The Conjured and the exiles

The evening market of Mawnaws was well underway. It was well known that the very best deals were struck at dusk or dawn in Mawnaws the grate trading hub of the empire. When the ships unloaded their cargos, or when the stock was left at the end of the day, the traders wishing to be home to their families, taverns or whores.

The smell of spices, stale water, sewage, fresh fruit and the press of people was a thick miasma, as much as the shouts of vendors and ever present chatter thickened the atmosphere. A gentleman walked through the crowd; he was a good head taller than many of those who swelled its ranks. He walked with crisp purpose, like a soldier but without the swagger, he was too elegant for even a knight. A stern mask covering his face and the silver edge to his cloak proclaimed him a noble, yet he did not mince as many of the nobles were prone to do.

This faceless and nameless man dressed in black and silver made his way through the streets with much the same aim as any other visitor of this grate bizarre. He too was seeking out a bargain after hearing a rumour.

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Two men waited outside the city dungeon. The ancient stone building looked out of place in amongst the elegant facades of the merchant housing surrounding the square. It was like a rusty battle axe amongst lace parasols.

Both men were dressed in black livery; a raven upon a red back ground was emblazoned upon their chests marking the house they both served. However that was where the similarity ended between the pair. The one man was tall, broad shouldered and built like a bull. His beard was dark, and though neatly trimmed he wore it full. A livid scar ran down his cheek and he stood as placidly as a work horse. The other man was slight and fair; he carried a small rapier which he fiddled with in a restless manor scanning the crowd with sharp cunning eyes.

Finally the man they waited for emerged from the crowd making his way purposefully towards them. People parted way for him like water before a ship.

‘My Lord Darcia.’ The blond man greeted as the man approached, bowing down low.

The noble nodded at the blond. ‘Captin Faorin’

The warrior gave a stiffer less graceful bow and in a booming voice also welcomed his lord.

‘Kef.’ The dark lord acknowledged him. ‘Shall we go then and look at these recruits.’

Kef and Veonie flanked their master as they entered the city prison. The first room was a grate echoing hall, tapestries hung on the walls depicting the sins punishments, but they were almost too faded to make out. A clerk looked up from his desk, his face paled when he saw the white mask and dark robed noble.

‘Lord….lord Darcia!?’

‘ My Lord wishes to see the prisoners himself this time.’ Kef said slightly disapprovingly. Lord Darcia inclined his head towards his retainer slightly smiling faintly behind his mask.

‘I will go and get the governor right away.’ The mousy man replied. And he went as fast as he could walk through the hall and exited through a stout wooden door.

‘My Lord if you weren’t happy with our choices last year you should have said something.’ Kef said, hurt evident in his obsidian eyes.

‘I have no complaint about your choices in men last year or any other, as ever your judgment proved to be flawless.’ Lord Darcia coolly. ‘I see that Veoine has not shared with you the peace of information that he told me.’

Kef looked at the blond man expectantly. Veoine didn’t flinch from the dark mans glare. ‘Apologies Captain Tann. Our lord is here to see for himself if a rumour is true.’

‘Sire its not like you to go anywhere just for a rumour.’ Kef said still suspicious.

‘The rumour says that there is a conjuror incrassated downstairs.’ Captain Faiorin answered.

‘I see so there’s no other way to be sure then.’ The dark haired man seemed to be placated. His hurt pride soothed. His ruffled feathers were soon smoothed completely when The Marshal then approved of everyone of his choices. It was a hard job looking for men who may be suitable to join his lord’s guard from the animals that were in the imperial prisons.

‘So do you really think that a conjuror would really be here?’ Kef asked Veoine quietly as they walked through the halls and down a long spiralling staircase.

‘It doesn’t mater what I think. Lord Darcia seems to think that its true.’

‘Talk about finding a pearl in mud.’ Kef chuckled.


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Daen awoke to unfamiliar voices upon the stairs; she sat up to listen better. Over the past weeks she has grown used to the guards, memorising each ones foot falls. There was the heavy tread of hobnail boots upon the stone, the jingle of keys. But there were more people this time, perhaps as many as six men striding down the echoing passage. She could hear the voice of one of the guards, but it was answered by an unfamiliar voice, speaking in an unfamiliar language. ‘Ble re y estron caeths? Abbreen eis at gweld eu?’

Daen stood as the crisp foot falls stopped outside her cell and the door was opened. A lantern was thrust in, dazzling her light starved eyes. She attempted to shield them with a hand, squinting at the shadowy figures now crowded in the door way. One finally broke from the group and stood forward. A tall figure dressed in darkness.

He was not a guard. Despite the practical cut of his clothing and the sword at his hip it was obvious that he was dressed expensively. The man was dressed in a black from head to toe, a black cloak, a black frock coat, black leggings, black gloves, with long black boots polished to a high shine even in the gloom. The only colour was the heavy silver lace at his colour and sleeve, and a ruby pin, a little winking eye at his throat securing his black silk neck cloth.

Apprehensive she looked up at the face that belonged to the fine clothing. But his face was shrouded not only by the shadow of his cloak hood but also the pale mask that covered it. He was imperial nobility.

The tall noble approached Daen appraising her apparently though it was hard to tell as only two dark holes marked where his eyes should have been. Daen had the feeling that he expected her to cower away from him. When she stood her ground he moved even closer, and then lifted her chin with a lazy finger. But the soft leather of the glove did not disguise the strength in those hands.

Now that he stood so close she could now make out that his eyes were a cool sliver gray. And so hard gray eyes met emerald green and held. Daen was the first to look away. It was a moment before he spoke in a smooth deep voice. ‘Ti’r Dewr at fy golwy fi barnu mor bycan un?’

The language was unfamiliar to her but she knew there was a faint threat in it. She must have looked puzzled for he let out a low chuckle only slightly muffled by the mask he wore.

He spoke again this time in the trade language of the empire ‘I see you don’t speak Chade. But I expect that you will understand this. I will repeat what I just said though I don’t usually make a habit of repeating myself. You are either very brave or very foolish to look in to my eyes and try to judge me little one.’

One of the men in the door way let out a loud laugh, and the nobles atention was distracted. Freed of his scrutiny for a moment, Daen began to notice a strange whispering; actually it was more like a thrumming, like a plucked note, or a struck bell. It had, she realised been present since this man had entered the cell, but her attention had only been freed to hear it now. It seemed to be coming from his sword; Daen openly stared at the weapon, trying to work out what it was making that strange noise. The noble tilted his head for a moment in consideration; Daen risked glancing up his face again, his eyes held recognition. Though of what Daen couldn’t tell.

‘Interesting.’

‘ Fi tybio tir un.’ The next remark was not addressed to Daen, but to the men who still stood in the door way even though the tall man had yet to look away from the girl.

‘I’m sorry my lord but my Chade is not very good.’A gaurd replyed nurvously.

The noble looked back at the men. One of the number spoke up quickly, yet another voice Daen did not recognise.

‘My lord Marshal said that he would take the girl as well.’

The noble looked back at Daen, and she swore that she saw his eyes flash silver. ‘Do you understand this little one; you are to belong to me.’

‘No!’ Daen suddenly ejaculated. ‘I will not be a slave to an unatural imperial bastard! I would rather..’

‘You would rather what?’ The noble’s voice was dangerously soft. The whole room seemed to still, even that incessant humming. Daen glanced down at the sword. He noticed, and suddenly clutched the top of her arms; his grip was vice like and near painful. ‘Would you rather die little one? Brave as you seem to be I don’t think you will enjoy been burned alive. You think imperials are unatural but what does that make you little whitchling?’

Daen shivered. Some part of her had hoped that Leoff would somehow find that money. But the rational side of her knew that it was just too much money to get together in just one moon cycle. The only kind of person who could afford a fine as large as hers was a noble. Like the man who now had her caught in his grip.

The Lord Marshal who had been watching the play of emotion across the young woman’s face now suddenly leaned in. His hands shifted, one to press against her lower back, the other in a movement almost too swift to follow lifted his mask a fraction. His lips were then pressed ruthlessly against hers in a fierce and possessive kiss. To stunned to react Daen did nothing. The man ended the kiss and lent over to murmur in her ear.

‘You will find me a stark master but we shall deal well together no?’

As he pulled away he replaced his mask, not allowing Daen even the smallest glimpse of his face. With that he swung about on his heal and left the cell, taking the light with him.

Daen didn’t comprehend exactly what had just transpired, but she understood that she had just been clamed and there was little she was going to be able to do about it. Her life was now in the unknown lords hands.