but they caught them at Morlyn. They quickly fell back to a fortified position at Morlyn Bridge. The rebel force upon the feild had been outnumbered by more than three to one. Darcia had come to the feild and joined his capatin of the horse.



"There are men in the woods." Veione said after a moment.



"Rebles?"



"Vespa's scouts say they look more like curious villagers."



"But you are not convinced."



Veione frowned. "Ahrlan of Bute is not on the feild. His brother Goring is. It is very suspisious. And if i was seeking to outflank somone i would have placed my horses just so."



"He was the man who gave you so much trouble before was he not?" The duke asked curiously. Veione noded, and Darcia looked thoughtfuly over at his young squire who was busy handing out lances some distance away. "It seems that we should be careful not to underestimate the house of Bute. It is but a minor barronage, but it seems to be producing some intresting men."



Veione had glanced at him curiously. It was a look he was used to receving from his cousan when he was trying to work out what was in his mind, but knew he had no hope of knowing. "So do i send somone to look more closely?"

"No. We will wait and see what happens." He answerd. "But leave some men to watch our flank, some of Kef's men, with long spears."



The planed battle soon turned in to a route, and whoever was in the woods never ventured from its shadows. It seemed that many of the nobles who had been key players in Lord Sindri’s force had not shown up not just Ahrlan of Bute.



That evening Lord Sindri and his two son’s fled from a battle that could not be won. Finding themselves leaderless next morning, and in the face of the dread duke in full battle array fresh from a victory against the Imperal force and with no help in sight those who were left disbanded leaving the Darcia’s army free to enter the town of Morlyn which lay just over the bridge. Victory was his.
















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