Red-Stained Night (Solo)

[Christoph]

Prologue


1810th Year of Strength, mid autumn; just south of Archen.

Foul wind whispered through lifeless trees, spreading chill across a silent battlefield scarred by magic-blasted craters and littered with death. The setting sun glared down on the days’ butchery like a judging eye, and a bleak, crypt-like stillness enveloped the land. Cold, harsh, and dead: it was Archen, and for Nicholi Chzov, it was both his home and his shame.

As an Empowered Priests of the Ethereal Sway, Nicholi's oaths bound him to defend faith and kingdom against all threats, without and within. These were grim days for the church, despite Saint Denebriel’s glorious return. Civil war still gripped the nation and fiefdom after fiefdom declared against the rightful ascendancy of the church. The rebellion at the city of Archen, a strategically crucial Sway bastion, cost the struggling church dearly, militarily and in spirit. The rebels fought bitterly, giving no quarter and refusing to surrender, even in the face of superior numbers and the presence of three Empowered.

It hit Nicholi especially hard, as though his own family had betrayed him. He longed for his days on the frontier, fighting savage monsters and tribes in the wild instead of his own countrymen.

Only faith and devotion to his order kept him from losing heart, even as he fought and killed his own people. Empowered Priests were among the most loyal and elite Sway agents, fiercely conditioned for purity and strength of body, mind, and soul. For they alone were sanctioned to practice the arcane arts, trained to master to very voice of the gods. One could turn the tides in battle; in numbers, they change the course of wars. He was a weapon; what right had the weapon to rage against being wielded?

Nicholi, one of the most powerful Empowered in Salvar, proudly projected his order's image. He wore simple red and gold vestments beneath a white cloak. In his middle years, he looked both youthful and wise. He still kept his head completely shaved, as he had since his initiation. It helped him remember humility, to feel pride in glorifying the gods rather than himself.

At that moment though, he could not feel glory in anything; he felt only a heavy tugging at his soul and the sense that much work still awaited him. The mystery of Archen’s uprising needed unraveling. Something or someone had fomented heresy in his home city. Justice before rest. With a sigh, Chzov pulled his cloak tight and set out to reunite with the Sway forces, who had, judging by the smoke trails rising from the distant city, had already begun purging the city.

Something moved in his peripherals. Light, scraping footsteps broke the silence. He stopped sharp and scanned his surroundings, instinctively gripping his spear. The spears of the Empowered were always forged from solid iron. Beautifully crafted weapons engraved with calligraphic scriptures, they were the Order’s badge of office, representing both their power and the weight of their responsibility.

He heard footsteps again. A grey-clad figure peaked from behind a rock before quickly dashing away. Suspicion appears on swift legs, mused Chzov, sprinting after his mysterious visitor. They raced across the rugged battlefield, jumping over corpses and darting between boulders. He could have buffeted the man with wind or struck him down with lightning, but that would have needlessly wasted his strength. He was not so reliant on his magic.

Instead, Nicholi gave chase through the forest of rocks, keeping an even pace and waiting for his reckless prey to make a mistake. Whether due to dimming light, uneven ground, or careless haste, the hooded man stumbled. The Sway agent swooped in and swept out the stranger’s feet with his spear.

“Stand down in the name of the Sway!” Nicholi leveled his spear. His voice softened slightly. “The battle is over. There has been enough death today. Surrender now and you will be treated fairly.”

“Your church’s ‘fairness’ is torture and a public execution!” the traitor snarled, crawling away.

“And you would rather die on your back in the dirt?” Chzov sighed impatiently. “You have it on my honor that—” Then he felt it: a subtle stirring in the air, the tugging at the strings of reality. A sudden, mighty burst of wind hurled him into a boulder.

Warlock! Few were more reviled than those who blasphemed the voice of the gods.

With a pained grunt, Nicholi scrambled to his feet, struggling against intensifying gusts. Shards of ice filled the swirling wind, slicing his face like broken glass. He grinned wildly. Few knew just how much he reveled in such contests of arcane might and skill, let alone the chance to deliver a warlock to damnation.

In the holy tongue of High Salvic, Nicholi sang the Prayer of Gales, his words ringing with power. The wind itself answered his call and obeyed. With an exertion of will, he pushed back his foe’s assault. Icy whirlwinds spawned between them as they clashed. The warlock shouted desperately and rumbling thunder replied. The heathen wielded impressive power, but his crude lack of finesse made him seem a clumsy child compared to Chzov. And like any parent, he quickly tired of the game.

Eerily calm amidst raging wind, he wove his second spell from the Prayer of Sun and the Cant of the Lance. He pulled the sparse warmth from the earth and air, and as much from his body as he dared, and focused it into his spear until its engravings glowed orange. With a burst of will, he unleashed the gathered heat in a single, focused spike that pierced the relentless tide of wind and ice. The warlock faltered, and with a casual gesture, Nicholie unleashed an intense blast of kinetic force that slammed his foe onto the ground.

He darted forward and kicked the warlock in the chest as he tried to rise, and then pressed his spear against the heathen’s throat.

“Now, perhaps we can now discuss matters like civilized men.” He towered over his new captive. Even in weariness, he possessed an imposing presence. The stranger, however, remained defiantly silent. “Do you know who I am, warlock? No? I am Empowered Priest Nicholi Chzov. I serve under the famed witch hunter Heinrich Reichter.” He took a moment’s satisfaction from the fear and surprise in the man’s face. “Ah, yes. You know of him, at least. Now you understand. You can either speak to me, or sing for him.”

“What do you want from me?” he asked, his voice quavering. Warlocks, as any who covet power above all else, cower before those more powerful than themselves.

“Only information, and for that you are most fortunate.” For emphasis, he pressed his spear harder against the traitor’s neck, drawing a bead of blood. “The question should be obvious. Archen had remained loyal to the Sway for too long to have risen up on its own accord. Who sparked this rebellion?” The warlock hesitated, but Alexander did not need a spoken answer. He focused his will once again, weaving the threads of magic into a much different spell, one that delved into his captive’s thoughts. The traitor's mind tasted like old meat, but the Empowered persisted. Amidst a sea of fear and anger he glimpsed a caravan of strangers, hardened men and women. Tainted. Sorcerers. And he heard a single name.

“Elijah Belov,” Chzov whispered darkly, ominous comprehension dawning. The traitor’s eyes widened. “I believe Reichter will be most eager to speak with you.”

“No!” he cried, real panic in his voice. “I'll talk to you! You said--”

“‘Just as the heathen makes a mockery of the truth, so too does truth make a mockery of the heathen.’” With that, Chzov spoke but a single, powerful word and touched his captive's forehead. The warlock contorted and spat out a tortured howl before falling unconscious. He dragged the man to the encampment, trying to calm his tumultuous thoughts. The infamous rogue sorcerer Elijah Belov had come to Archen. The battle for its land was over, but the battle for its soul loomed still ahead. In the distance, smoke rose from what he had once thought a defeated city.

[Christoph]

I: Dusk

"The civil war in Salvar saw demigods and demons battle across frozen fields for the earth and soul of the kingdom. Songs and epics will tell their stories for centuries to come. Yet, some of this conflict's most important players spawned from humbler origins and remained largely unnoticed for much of the war. Of them, few minstrels sing, yet the threads of destiny were tethered to them as strongly as Denebriel herself."

--"A Compendium of the War of Flesh."


“If power did not corrupt, who would desire it? When shackled to purity and honor, power becomes lessened, its uses narrowed. Corruption frees the powerful man from these restraints, though sometimes from his soul as well.”

--From the treatises of Silas Rotero, a Coronian philosopher.

*

The Hills of Doth, just north of Archen.

It was late. The sun retreated behind rocky hills, draining warmth and color from the sky and giving way to dusk. Silence smothered the falling night, broken only by the crunch of rocks and leaves beneath clumsy feet. Weary and ragged, Jonathan half walked, half stumbled through the darkening forest. He looked every bit the grubby mountain trapper, with his tattered brown cloak dragging on the ground and a tangled mat of filthy hair stuck to his scalp.

Under dusk’s shadowy veil, the landscape took on a nightmarish visage. Gnarled skeletal trees reached for the starless sky like claws and the ancient pines towered like slave masters over their sickly cousins. A grim, deathly stillness fell as the trapper hurried through the woods, pointedly ignoring the subtle prickling at the back of his neck. He could see no evidence of a threat; no sound or movement. This only unsettled him more, as though he walked not through a real, living forest, but the corpse of one.

The sun vanished completely, and Jonathan regretted not waiting for morning to check his traps, thus avoiding this daunting evening trek. But alas, his family was hungry and leaving the traps overnight would have invited wild animals to make off with what he’d snared. He held up his catch; a fine brown hare that would surely please his wife and two daughters. After wandering the wooded steppes all day, tracking and trapping, he would be happy to return home to them.

He would never see them again, of course. He died silently without so much as a fearful gasp, slumping to the ground with a black arrow in his throat. The night had begun its reign.

[Christoph]

It had been a clean kill – swift, silent, and lethally effective. Yet, it felt so… unsatisfying. Ser Anton Timko strode silently through the woods, bow still in hand. Massive and black as sin, the wolf Acteon padded quietly behind, dragging its master’s most recent kill by the head. The noble sighed and ran a hand through surprisingly well-groomed blonde hair -- one was never too busy to avoid looking like a commoner.

He sighed, frustrated like a man interrupted in the heat of passion. His mistake treated the filthy peasant as an opponent rather than prey. He typically reserved the dealing of swift and efficient death for those worth of calling real foes. This pathetic victim had been just that: a victim – an insignificant wretch to be terrified and toyed with for his pleasure. Such a waste. At least the peon would serve a nobler cause in death than in life: that of feeding his master’s clutch of savage beasts.

The shoddy cottage he’d come across three hours before, however... Much more enjoyable. He had found a mother and two daughters there by themselves. Anton had waltzed up to the home in broad daylight, delighted as they screamed and ran for the door at the sight of his weapons and murderous eyes. He set his wolf after one, smiling and letting the remaining two listen to her screams while he pretended to struggle for an entrance to their hovel. Once he grew bored of that, breaking in for real to finish the job had proved as simple as breathing. It almost made up for his last kill. Almost.

He left their brutalized remains pinned to dead trees as a warning to trespassers. This forest and everything in it belonged to his master.

He smiled in spite of himself. To think, instead of stalking the wilderness like a reaper, the young lordling could have remained home, waiting for his father to hurry up and die so he could claim the Timko estates. Besides, if things went as his master planned, and the uprising they sparked in nearby Archen grew into something far larger, Anton could claim his own slice of the new order and gain wealth and power surpassing his most delusional fantasies. The schemes of carving out a new domain in the heart of Salvar amidst the civil war had seemed far-fetched at first, but they grew on him. There was... something about that former chef, their leader and his master, that drew him in, something beyond the man's wits and formidable sorcerous power.

What can I say? Megalomania sells.

A chorus of familiar reptilian snarls shook the noble from his reverie. He had reached the headquarters, and their small pack of ferocious, hot-blooded Ashkore lizards, part horse, part dragon, and fully grotesque in appearance, smelled the fresh blood of his victim. Three of the large scaly monstrosities pounced on meat immediately, their vicious jaws rending flesh and crushing bone. Spiked tails batted against leathery green flanks as they scuffled over the trapper's meager carcass. Another beast snarled from its massive cage nearby, but he always let the beast callers feed that one. Anton started toward the keep, leaving his wolf to fight over meat with the lizards.

Though their base of operations had once been a mighty hilltop castle, time had reduced it to a rotted corpse of its former glory. Illuminated by torches and strange glowing crystals, the crumbling walls took the color of dead flesh. Patches of green moss covered the masonry like a cadaverous rot. It provided a forbidding atmosphere at night, but offered little real protection, and even the central keep cracked and crumbled beneath the weight of years.

Anton would find his master in that keep; it was the command post of Elijah Belov – known as the butcher of souls, the heart of flame, and many other titles, some less flattering and accurate than others.

The ruins swarmed like a hive with activity that night. Hundreds of warriors from hundreds of leagues in every direction scurried back and forth, patrolling or doing other duties. He also saw many unfamiliar faces; the new recruits, no doubt, though few of these appeared to be warriors. Most carted cut stones and logs; had Belov finally decided to repair the castle? About time.

Anton entered the keep and headed to the far corner, to the only fully intact room in the entire broken castle: the kitchen, of all places. Sometimes, great men spawned from humble beginnings, he supposed. No guards stood at the door; indeed his master hardly needed such protection.

He knocked, out of respect. “It's Anton.”

“Enter,” called Elijah. His voice possessed a ring of youthful vigor and clarity and a subtly powerful commanding edge.

Belov sat at the end of the room, behind a large table covered with maps, ledgers, and empty plates. An iron woodstove glowed behind him and pots and cauldrons cluttered the walls. Several other members of the inner circle crowded around the table, filling the small kitchen. A lantern hung from the ceiling and smoke, grease, and human odor thickened the air.

“Was your patrol productive?” Elijah asked, looking up from a frayed parchment. Even with the tattered chef coat under his cloak, the man managed a forceful, almost majestic presence. He possessed a strong chin and dark eyes, and also had strangely compelling aura, a certain… something about him that demanded respect. Very unusual for a commoner.

“Yes, I would say that it was.” The noble grinned. He took his seat in the empty chair by the door and folded his black-gloved hands on the table. “Standard perimeter scout. Then, I took… measures to prevent trespassing, and to ensure that no one else possesses intimate knowledge of these hills.”

“Lovely, and how many did you kill this time?” asked a new voice. Anton glanced to the far corner and his lips curled into a sneer. There sat his younger sister, Alexandria Timko, leaning forward with a steaming tin mug in her hands. She glared with contempt at her older sibling. “There is psychological warfare, but then there is senseless brutality.”

Anton rolled his eyes dramatically. He and his sister shared the same blonde hair, blue eyes, fair skin, and well-trimmed noble bearing, but the similarities ended there. Anton prided himself on his cunning and mercilessness, not caring about the means so long as he achieved the desired ends. His sister, though sly and clever, was honorable to a fault and sickeningly noble – an improper demeanor for a woman, he thought.

“I only killed four, dear sister, and none from the city,” he replied snidely. Anton had long ago grown weary of his sister’s constant impugnations. “The trapper to feed the beasts and three others left as a warning.”

“Or as invitation to the Archen city watch, and every mercenary and witch hunter within twenty leagues, to come investigate!” Alexandria narrowed her eyes, her brow angrily furrowed. “You would risk them finding out what we’ve really been doing out here just to slake your pyschopathic urges!”

“I say let them come!” Anton spat, pounding the table. "We have hid here long enough!"

“That is quite enough.” Belov barely raised his voice, but his cold command halted the argument with stunning efficiency. “Alexandria, this is no place for the faint of heart or squeamish. You know that.” The Timko sister sank into her chair, eyes smoldering. Anton allowed a smug grin, until Elijah turned toward him. Then he felt like a child caught swiping sweets.

“Nor is it time for your pointless stupidity, Anton,” their commander continued, a trace of venom tainting his voice. “Even with most of Salvar embroiled in civil war, there are many factions who would try to stamp us out, the Church in particular. Eliminating intruders is one thing, but until we’re fully prepared, we cannot risk advertising our presence.” As if on cue, beyond the door came the sound of beating wings. The former chef tilted his head. “The scouts are back early.”

The door opened unceremoniously without even a knock, and a stunning winged woman stepped through with a dancer's steps. She was the Matron of the Seraphim flock and one of their organization’s most powerful arcanists. Everyone looked on as she folded her wings and knelt before Elijah, a gesture that seemed very out of place from such a formidable figure. From her mighty black-feathered wings to her majestic, silk-draped form and powerful aura, she was deadly and magnificent. Some scholars believed them to be demons or the product of ancient magic. To Anton she was an angel of death. So terrifyingly beautiful.

“We have information, my lord,” she said, her voice like a sad song in the wind. “The Ethereal Sway has arrived at Archen.” A collective gasp escaped the inner circle.

“How many?” Elijah demanded.

“The Church leads a great host of thousands, master. They arrived swifty in the morning and crushed the uprising by late afternoon. They have already begun reassembling their forces and send scouts to probe the forest’s edge as we speak.”

For the first time, something akin to uncertainty flashed in Belov’s eyes. “How could they know about us? We kept our involvement very subtle.”

“They clearly suspected outside influence from the beginning. We also believe they captured one of your agents, the sorcerer Andre, and extracted information from him to confirm their suspicions.” She paused. Everyone knew what 'extracted' meant, and gave their fallen comrade a moment's silence. “I would have brought word sooner, but so many watchful eyes hindered our movements.”

“Thousands of soldiers,” he murmured. “They arrived far more quickly than I anticipated…” He Anton a sharp look. “And they will have no trouble finding us.”

[Christoph]

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Heinrich Reichter stood looking out over Archen. Spires of smoke rose from the city in the twilight as the rebel holdouts smoldered. All along the outer walls, traitors and blasphemers burned in massive pyres, spreading the stink of charred flesh for miles. He nodded in satisfaction from the perimeter of the army’s camp; such vile crimes of moral turpitude deserved nothing less.

As a witch hunter in the Order of Purifiers, Heinrich displayed the dark and intimidating image of his profession, with his black cloak, leather hauberk, holy symbols, and stern, unyielding scowl. A sword and dagger hung at his waist. He turned to the general at his side, whose name he had not bothered to remember.

“Treason, heresy, conspiracy, sacrilege, and harboring warlocks: such crimes will earn the condemned far greater punishments in the next world.”

“You would know better than I,” replied the general, shuffling uncomfortably in the presence of the dangerous religious agent. “I am just glad to be done with it. Fighting against the savages in the north is one thing, but I never enjoy taking arms against fellow Salvarians.”

Heinrich couldn’t help but smirk; the man sounded like Nicholi Chzov. Beyond their sentimentalities though, their similarities ended. The old officer had a strong, sturdy military bearing, likely bred into his family for generations. Where Nicholi seemed younger than his years, this general looked much older, his hair gray and his face weatherworn, pockmarked with scars. His voice had the raw gruffness that comes from years of shouting orders; here was a man who spent his entire life fighting for his kingdom and his liege. He was a man of honor. Reliable, predictable: the ideal tool in a holy war.

“All men have doubts, but one must be strong and not allow such thoughts to hinder his duty. The Ethereal Texts teach us this.” Heinrich’s voice possessed firm conviction. “And you are wrong about one thing: this is not yet over.”

“Not over? But we crushed the revolt. We captured and executed its leaders. We may need to leave an occupying force for a while, but beyond that…”

“Witches are roaches among men, General. They would scatter from the Sway’s light and hide in the filth and darkness, waiting to scurry forth from the shadows and spread their plague of damnation once again. You see, this uprising was but a symptom of that larger sickness.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“I am very good at my job,” Heinrich replied, his voice cold and certain. He recalled with strange fondness interrogating the warlock that Nicholi had brought him. The heathen had been insufferably defiant.

“So Elijah Belov caused the uprising? Speak!” Heinrich demanded. The warlock lay strapped naked and bloody to a table in the Reichter's tent. The witch hunter circled purposefully around it.

“Your people caused the uprising!” the rebel spat. “How long did you expect the citizens of Archen to slave and starve to meet the desires of your corrupt church?”

“‘Take from the witch his tongue lest his words poison your righteous heart’,” Reichter recited, pressing a serrated knife against the captive’s throat. “Be careful, lest I decide to practice the literal interpretation of that passage. Though to be honest, in that one area the Ethereal Texts seem a bit too... lenient. I long for the day when all of your kind are scoured from creation, and the blasphemy that is magic ceases to be.” He grinned like the face of death. “The Sway asks only that its loyal provinces do their duty in return for the prosperity and protection it provides. Not that you would know anything about duty.” Satisfied with the traitor’s silence, the hunter continued, his voice as cold and piercing as a dagger in the night. “Where did the rat flee to after inciting this foul treason?”

The warlock hesitated, and Nicholi stepped from the shadows, looking pale -- the Empowered Priest never had the stomach for these affairs. “Into the hills of Doth, a league north of Archen,” said Chzov. “He has established a headquarters in a ruined castle.” Heinrich smiled as the heathen’s eyes darkened with anguish, as though he cursed his own traitorous thoughts. Once again, the witch hunter appreciated his Empowered retainer’s unending usefulness, though he still did not trust magic, sanctioned or otherwise.

“And what, pray tell, is Belov doing there?” The hunter glared menacingly at his captive.

“Burning holy books?” the warlock offered, seeming to find his nerve in the face of oblivion. Cold and casual, Heinrich cut a jagged gash down the man’s chest.

“You have expended your utility,” he said simply. He selected a new knife from a table beside him, a razor sharp cleaver. “‘Take from the traitor his hands lest he continue working his vile machinations.’” The blade arced down, biting through flesh, tendons, and bone. A tormented cry erupted from the tent, and the witch hunter’s voice boomed above it. “‘Take from the heathen his eyes lest he covet the souls of the virtuous!’” This time, a small scalpel. Begging; screams. “‘And take from the witch his tongue…’”

“The true culprit behind this revolt is a rogue sorcerer, a warlock, named Elijah Belov,” Heinrich explained, blinking from his reverie. His fist tightened at the name. “The heathen is very dangerous; he murdered a brother in my order after stealing a deadly infernal relic. He and his followers hide in ruins north of the city. During my investigations over the last three months, I have captured four rogue sorcerers heading for Archen. There are surely more. We must root them out and cleanse this infection permanently before it is too late.”

“You would have me lead my men deep into the hills and forest tonight?” asked the general, a incredulity filtering into his voice. It sounded dangerously close to insubordination. “My soldiers are weary and the city is still in a state of unrest. If I left with the bulk of my army now, Archen could be in chaos by the time we return. And the gods only know what awaits us out there.”

“The Sway commands it, General.” He would accept no questions to his authority. “You still have over four thousand fighting men under your command. Even if all the rumors are true, that will be enough to scour the forest of his infernal presence. I’ve already taken the liberty of sending scouts to range ahead.” The officer clenched his jaw but said nothing. “Assemble your forces immediately, General. It is our holy duty.”

[Christoph]

“What do you make of all this?” asked Elijah, fidgeting with a small knife, probably wishing he had some carrots or potatoes to slice. For as long as Alexandria had known him, working with food had helped ease his mind. The lamp's warm glow glimmered balefully in his eyes. His mind surely needed easing tonight.

“I fear our venture could end prematurely.” She leaned against the wall next to him, as always both relaxed and alert. Her chain mail vest and warrior garb clashed with her highborn poise and classic beauty. The flickering light danced angelically across her disheartened face. “And perhaps I do not mind.”

Belov had given the members of his inner circle a series of preliminary orders and sent them away. Most of them had their own ideas, with plans ranging from fleeing the area immediately to holding them at the ruined castle, using what minuscule protection it provided. Such decisions could not be rushed, and thus he had waited until only she remained so that the real meeting could commence. It was off to a less than desirable start.

“I’ve worked too hard to let this all fall apart around me, Alex,” Elijah snapped, his voice gratingly harsh.

“When did you become so obsessively ambitious?” She glared at him, but let her face soften. She inhaled slowly. “I am merely saying… I… I miss when it was just the two of us, before we brought my brother and everyone else in. Don't you? Before… when we just did our best to survive and help people. Before all the delusions of grandeur.”

“This isn’t a delusion." He set the knife down and looked Alexandria in the eyes, cupping the side of her face in his hand. She always felt a certain warmth radiating from him. “Six months ago, we were hiding like rats from the witch hunters, barely surviving. Look at what we’ve accomplished since then. Hundreds have rallied to our cause, and word of us has spread through the underground circles across all of Salvar, drawing a small army of rogue sorcerers to our ranks. We’ve tamed beasts from the mountains and gathered nearly enough weapons to supply a legion. And this is just the beginning.”

“But it is changing you, Eli.” She turned aside, leaving Elijah's hand hanging alone. “Six months ago, you would never have tolerated my brother’s brutality.”

“I’m not fond of his methods, but he's unfortunately necessary,” explained this stranger with Elijah’s face. “We need his contacts, his allies, and his money. We wouldn’t have gotten half this far without it. It’s a strictly utilitarian arrangement…”

“I do not care how you say it! He is a monster.”

“Of course he's a monster! Decent men with honor and compassion never win wars. Monsters win wars. I'm not a monster, so I need your brother.”

“Listen to yourself!" She wanted to strangle him! “Eli, I love you, but this is not you. The man talking just now, and sitting in the meeting earlier was… someone else, someone I did not recognize.”

“Of course it wasn’t me. It’s merely the role that I needed to play. You grew up in a noble family; you know what happens if someone slips or shows weakness.”

She hung her head with sad sigh. “Until you wake up one day to realize that you became what you were pretending to be.”

“Given the circumstances, I’d say that the risk of existential decay is one of my smallest concerns.” He gave a wry chuckle. She wanted to glare, but could not; for that one instant, he was her Elijah again: war weary and troubled, but Elijah. “Right now, we’ve got an army to take care of.”

“More fighting.” She sighed wearily and sat next to him, leaning against his chest and taking his hand in hers. He leaned down and placed a soft kiss on her lips, and she closed her eyes for just a moment. “We are certainly no strangers to it.”

[Christoph]

II: Nightfall

"Salvar was rarely renowned for its magic, yet in the War of Flesh, powers both ancient and young threatened to shatter the very heavens."

--"A Compendium of the War of Flesh."


“The wise warrior lies in wait for the foolish. He cloaks his plans in darkness and then strikes like lightning.”

--Beiner "The Storm's Eye", Warlord of the North.

*

When Elijah left the keep, the last traces of sunlight had vanished, chased from the sky by the relentless night. Figures in dark cloth and scavenged armor patrolled the grounds silently and efficiently, contrasting their master's casual gait and tattered white chef coat.

In the movement's early days, he’d tried to hide his former profession, but it had since become part of his curious charm. It was a remnant from his former life, toiling in a tavern kitchen in his old hometown. Part of him missed those days; back when things were as simple as taking care of family and friends and rarely got more stressful than a busy night. But those times were gone, stolen by the church, their agents, and their war.

He had not seen anyone from his home town in years. Perhaps it was for the best, as his trials had changed him. They would barely recognize him, now. Worse, he was anathema to the Sway. His mere presence brought tragedy upon the people around him, especially those he cared about.

He would have been alone in those dark days if not for Alexandria. They crossed paths at his lowest, yet she stayed at his side, holding back the tides of darkness and self-destruction that threatened to consume him. She gave him more to live for than blind vengeance against the Ethereal Sway; she gave him a reason to fight. She shared his desire to break the church's power and willingly fought by his side. Alexandria was a remarkable woman, one whose companionship Elijah treasured more than anything. He loved her. The thought of her losing her nerve and spirit in this fight pained him more than any mortal wound.

He sighed and continued through the ruins. Where most saw rubble, he saw potential. According to legend, the site once housed a society of powerful monks and sorcerers hundreds of years ago. Their members were unrivaled champions who safeguarded the surrounding lands and struck fear into the hearts of tyrants. They kept their domain virtually independent of Salvar's rule for nearly a century before the kingdom's armies wiped them out. It made sense that the people of Archen had revolted so willingly despite their supposed loyalty; the blood of rebels flowed through their veins.

We will continue your noble work, Belov promised, running a hand over the cold stone.

First though, they needed to contend with more imminent threats. Their enemies clearly sought retribution for the uprising and it could not have come at a worse time. He had just commenced the castle's reconstruction, meaning their stronghold remained weak. They could not hide behind crumbling walls. With another month, he could have raised new walls and possibly doubled his followers' numbers. Fate had other plans for him, though. He would need to work with what he had.

“Master Belov!” A voice both urgent and eerily emotionless interrupted the sorcerer’s thoughts. A trio of black-clad warriors emerged from the shadowy trees and approached him. They were Brothers of Shadow, members of a tribal warrior clan that Elijah and his earliest allies had saved from annihilation at the hands of the Ethereal Sway's agents. They were honor-bound to his service and had proved invaluable as scouts, ambush artists, and saboteurs; aiding them had certainly been a worthwhile investment. And the right thing to do, of course. The three knelt before their master in unison.

“Stand,” he instructed, effortlessly slipping back into his confident commanding demeanor. They obeyed immediately. “What is the status?”

“We have completed our patrol, as have the Seraphim,” replied a Brother. “The enemy will be upon us within an hour, master. We counted over four thousand – spears, bows, and halberds, with heavy infantry and horsemen. They have sent groups of skirmishers ahead, perhaps to scout us out or test our strength. A strong vanguard advances behind them, followed by the main body of the army. They even have a complement of siege engines – catapults and ballistae kept in the rear.” Eli doubted such machines would accomplish much, but it did give him an idea.

“Where is their cavalry?”

“They remain with the bulk of the army. The enemy is likely being cautious, as such terrain is very hazardous for mounted knights. They may attempt a flank if given the chance.”

Elijah nodded. “Standard procedure. They don't know where or how we'll make our stand. If they draw us out and make us force our hand too soon, we will be overwhelmed. If we make a stand at the ruins, they will be able to surround and trap us. We must fight on our terms." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Gather up the rest of your brotherhood, the rangers, and the other warriors and prepare yourselves. Keep hidden from the skirmishers for now. Try to draw them further into the forest, but do not openly engage until instructed to. Then, await further orders from the inner circle.”

“Understood, Master." He nodded and then said, "The sorcerer coven seeks your audience.”

“I was already on my way.”

[Christoph]

Elijah joined his fellow sorcerers beyond the ruins. As instructed, they had constructed a massive bonfire, over fifty feet in diameter and twenty feet high, with more wood still being added. It raged and roared like a hellish pit. A thick trail of smoke reached for the night sky like a twisted arm. His thirty sorcerers formed a wide circle around this fire, chanting steadily. Belov could feel energy crackling in the air.

The coven contained his most diverse assortment of followers. Some sported traditional robes, others leather armor or tribal attire, and many only wore simple tunics. Most hailed from Salvar, though a few had come from as far as Corone or other, more exotic lands.

Bashah stepped forward from the circle, clutching a short, rune-covered rod of exotic wood and metal. She was a brown-skinned Fallien native who would have been very beautiful if not for her scarred face and missing eye. Her hard life had turned her into a fierce but competent woman.

“All preparations are complete, Master Belov,” she said, inclining her head respectfully toward him. Her accent always fascinated him. “We are ready to begin.” He knew they would be; Bashah was the first truly potent follower to join his coven, and he trusted her to manage the rest of the sorcerers in his absence.

Everyone looked at him expectantly, but Elijah did not respond at first. He let the silence linger, with everyone ready to act on his word; he let himself bask in that power and control. He removed his cloak and coat, revealing a twisting network of old burns covering his lean arms and torso like a spider web. They were scars left behind by his fiery powers, the marks of his magic, and the price he paid for his growing supernatural might.

He nodded, just nodded. Bashah returned the gesture and took a place on the opposite side of the fire. One other stepped forward to complete a loose circle around the roiling inferno: the Seraphim Matron, her mighty black wings folded behind her back. Few arcane prodigies spawned from her mysterious race, but those that did possessed insatiable hunger for knowledge and power. These two were the mightiest sorcerers in the coven, though neither could match Elijah’s power. Despite their vastly different reasons for joining his cause, they both shared the same hope of learning their leader's arcane secrets.

“Let us commence,” said Elijah at last. Without ceremony, he drew the sword strapped to his waist and held it out before him. The magnificent blade gleamed, the firelight seeming to flow over its surface like burning water. All eyes locked on the weapon; every member of the coven knew of its power. “To your places.”

The remaining coven members formed a wider circle around the three masters and the chants resumed, their words rippling beneath fabric of reality. After short pause, the inner three joined. One by one, they thrust their arcane foci into the ground; Bashah with her rod and the Matron followed suit with a golden-tipped arrow. Last, Elijah rammed his sword into the earth with a fierce burst of power that sent cracks a dozen meters in each direction. Steam burst from the fissures.

The ritual intensified for several minutes as the sorcerers poured their power into one massive spell. The chanting reached a fevered pitch as words spewed from their lips, words alien to the material world. Wind swirled in a cyclone around them and the fire grew into a massive burning pillar over a hundred feet tall. Electricity crackled in the air. Dozens of surrounding trees crumbled into lifeless dust in moments as their remaining vitality was sucked away to feed the ravenous spell.

The sky above rumbled and churned and the heart of a storm began to form, veined with lightning and throbbing like a malignant tumor in the night sky. Then, just as the ritual reached its peak, all fell deathly silent. For two heartbeats, nothing happened. A strained stillness enveloped the air.

Then, the hoarded power released with an ear-splitting screech that echoed throughout the forest. The entire coven struggled to control the spell; Elijah’s scars burned and glowed like small molten rivers. The raging flame shot upward lancing through the storm's pulsating eye. It exploded outward in a surge of black, green, and purple, consuming the sky like a virulent plague.

The massive pillar of fire quickly died down to a smolder and the inner circle of the coven collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air. Only Elijah remained standing, keeping his feet through sheer force of will. Blood oozed from his nose and steam and smoke rose from his webbing of scars. His sword glowed like a hot branding iron, but he pulled it from the earth anyway. He gazed at his sorcerers, looking like a demon in the dying glow. None spoke for several moments.

“I will remain and keep the ritual intact,” Elijah said at last, his strain barely evident in his voice. “You all know your places. Go to them and prepare for our enemy.” It was a simple order, given with no theatrics or dramatic prose. Yet, it carried undeniable weight. The coven dispersed and vanished into the gloom.

He looked toward the burning sky, the perfect storm at his command. Just as a mighty hurricane could shatter a ship's keel, he would break the back of the invading army. To make war against him would be to battle the very earth and sky. They need only patiently wait for their foes to draw nearer, further into their domain. Then, like in Sway's false prophecies, fire and wrath would rain from the above, and they would scour their enemies from the land.

[Christoph]

Thunder growled above the advancing Salvic host. Sheets of rain fell upon the ranks and ranks of spears and shields, halberds, and crossbows. Wind battered the army, strong gusts knocking men to their knees. The one and a half thousand-man vanguard vanished from the main army’s sight, consumed between the trees by cold mist and inky blackness.

General Arimovi Tsiev shouted for haste from atop his gray stallion. The Men of the Sway quickened their march to close the obscured gap between them and the vanguard.

Nicholi Chzov overheard some soldiers mutter irritably about the region’s freak autumn rains. He knew better, though. He could taste the tang of sorcery in the air and feel its pollution spreading across the heavens. Then he saw it, a great pillar of flame spearing the sky! Powerful magic was at work. He called to his fellow Empowered Priests, his two students. They rushed to him, gripping their own iron spears.

“Can you not feel our enemy’s arcane machinations?” He looked to the storm and could almost feel it looking back at him. The clouds pulsed and throbbed and roiled across the night sky. Growing, intensifying. He knew not its purpose, only that it must be stopped. “With me, my students! We must cleanse the skies! Blessed be the Sway!” The three holy mages raised their spears and chanted the Prayer of Cleansing. Their voices carried far and high, as clear and crisp as mountain air, echoing across the hill like the voice of god.

Chzov wove into the spell the Cants of Seeing, letting his arcane sight pierce the workings of the sorcerous storm. Let me take the measure of the hand that crafted you… He gasped with alarm. He saw the mark of several sorcerers upon the enemy spell… dozens! He could feel their focused malice raging across in its heart, malignant and hostile. He shouted a warning and immediately spoke the Prayer of Warding.

His students were not as swift. A bolt of lightning struck one student with a blinding burst and deafening crack. Its concussive shockwave blasted the other to the ground. Nicholi’s translucent wards rippled, but held. He rushed to his apprentice, who lay face down in the mud, and knelt beside him. The youth had been a talented priest and swift learner, but now he was stiff, singed, and dead. He knew he should grieve, but at that moment he felt only cold and numb, and focused on his purpose. He gazed toward the sky, at the storm that could destroy their entire force if left unchecked.

The storm rumbled, as though laughing.

* * * * *

Elijah looked up from the mountain of glowing coals, which seemed entirely untouched by the rain, and gazed grimly at his storm. He could feel a disturbance in the threads of magic, someone trying to ward off the spell. This meant that their enemy fielded magic practitioners of their own – Empowered Priests.

This troubled him, but only a little. Even a few of the Church's pets wouldn’t be able to push back the storm; the ritual feeding it was far too powerful and the counter-measures worked into the spell were too vicious. Still, he would need to compensate for this obstacle. He circled the fire, tracing more glyphs in the ash and dirt and breathing life into them. The flames flared up again. He nodded, satisfied.

Everything and everyone was in place. He wished that he could fight at the front with his warriors, or sneak through the forest with Alexandria, but so long as the battle raged, the spell must stay strong. He had to trust in his followers as they trusted in him.

[Christoph]

Silent, graceful as a desert fox, the lithe and deadly Bashah stalked through the forest. Her brown skin melted into the night. She crept through dead brush and between ancient trees, gliding through pools of mist and inky shadow. The rain subsided and the storm quieted in the sky, like a crouched tiger poised to pounce.

Others followed in the Fallien sorceress’s silent wake. The one hundred Brothers of Shadow, cloaked in black and wielding scimitars and deadly repeating crossbows haunted the night with her. Further back, their comrades in arms, rangers from the Gorum Mountains, took positions behind rocks and brush, arrows notched in ready longbows. She could only guess at their numbers; surely at least two-hundred. In between the rangers and Brothers were three-hundred known by no other distinction than ‘Belov’s warriors.’ These fighters hailed from almost every province in Salvar. Brandishing spears, axes, and swords, they waited to lay down their lives.

The force moved in small teams, covering a surprisingly large area of forest. Quiet and resolute, they prepared to deliver the first strike against their enemy. The assembled force counted for two thirds of Elijah Belov’s followers, yet it was still but a fraction of the hoard they faced. It would be a fell night.

Bashah scaled a tree with silent ease and peered out into the night. With a whispered incantation, magic sharpened her eyes, letting them pierce the darkness. The first wave of Salvic troops advanced through the gloom. So many of them… Her eyes widened. Their vanguard marched through the forest in a tight mass of fifteen-hundred soldiers with the army’s main body surely not far behind. No more skirmishers and scouts or nervous progress; they had come to kill everyone on this hill in a single decisive sweep. It was much too soon, too fast.

Belov's forces needed to shatter the vanguard as quickly as possible and break the army’s will. A confused and terrified enemy could be defeated regardless of their numbers.

Now, they merely awaited signal from the other sorcerers, and what an impressive signal it would be. Their orders stated to attack ‘when wrath fell from the sky.’ The sky churned, saturated with power, poised to strike like every warrior on the ground; they waited only for the rest of the coven members to position themselves. The enemy grew very close, and Bashah anxious.

Where are they?

The sky roared. A great lance of flame plunged from the heavens and smashed into the enemy infantry like a giant fist, hurling soldiers away from a large crater. And what a signal it was!

"Now!" she cried.

Belov’s followers sprung into action. The Brothers and rangers opened fire with volley after volley from their darkened positions. The sky erupted. Daggers of lighting slashed through ranks of Savlic infantry. Embers scattered from exploding trees and fire spread throughout the undergrowth. The tumultuous light revealed Belov’s warriors in hellish glimpses. The wrath of the gods rained down from above and crossbow bolts and arrows flew from several directions. Chaos took hold.

Amidst fire and discord, Belov’s warriors formed a staggered formation and with unified steps they advanced through patches of burning earth and charred corpses. Arrows and bolts whizzed by their heads and the haunting fiery glow gleamed from their blades. In the flickering shadows, they bore the visage of Death stalking toward doomed men. They swept through the trees in a dark wave, reaping their scattered foes. Terrified screams echoed across the battlefield.

Bashah watched and grinned. The true terror had not yet begun.

[Christoph]

“Release the Manticore!”

The order echoed frightfully through forest over the distant din of battle, carried on the lips of Belov’s couriers until it reached the ears of the Sulgoran Beast Callers. For months they had kept a clutch of beasts taken from the harsh wilds of Sulgoran’s Axe, a region named after the founder of the Beast Caller Clans. Deadliest among these savage creatures was the mighty Manticore.

“Release the Manticore!” The Beast Caller elder commanded apprentices as they approached a huge metal cage. The beast within snarled and thrashed against its prison; many days bound had left it hungry for blood and flesh.

Ten apprentices cautiously approached with torches, whips, and spears. One climbed atop the box and released the latch, letting the front hatch fall forward. The creature lunged from the box with feline grace and let out a bellowing, ear-splitting roar. They kept beast at bay with jabs and lashes as their elder stepped forward. They locked eyes and the Manticore reared up on its hind legs, revealing its form in the torchlight – the body and head of a huge lion, mighty bat wings spanning thirty feet, and vicious barbed tale dripping with venom. It snapped its jaws at the elder, but the Beast Caller didn’t flinch.

“Cirothe!” he boomed, his voice thick with primal power. “I who have given you a name command you!” The Manticore landed back on all fours and glared at its master. The elder’s control seemed supernatural, and that fact had long since resulted in distrust and even outright condemnation from the Ethereal Sway. “Take to the skies, Cirothe, and bring death upon our enemies!”

The beast bellowed over the churning storm and charged into the trees, loping over the rocky ground and lunging into the air. It beat its mighty wings and took flight, rising above the forest until the main body of the Salvic army came into view. Through smoke and mist, the mighty host marched urgently after their beleaguered vanguard, struggling against raging wind.

With hungry eyes it dove, falling upon the Men of the Sway with savage fury. Claws and teeth ripped flesh and shattered bones. Soldiers cried out and spears broke against the monster's leathery hide. Its tail lashed out, spearing soldiers through the chest and melting their guts with terrible venom. Shrugging off volleys of crossbow bolts, it crashed into the row of archers. Its jaws snapped men in half, and it crushed more under its bulk.

After what felt like seconds, three score lay dead and the entire column scattered into disarray. From atop a mound of brutalized corpses, covered in blood and strings of flesh, Cirothe triumphantly roared.

Then, a voice rang through the bedlam on a razor's edge of supernatural conviction. An invisible force struck the beast like a ram, smashing it into the bloodied mud. While hundreds retreated, one man stepped forward -- bald and stern, his spear and voice humming with power.

Cirothe snarled defiantly and charged at the lone challenger, only to meet another blast of force. The figure's cants and prayers lowered in pitch and grew in volume. The timbre of his voice darkened with wrath and anger. The Manticore staggered beneath a magical onslaught. The invisible hammers turned to blades. Deep cuts and lacerations appeared across the beast's body. Blood flowed freely and its roars shrank to pained growls, until it fell silent and collapsed lifelessly to the ground.

The Men of the Sway let out ragged cheers, until a new chorus of roars echoed from the shadowed woods. With the beast of the sky vanquished, the beasts of the earth took to battle. Dozens: scaly Ashkore lizards with foaming jaws, lumbering woolly monsters with teeth and tusks, and mountain lions the size of oxen. They had come to hunt.