Homeworld/KingdomsOfValtaria

From Regenesis Wiki
Jump to: navigation, search
KingdomsValtaria.jpg

Spanning the eastern length of the Homeworld, the kingdoms of Valtaria stretch all the way from the broken peaks of the north down to the florid inlets of the south. Amid great cliffs, ancient forests and majestic fjords, the common folk of Valtaria till the fertile ground in their scattered farmsteads and humble villages. Looking down upon them are the grand citadels and imposing fortresses of the Monarchs, through which all power flows.

As much as its peasantry may strive for a simple life, Valtaria is no quiet backwater. Insults and quarrels levied between the Monarchs quickly spill over into war between kingdoms - each party determined to show their words are backed up by real conviction. The Walkers raid the south for sport, baiting the Monarchs into ill-fated crusades. Opportunity’s agents stoke tensions, arm conflicts, and use destabilised regions as a conduit to sell their contraband wares. And always, the Monarchs-In-Shadow dutifully provide fresh beasts, plagues, and schemes against which the righteous can sharpen their blades. Valtaria is the birthing place of legends, and life there is never dull for long.

Stories from the Kingdoms of Valtaria are likely to feature characters from Valtaria, the Walkers, and Opportunity.



The Final Crusade

"Monarchs of the Valtarian Kingdoms! I stand before you today to make the most important proclamation of my life - the most important in all of Valtaria's proud history.

Days from now, our finest heroes will step through the Worldbreach, and into the Crusading Realm. They carry with them the sagas of Valtaria, our traditions, and their own immaculate Imperative. By their hand, this strange new world will be made in our image: great, and noble, and everlasting.

It is to this purpose that today, I pass on the mantle of Grand High Imperatrix. Whether this falls to the Commander-Vindicate, the Carrion-Queen, or some other hand - that is a matter for our brave crusaders to decide. For under the darkness of villainy, our light shines ever brighter. Beneath the radiance of just rule, it is those in Shadow that keep us honest. Whatever our fate, Valtaria shall prevail.

Our Final Crusade begins. To you, our intrepid crusaders: Valtaria stands behind you. Your victories shall be eternal."

- Final address of Grand High Imperatrix Villastria, the Most Honourable Witness.

A Dark Bargain

Author: Carrion-Queen Vermilion, The Unrepentant

She is eight years old when the Red Riders come to her village.

She’s heard the adults talking, of course; the Tyrant-Sorceror is on a campaign of conquest, pushing into the lands of the Gryphon Knight while he broods over the death of his beloved. Occasionally the village sees plumes of smoke rise in the distance, and the elders make the ward-signs and spit into the shadows. No-one talks about what will happen when he comes to their quiet village, but she is a bright enough child to have gathered it is ‘when’ rather than ‘if’; her mother’s little inn, under the sign of the one-eyed gryphon, grows busy with travellers fleeing before the Red Riders’ advance.

She is eight years old when the Red Riders come to her village.

The Tyrant-Sorceror is in a whimsically generous mood today, and so the village is offered a choice; bend the knee and submit, offer up fitting tribute, and he will perhaps be moved to spare them. Or defy him in their liege’s name, and be cut down.

They are peasants, simple folk, not warriors. A few of the young folk shift restlessly, but they kneel when the elders tell them, and the village brings out all it has to give; not that it is much. A few pieces of heirloom jewellery, gifts bestowed in a moment of a Monarch’s largesse several generations past and treasured since; a couple of decent weapons; the finest wines from the inn…

The one-eyed gryphon sways in the wind, creaking ominously, as the Tyrant-Sorceror surveys their offerings. Red Riders and villagers both wait silently for his decision.

“Insufficient.” he says at last. “Sanguine.”

One of the Red Riders steps forward, sword sliding smoothly from his sheath. He grabs one of the elders, pulls him into the centre of the circle. The blade comes down.

She stares at the blood, wide eyed, as the crowd erupts into noise, words washing over her. “Please, have mercy-” “-but it’s all we have-” “No, please no-”

“Sanguine,” the Tyrant-Sorceror says again, voice utterly calm, not even sparing a glance to the fallen corpse.

The Red Rider with the bloodied sword steps to the edge of the circle again, glances about for the next victim, and steps back into the centre dragging-

-dragging her mother.

Her heart stops as her mother’s eyes meet hers, as her mother calls her name, tells her to look away. She can’t. Her mother lands on her knees, still reaching out towards her, begging her not to look, not to watch. The blade rises-

-and she is moving before she thinks, rushing forwards into the circle, the little kitchen-knife half forgotten in her hand biting deep into a gap in the Red Rider’s armour, and for a frozen instant as his blood rushes hot over her hand everything is still.

She is eight years old when she stabs the Red Rider. And she knows as soon as she does so that her life has just changed irrevocably.

The Red Rider stares at her in disbelief, blade still upraised, one hand pressed against the bleeding wound. She can see him deciding whether to strike her down, and though he does not look happy about the decision the blade begins to turn towards her, everything moving slower than her racing pulse.

“Hold.” The Tyrant-Sorceror’s voice cuts through the air, the Red Rider freezing mid-strike as he hears it. For a moment, absolutely no-one moves.

And then she hears the Tyrant-Sorceror walk towards her. The knife falls forgotten from her hand as she quakes in terror and fixes her gaze on the points of his jewelled boots; not for the likes of her to look upon the face of a Monarch, she knows that much.

Except he takes her chin in one red-gloved hand and tilts her face upwards, forcing her to meet his eyes. She cannot look away. The air around him shimmers with raw power, like the heat-haze over the hills in summer. Even through the glove, his hand is so warm that it feels like it might burn her.

“Perhaps,” he says, voice soft and thoughtful, “this village does have something worthy to offer up as tribute, after all.”

She blinks in surprise, as his meaning sinks in, and her voice slips out in a startled squeak before she can stop it. “Me?

“You have spirit. Fire. And that hair...” He coils one lock of it around his finger thoughtfully. “A true alchemical red. Magic in the blood. A good sign.”

The Red Rider shifts uncomfortably, blood seeping through his fingers. The Tyrant-Sorceror barely spares him a glance. “Oh, do stop bleeding, Sanguine.” An irritable flick of the fingers in his general direction, and the Red Rider gasps in sudden pain and fights to remain upright as his wound burns shut. She stares wide-eyed at the casual demonstration of power.

“But I did say, did I not, that on this day I was moved to offer choices.” His lips curve upwards; a surprisingly warm smile, and yet not in the least reassuring. Behind him, her mother softly sobs her name; she dares not look at her, dares not look away from him.

“So, let me offer you a choice, then. You can stay here, with the survivors – for there will be survivors, and I am not about to slaughter children over tribute insufficient rather than refused. You can grow to adulthood as who and what you are, and perhaps that fire of yours will call you to the side of the Gryphon Knight, or another like him, or to a higher calling still. But today, there will be blood, and you will watch.”

He smiles again, colder now, and holds her gaze. “Or you can come with us, and pay your village’s tribute with your service. But make no mistake, girl – this is not a kindness. I will not merely take you from them – I will take them from you. All that you have been, all that you are, I will remake as I see fit, and should you return here in a decade’s time with the Red Riders – assuming that you live so long, for my service is not a safe or easy option – you will look upon it blankly, and not remember that it ever was your home.”

She shivers, hugs herself briefly, and looks around as he releases her, apparently content to wait for her decision. The other villagers shift uneasily as her gaze passes over them, already avoiding her eyes. Her mother is still kneeling in the spreading pool of the elder’s blood, shaking her head and whispering her name, and for a long moment the two of them look at each other.

But she is a daughter of Valtaria, for all she may be a humble peasant. And when she is given the choice to save lives or to flinch from the cost of it… well, that is not so much a choice at all.

“I… I will serve, Majesty.” Her voice trembles. Her mother keens. The Tyrant-Sorceror smiles.

“Incarnadine.” He gestures forward another of the Red Riders, robed as a sorceror, who draws a vial of blood-red liquid from a pouch at his belt and holds it out to her. Hands trembling, movement unsteady, she takes it; the sorceror has to help her open it, and she brings it to her lips, waiting for her new master’s nod.

It fizzes on the way down, burns in the throat; the taste of it is utterly unfamiliar. Stars wheel before her eyes, crimson and hungry, and through them she barely makes out his form as he steps closer.

His fingertips rest lightly on her forehead, ten points of blazing-bright heat and pain. And then, somehow, impossibly (but nothing is truly impossible for the Monarchs, of course) they slide inwards, and her head is all awash with crimson flames.

Pain.

Red.

Fire.

Red.

Pain.

Stars, dancing.

Red.

Fire.

Distant voices.

“Do we have a Vermilion at present, Sanguine?”
“No, my liege. My sister died last autumn.”
“Vermilion it is, then.”

Red.

Pain.

Fire.

Light, above her.

Pain, receding.

Red…

Incarnadine the sorceror offers her a hand to pull herself back to her feet. She takes it, and rises unsteadily, turning to bow to the Tyrant-Sorceror on instinct. He smiles on her, and her heart sings with joy.

“Well, then,” he says brightly. “I think we’re done here. Vermilion, you’ll ride with Sanguine on the way home.”

“Yes... my liege.” The unfamiliar words are heavy on the tongue, but Incarnadine squeezes her hand in reassurance and her master smiles again.

One of the women is screaming, a name repeated over and over. Her head hurts; she tries to ignore it. It means nothing to her.

Sanguine glowers slightly as he helps her up onto the horse, stab wound not yet quite forgiven. She tries to ignore that, too. Incarnadine guides his own horse close to theirs, smile playing about his lips.

Vermilion is eight years old when she leaves the village with the Red Riders. She does not look back. Behind her, a woman’s voice rises to desperate howling, and a name echoes down the road.

The Tyrant-Sorceror hums idly to himself at the front of the column. Behind him, once the village is out of sight, the Red Riders make conversation amongst themselves; a few drop back to introduce themselves to the new recruit.

Sanguine is still glowering. “Aren’t you going to apologise for knifing me, young lady?”

“But… I’m not sorry.” Vermilion is genuinely confused. Why would she regret the deed that drew their lieges eye?

Incarnadine laughs, a sudden joyous burst of sound. “Oh, you’ll fit in wonderfully, young Vermilion. I do hope you survive the training.”

She manages a nervous smile. “So do I.” He laughs again, and this time even Sanguine joins him.

Vermilion is eight years old when the Red Riders bring her to the Castle of the Crimson Flame. Her tale is just beginning. And the tale of the girl she was is soon forgotten.


Pruning Weeds

Author: By My Crooked Teeth

Many years ago, before the Fall of the Sublime Concord.

The Weeping Fortress, Seat of His Most Malevolent Majesty Aldaris, the King of Sorrows

The Oubliette was dank and dark and the sound of suffering and crying could be heard echoing from the cells. Wynn had been there for two weeks, all for stealing a loaf of bread. He knew he had it better than most, however. The King of Sorrows was a Monarch who believed that all should suffer as he did. He knew that it was only a matter of time before he was to be tortured or executed or both, depending on his King’s whim.

The door opened suddenly. Wynn thought that his time had come and that was when a figure was thrown into the cell. There was a blur of grey as he hit the stone.

“Thank you very much,” said the new occupant, as he got back up to his hands and knees. The guard kicked him in the ribs.

“None of your lip, traitor.”

The prisoner rolled onto his back to look up at his guards with a smile. “But my lip is upon my face, it moves of its own accord.” The guard pulled his sword out an inch. The prisoner opened his palms. “And yet it learns.” The Guard grunted and slammed the door to the cell. The cocky bravado of the prisoner vanished as soon as the footsteps faded away to silence. “Trust me to get the one with steel toe caps,” he grunted, nursing his ribs.

Wynn looked on in shock. He had never seen anyone talk back to the King of Sorrows’ guards. “You are a mad one, friend.”

“Probably.” The Prisoner in Grey cleaned his glasses on his white tunic. “Everything is a matter of perspective.”

“Who in the name of the Gods are you?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Do you want the lie or the truth?” he got up, dusted himself off, and began to inspect his surroundings.

“I want to know what to call you?”

“What do you want to call me?”

“Your name or a nickname. I’m just trying to be nice.” Wynn was getting a little defensive.

“Call me Crooked, everyone does.” Crooked probed his ribs to see how injured he was from his transport toward the cells.

“Alright then: nice to meet you Crooked. I’m Wynn.”

“Nice to meet you.” Crooked smiled and shook his hand and went back to investigating the cell. “What are you in for?”

“Stole some bread. You?”

“Oh? Treason, I suppose.”

Wynn was horrified. “How are you so calm?”

“Bit of advice: never show them you’re bleeding. It takes away their power.”

“But they do have power and you are going to be executed.”

“Probably.”

“What they hell did you do?”

“Oh, the king found out I was planning on assassinating him. Found some letters and things like that. I think he is executing my confederates as we speak. He’ll want to save me for last, more than likely.” He paused and propped himself against the wall. “Don’t worry, I won’t be here long.” Wynn could not believe his ears. This man was truly insane if he was casually discussing the killing of a monarch – the King of Sorrows, no less. “You’re mad.”

“If you see that who am I to stop you?” Crooked smiled. “So: imprisonment is a bit steep for bread, isn’t it?”

“Repeat offender. It was either lose a hand or offer myself to languish at the King’s mercy, to break my mind until I became a Weeping Guard.”

“I can appreciate not wanting to lose a hand, but why agree to have your mind broken?” Crooked looked at Wynn with a curious eye.

“The Weeping Guard have their families fed and protected. Wouldn’t you do anything to protect your family?”

“I don’t have a family.” Crooked said in a matter-of- fact kind of way. “But, I can understand sacrifice.” An hour passed in this way, Crooked asking questions of Wynn and Wynn remaining constantly confused by this stranger. They were interrupted by the echo of boots striding up the corridor and the sound of someone unlocking the cell.

“Traitor!” The guard barked, “The king will see you and pass judgement.”

“Those were swift executions.” Crooked shrugged, “Good luck, Wynn.”

“May the gods have mercy on you, Crooked.”

“They won’t, but thanks anyway.” Crooked shrugged again and followed the guards out of the cell and toward the king.

Aldaris the King of Sorrows was a thin man, his skin was sallow, his hair lank. Every part of him, from toes to crown, were testament to his melancholy. He sneered when Crooked was pushed into the room. Crooked made a courtly bow.

“Your most Malevolent Majesty, I am honoured by your presence.”

“Pretty words will not save you, Godric. I have found your co-conspirators and I have put them to death, I have sent my armies to cut down your waiting armies, I have taken your foul usurping works and brought them low until you remain my only former advisor to know that the down fall that you were the architect of is nothing but a broken dream. Die knowing that you have failed to snuff out my majesty.” There was a moment’s pause. “They are all dead your Majesty?”

“To the last man.”

“Oh, good.”

“Excuse me?”

“I am glad you took my advice, you have saved me a lot of work.”

“What are you talking about? More lies and falsehoods?”

“The Truth actually. And that is far more dangerous. There was no army, there was no alliance against your rule. I simply named the strongest people to take after you and let your paranoia do the rest. You cut down all who were loyal to you. You sent your army to assault another kingdom, one of the light and you likely told them not to stop until all your enemies were dead. The problem with brainwashed individuals is once you know the programming, they are very easy to direct. Believe me, I know. Most of your palace is empty, all you have is the barest of guards and cells full of prisoners. You are defenseless my king.”

“I do not fear you, trickster. I have you weapons, I have your keys. You will not be able to perform your sorcery.”

“You are right but why would I shoot you? That seems like a rather dull way to tell the story.” Crooked patted himself down until he pulled out a small cylinder with wires sticking roughly out of it. “Do you know what this is, Your Majesty?”

“Nothing that can threaten me.”

“If you see it like that, Your Majesty, that is your choice. Perception is reality. But this is a transponder from a People’s Combine vessel. One that they are actively searching for. A good number of the crew of

which reside in your cells to be broken and made into Weeping Guard.” Crooked threw it to floor, “I activated it around an hour ago, while languishing in your cells. Can you hear the sound of engines, Your Majesty? Because it will get louder and louder the closer they get.” And the king could, the humming of engines and the thud, thud, thudding report of Combine Guns.

The Monarch stood up. “I should kill you where you stand.”

“Yes, but you will want to save your strength. You didn’t keep enough Weeping Guard to protect against a couple of Combine ships.”

“I do not need much strength to end a mortal’s pathetic life.”

“Who said I’m mortal?” Crooked grinned. “THAT’S MINE.” The curved knife flew into Crooked’s hand a guard ran towards him. He caught the blade in the chains and tangled him up with a swift slash across the throat. The guard struck the ground with a look of contentment at his life ending. “Your Majesty, you have been found wanting of your purpose to this new world that will be. You will bring nothing but horrors when they will not be needed. Only challenge and hardship, dispassionate and fair. For that, by the power invested in me by the Sublime Concord, you will be put to death by the ways of narrative and irony.” Crooked walked over to the desk that had his keys and picked them up. He slid a key into the manacles and they clicked loose. “If you want to have a villainous breakdown, now would be the time to have it.” He smiled.

“I am going to destroy you; The Concord have no power here. You will die – no, I will break you. I will make you a tool to me, a tamed pet for my amusement.”

“Good luck with that. Honestly, you shouldn’t talk conditioning with an Ex RevCorp. You will lose.”

The King drew his sword and charged down the steps of his throne. “YOU WILL BREAK, YOU WILL CRY, YOU WILL UNDERSTAND SORROW. YOU WILL DIE AND I WILL MAKE YOU FIND RELEF IN IT.”

At that moment, there was the BOOM of cannons report and the crack of small arms fire. Crooked smiled. “Good luck with that.” And he broke into a run away from the enraged king, Crooked threw open the door to the throne room and yelled, “Comrades! Comrades! A tyrant stands when he should fall! For the Glory of the Combine!”

There was an answering cry from the Combine soldiers. Crooked smiled, bowed and saluted before running away. The King of Sorrows broke into a run after him. He was met with a hail of gun fire from the approaching Combine. The King of Sorrows turned to face the peasants that dared enter his palace.

He would kill them and then find the rat who let them in.

He did not last nearly as long as he expected. A secret that most shapers ignore, though they are powerful and beyond mortals. Even a wolf can be pulled down by enough rats. And so, the King of Sorrows learned the lesson.

Wynn heard rapid footsteps coming down the stairs and the thud of cannon fire. A familiar face appeared at the bars. “Crooked? You’re not dead.”

“More often than not.” Crooked shrugged. There was the rattle of keys and open the doors, Wynn looked surprised when the jailers ring of keys scattered into his hand.

“What happened? Why aren’t you dead?”

“The King had an unexpected guest. You are free now. I would run before you are liberated as well. Free who you want. But live your life.”

“What did you do?”

“Think of me like a gardener, pruning weeds in a beautiful garden. You will likely never see me again, count yourself fortunate of that. Goodbye Wynn – make your life count.” Crooked started out of the door.

“Wait! Why?”

“Why not? Don’t get caught stealing.” Crooked walked away.

Chaos filled the castle as Combine fought Weeping Guard. Crooked took off his robe and tossed it away, he crouched, pulled a dead volunteer into a corner, and took their uniform. Without a word By My Crooked Teeth walked out of the castle as it burned behind him. He looked back at his work.

“Have you ever thought that you would have been a better Hellion, Crooked?” said a familiar voice in the shade of a tree next to him.

“Hello Rain. You know I like my job. Besides, I talk too much to be a blade in the night.”

“How did it go?”

“Mission accomplished.”

“Back to the Summit?”

“Yes. I need to commune with the Oracle to see where to go next. There is still work to do.”


The Last Knight-Errant of the Golden Age

Author: Martel Reynolds

The last knight-errant of the Golden Age
fought the last demon in the Month of Storms,
when the wind screamed above Valtaria;
when the rain fell like knives, when heaven bled,
when sky and earth poured out their armouries
together on the hero's uncrowned head -
as if a Monarch cared for Nature's rage!
If there was warning there, they did not heed it,
but threw aside the rain, laughed at the lightning,
and stood their ground upon the mountain-top.

We have no portraits of that last knight-errant,
not as they were; but you know how they looked,
a dream of power in flesh, a living weapon,
born to the blade and the awaited crown;
the incarnation of the blood immortal,
their hands incarnadine with mortal blood
and all the pride of old Valtaria,
and all the certainty of glory owed.

Say that the fight raged on through night and morning,
say that the sun turned over in the sky;
but say eventually there came an end,
and time did not respect it, but went on.

When did they know that they had killed an era?
Time does not bleed, nor history cry out;
and yet perhaps they felt it nonetheless -
a shiver in the world, a door that closes,
a threshold that cannot be passed again.

They say the last knight-errant, when they knew,
threw down the sword, threw down the shield, and wept,
wept like the heavens in the Month of Storms,
tears like a rain of daggers, tears like lightning,
wept for a world without their enemies,
wept for Valtaria, that still went on,
the rain still coming, fields still ripening,
into a future smaller than before.

The last knight-errant of the Golden Age
vanished one year in summer, when the nights
were scarcely breaths between the dusk and dawn,
and all the realm was haze and golden shadows;
the troubadours lamented for a season,
and then there was another to acclaim:
some other hero, newly in their power,
giddy with youth and immortality,
with head held high and aching for the crown,
hungry for victory, who sought their fate -
and though they searched the demon-haunted woods,
the peaks where great wyrms lurked, the gloomy meres,
the ragged marches of Valtaria,
the gaping sea, the grinding ice, the caves,
the swamps, the sulphur-springs, the crater-lakes,
the wind-carved desert and the frozen waste,
the ruined citadels of kingdoms past,
the tumbled pyramids, the fallen towers,
no foes assailed them but the mortal kind,
and those were little sport, and lesser glory.

Some say they reached a barren plain at last,
and some a field of glass obsidian,
where the young hero threw their sceptre down
and cried aloud, Is this Valtaria?
Is there no slithering or monstrous thing,
corrupted, vile, unnatural or unnamed,
that seeks a Monarch's blood? Is there no foe
left that is worthy of a Monarch's sword?

And from the darkness something answered: Yes.

A thousand portraits claim to show the first,
the very first, and all are different.
Choose one that suits: in armour lacquered black,
tall as the wave that swallows harbours whole;
or regal and diaphanous in ice,
crimson as murder on the untouched snow,
handsome as treason, beautiful as sin,
jewelled with the lightning or consuming fire;
swords like the scythe-edge of the waning moon,
arrows that pierce the heart and tear the soul,
lips that speak death and hands that conjure it -
death that comes heavy-laden-down with chains,
death that comes slowly as the stone wears down,
death without mercy, respite or remorse.

What thing art thou? the Monarch-Errant asked,
Beyond the truth thou art mine enemy?

Monarch-in-Shadow, said the very first,
and a new age broke forth upon the world.

- fragment attributed to Troubadour-Primarch Maetherian


The Smuggler's Bargain

“A shipwrecked smuggler, you say?” Carrion-Queen Vermilion raised her eyebrows. “And why do you think a smuggler would be of any interest to me?”
Her advisors exchanged nervous glances. Finally Brandelis stepped forward. “We, ah... believe them to be a Shaper, majesty.”
“A Shaper.” She sipped her wine and let the thought roll through her mind. “That could be interesting. If true. Your reasoning?”
“They made it to the shore on this, my liege.” Brandelis gestured at what she had first taken to be a mere heap of wreckage. Looking closer, she realised what she was seeing; a makeshift raft, what seemed to be a metal hull panel with a broken spar driven into it by force and will, and a fluttering cloak of fuschia pink pressed into service as a sail. Remembering the storm that had crashed against her shores, she nodded. Nothing human could have survived the waves and rocks on such a fragile craft.
“Ready my barge, and have them brought aboard. Let it not be said that I brought them into Valtaria in defiance of the Imperatrix’s declaration of exile. And have the dead comb the seafloor. I want to know what exactly our guest was smuggling...”


Three hours later, the limp figure on the deck was still feigning unconsciousness in their puddle of sodden silks. Her advisors had dredged up a name for them – D;zyr – but little other information; it seemed they were a new arrival on the scene in Opportunity. Meanwhile, the undead searching the seafloor had made some interesting discoveries; several crates of weapons, rendered unusable by water damage, and several more of unknown alchemy.
Growing impatient, she signalled Brandelis to haul them to their feet.
Startled eyes flashed vibrant purple beneath an asymmetric fringe, darting across the deck to see as much as possible, as soon as possible. Lips already curving to an insouciant smirk. A duellist’s swagger, and a dancer’s grace.
They spotted her at once, and proffered a quick bow (barely low enough to not be offensive) in her direction, before spinning on their heel to take in the ship. Turning back, she was surprised to see their smile had broadened; not many reacted so to the sight of a black barge crewed by skeletal oarsmen, rowing in time to the beat of drums crafted from the skulls of drakes.
“Ah, splendid,” they walked towards her, nodding to the advisors and companions who tried to interpose themselves and sliding past them with the ease of practice. “You must be the Carrion-Queen. And here I thought that storm blew me off course. Ah – but my manners! I am D;zyr. And I am very pleased to meet you. There is a business proposal I would like to bring to your attention.”
“I am not a woman of business.” She settled back in her chair. “Particularly not with those already exiled from Valtaria. You have... let us say, one minute? to catch my attention before I have you thrown overboard.”
A startled blink, an appraising glance that weighed up the odds that she was serious. A flicker, ever so briefly, in that confident smile, as they realised she was indeed. A couple of seconds of rapid calculation. And a voice that betrayed nothing but the eternal optimism of a snake-oil salesman.
“Euphoria. Desire. And an expansion of the consciousness that can help the shaper’s arts.” D;zyr reached into a pocket of his garments and drew out a vial of green liquid, glowing slightly. “All in one dose. I call it Reverie. And I’m offering a lifetime supply.”
“From the goodness of your heart?”
“Hardly.” They gestured to the skeletal rowers. “I have need of your... particular talents. The process of producing Reverie is... onerous. Quite frankly, we’re running out of indentured debtors.”
“I... see.” Vermilion leaned back and raised her eyebrows. “You work your debtors to death, and now would have me raise their corpses to continue working?”
“Well, what would you do if someone owed you something they were unwilling or unable to repay?” D;zyr’s tone was perfectly reasonable. She shrugged.
“Should anyone ever be so foolish, I will have to let you know.”
“I shall look forwards to it.” D’zyr grinned. “I can’t help noticing I haven’t been thrown overboard just yet. I take it you’re interested?”
“Potentially.” Vermilion reached out and took the vial. “If this... Reverie... is all you claim.”


Two years later...
“No shipment again?” Vermilion sighed. “I am growing bored of this charade.”
“What excuse will D;zyr make this time?” Brandelis asked, lowering the spyglass. “Pirates, storms, sea monsters...”
“Oh, I think D;zyr is past making excuses. It’s been, what – a full month now? Long enough for the withdrawal symptoms D;zyr neglected to mention to have kicked in full-force, if I had not been counteracting the addictive properties from the outset. And did you notice anything... familiar about the weapons that Monarch-Pawn who attacked us last week had armed her little mob with?”
Brandelis thought it over, then swore and kicked the dock. “That Opportunity bastard. They were planning to betray you all along, then?”
“Well, of course.” Vermilion smiled. “That’s exactly what made the game interesting. Still, I was hoping for better. A little more patience, a little more subtlety... a personal touch.” She pouted, glaring out across the ocean.
Knowing the signs of her mood, Brandelis smiled warily. “You have plans of your own, then, my liege?”
“Oh, but of course!” She laughed, and turned away from the sea at last. “Ready the barge, dear boy. Let’s show this little upstart how the art of betrayal is done.”


“Vermilion!” D;zyr hid their consternation at seeing her well, managing to greet her with the warmth due a lover. “Darling, this is an unexpected delight.”
“If this is either, you are more of a fool than I took you for.” Her tone was almost calm. “And do not call me that. You would do well to remember, that I am the Carrion-Queen.”
“Darling...”
“You asked me a question, the day we met. Do you remember? About how I would answer a debt unpaid.”
D;zyr frowned, and stepped backwards. Perhaps, she thought, they were finally beginning to realise the depths of their mistake. Too late, of course. “This is the part where I show you.”
Screams rang out below them. D;zyr turned away to look out over the railing to the production area below; stared aghast as the undead workforce turned against their living overseers, lashing out with tools or chemicals or claw-like hands against those who for two years they had obeyed unhesitatingly. Turned back, in time to watch the projected image of Vermilion fall away, leaving in its place a rotting corpse. A mirror on its face showed Vermilion’s smile, as she toasted them from the safety of her barge; a gem embedded in its chest pulsed with unstable power.
Acting on instinct, D;zyr dashed for the nearest window, and threw themselves through it just as Vermilion’s messenger exploded.
“Should we search the water?” Brandelis asked, aiming his spyglass at the coastline beneath the flaming window.
“No, no.” Vermilion waved the thought away. “If the whelp lives, perhaps they may learn something. And do you know... I really cannot be troubled to care.”
“Your orders then, my liege?”
“Bring the undead and the more intact corpses on board – we can always use more new recruits - and as much of the drug as can be salvaged. You have some contacts in Opportunity still, I believe – if the withdrawal symptoms are as bad as our alchemists advise, you should be able to capitalise on this.”
Brandelis blinked. Perhaps his Queen had been spending a little too much time around D;zyr, these past years, if she had thoughts of that kind without careful prompting.
“And when we have taken everything we want from this place,” she continued, lazily drumming her fingers on the rail with a contented smile, “burn it. The whole island. The very rock itself shall blaze...”
Brandelis relaxed. That, he reflected, was rather more like the Carrion-Queen he knew and served.

Sparring Match

Author: Rain Falls On The Snow

The Bitter Grail, Their Majestic Excellency Alexis, The Doom of All Things brushed a dramatically appropriate speck of dust from their armour and regarded the amusing and insolent traveller again.

“Really now. Bold and brazen, certainly. Indecorous, absolutely. I approve. But you can hardly consider a duel between you and I to be sporting. I know all the Monarchs hereabouts, traveller, and you’re none of them. At best, you’re some Monarch-Errant fresh from the crib, at worst, a complete fool with no understanding of what the powers of a Monarch-In-Shadow really mean. Turn around. Go back to whatever rock you’ve crawled out from under. I’ll not insult my sword with your blood.”

The stranger nodded slowly, and Alexis thought that perhaps he’d come to his senses, for a moment. They took the chance to take in his strange garb again. So drab, so dull. Barely any armour, and what armour he had was blackened with soot – doubtless the castle’s guard had already tried to use their wyverns to discourage him from standing in the middle of the courtyard shouting his pointless challenge. Then the stranger slowly drew his sword.

“You’re right, you know. This won’t be sporting at all. Perhaps you should go get a few of your fellow Monarchs to back you up, Alexis, just to make it fair?”

“Why, you insolent little worm! Very well! Taste the legendary blade, Shadow Of All Swords! Sully its perfection with your blood long enough to learn a lesson about how to address your betters!”

Alexis’ greatsword flashed forward, ready to bisect the stranger’s blade, arm and head – but somehow, the stranger moved his blade just right, and with a flare of sparks their attack was deflected to one side, whistling past the stranger’s ear and clipping the corner of his cloak. Another Shaper, then. No ordinary blade would have survived that hit. But still, no match for them.

The two warriors circled slowly, Alexis still considering their next move. The stranger had barely any armour, so any solid hit would finish things – but he obviously knew that, keeping his distance from Alexis’ probing feints, darting in quickly to test their guard. If Alexis were wearing their white armour, with its lighter leg guards – well, if wishes were pegasi, all the peasants would fly. The Monarch-in-Shadow’s armour was simply too thick and heavy to dance all over the courtyard the same way the stranger could. But for the same reason, the stranger’s thin sword had no chance of penetrating it. Obviously his plan was to keep dancing around until Alexis simply dropped of exhaustion. So confident. So arrogant. The Doom Of All Things had plenty of experience dealing with people who expected that a Monarch in heavy armour with a massive sword would be a simple, obvious fighter. Just a little further, and… there. One hand dropped from their greatsword, sending a burst of magic through the ground to crack the stones of the courtyard just behind the stranger, propelling him forward and right into the sweep of the Shadow Of All Swords. The leading edge of the blade caught the stranger in the side, and threw him halfway across the courtyard. He was already rolling to his feet – it took more than that to kill a Shaper, after all – but that would slow him down and begin tipping the scales towards the fight’s inevitable conclusion.

Hmm. Alexis noted with some annoyance that the stranger was barely bleeding. Was there more armour under that black tunic than first there appeared to be? No, they could see the insolent fool’s skin through the cut. It was just that the wound appeared to be… closing itself. Healing magic? Irritating. But dealable with. They stepped forward, each slash of the long sword slowly forcing their foe back, pinning him into a corner. If he thought that he could wait out -

The Bitter Grail had a very brief moment of shock as the bizarre stranger rushed directly towards them, faster than they could redirect their sword, then up and over them, using the Monarch-in-Shadow’s heavy sword and snarling skull-helmet as footholds to vault up and onto the courtyard wall, then as Alexis raised a wand in their off hand to force the stranger to descend and fight honourably again, he launched himself forward, the narrow point of his sword piercing through wand, armoured gauntlet and hand alike. Damnation.

“You don’t fight like any Valtarian I’ve ever faced, stranger. You’re one of those… tree people from the West, aren’t you? Runners?”

The stranger smiled thinly, raising his sword in a parody of a Monarch’s salute. “Walkers, actually. And not quite, but close enough. Call me Rain, if you like. Now, as fun as this sparring match has been...”

“Sparring match?” Alexis spluttered. “I’m halfway to killing you, you… arrogant, presumptuous tree-dweller!

The stranger – Rain – shook his head slowly, producing from somewhere beneath his travelling cloak a second sword. “Mm, no, I’m afraid not.” He tapped the long gash in his side with the pommel of the new sword. “This was a nice try, admittedly. But you really want something more like this.”

Alexis didn’t even have the chance to blink before the stranger was upon them, each slice of the paired swords ripping through their armour as though it were made of cloth. As they raised the Shadow of All Swords to block, he tossed the twin blades aside, grabbed the blade of the greatsword in both his hands, and simply snapped it in two, flipping the broken tip around and plunging it through the Monarch’s breastplate and into their chest.

“Alexis Bec Du Lac, Warrior-Soul of the Shining Lake, Sword-Poet of the White Mountain. The Bitter Grail, The Doom of All Things. Burner of villages, conqueror of citadels, warlord of Valtaria par excellence. Thank you for an exhilarating sparring match. But not, I fear, one I’ll be repeating. Enjoy your afterlife, whatever it may be.” The black-cloaked traveller flipped up his hood, gathered up the two broken halves of the greatsword and walked away, as Alexis reached out in vain to understand how the impossible had occurred, and the Doom of All Things had themself been doomed in turn.

The Fall of the Karaskian Redoubt

Author: Christopher Lamb

On the jagged slopes of Valtaria’s northern kingdoms, the two armies formed their battle lines. Flanked to either side by thick verdant forest whose emerald leaves shone dimly in the winter sun the two forces faced one another with determination.

On the bottom of the hill, the glorious army of the Karaskian Redoubt gathered before the fortification. The ancient fort of mithril lined stone was gilded with gold depicting the feats of the Spellbreaker and their family whose heroes had defined Valtaria for a generation. Now, in the lands of the Grand High Imperatrix-in-Shadow the great glimmering monument lay isolated in a land ruled by villainy and unfettered evil. It was perhaps unsurprising that the 20,000 strong army guarded the bastion of light so closely. On the battlements archers wearing the white and green tabards of the Queen of Hope watched over the ram mounted knights of the River King who guarded the flanks. While both Victors had fought and died against the Imperatrix, their forces stood guard refusing to let their legacy of heroism and righteousness die with them. At the centre stood the bulk of the army of Their Unmovable Majesty Thorgas Forgefire The Spellbreaker. Adorned in ancient bulky armour inscribed with runes and depictions of the army’s various triumphs, the soldiers looked more like living fortresses than knights.

The army that stood opposite them could not have looked more different. Comprising of peasant levies the force was a chaotic mass of colour that lacked the decorum expected of any good Valtarian army. What they lacked for in cohensiveness however they more than made up for in numbers. 350,000 strong, the force seemingly comprised of a dozen or so towns and villages who had answered the call to rebellion against the Imperatrix-in-Shadow had arrived armed only with pitchfork, fire and a burning desire to end the suffering which had plagued Valtaria for sometime. Amongst the writhing mass, trebuchets were quickly being constructed and stakes raised ahead of the long siege to follow.

Thorgas’ stared coldly at the peasants that stood before the fortress. It was an impressive sight and for a moment The Spellbreaker wondered if there might be some glimmer of hope from the battle to come. A force that size meant that, amongst those present, there might be some hero who would find greatness and in doing so attain the Shaper’s Gift. Assuming they didn’t hold onto their ideals too closely (and, from Thorgas’ experience, very few did)  they might even ascend to join the ranks of their fellow Monarchs-Victor in restoring Valtaria’s place in this broken world. The fact such an opportunity might come at much bloodshed did little to bother him. If the deaths of his twelve children had taught him anything, it was that greatness did not come without cost.

“Your Unmovable Majesty!”

Thorgas’ glanced at his young squire, dressed in the gold and grey livery of the Redoubt, who arrived by his side. The simple peasant garb clashed distinctly with his gold and silver armour which mimicked the Karaskian Redoubt itself in style and design. His ancient red drake shifted beneath him at the newcomers sudden arrival, twisting its scaly neck to sniff warily at them. He sighed, placing a plated fist on the beasts head as embers began to erupt from the beast’s nose with each heated snort. With the smallest of thoughts the Monarch calmed the beast as he called down the thunder of the mountains directly into the creature’s skull. It’s screech of pain brought back memories of his duel with his third son when he had fallen, for a time, to Shadow. His son had been full of hot air too.

“Can I help you Bor?”
“Your Unmovable Majesty, a-a message from the enemy.”

Bor extended his hand towards his God-King warily, parchment clutched tightly. With a gesture it was ripped from his grasp, floating gently on the air to the Spellbreaker’s hand. The parchment was old and wrapped with a tattered red ribbon. Unfurling it, Thorgas’ read it to himself slowly. Bor watched the scene in silence, flinching slightly as the silence was broken by his God-King’s thunderous laugh.

“Is everything okay Your Unmovable Majesty?”

“Yes, yes, it is Bor, you have no need to be concerned,” Thorgas replied catching his breath “Their demands are foolish. They demand my surrender and that of the Karaskian Redoubt. The rest of you will be spared but their target is The Grand High Imperatrix’s Court…”

“The Imperatrix-in-Shadow? Then why would they oppose us? Do they not fight for the light of Valtaria like all of us? Our forces combined could topple her and her malevolent band of villains!”

“Because Bor, they do not seek greatness nor do they seek heroism. They seek freedom. They demand my surrender due to me having that which they lack...the divine right of rulership.”

Thorgas’ grip on the drake’s reins tightened as he observed his enemy closely. Amongst the mass before him he spotted Opportunity weapon dealers, trading their wares from foreign shores. The army had clearly been planning this battle for sometime. Did they not know this was suicide? The Redoubt had never been breached. It had faced down dozens of armies from Victors and Shadows alike and each one had been broken upon its walls. Each loss was a story immortalised in gold upon its walls as a warning to the enemies of The Forgefire family. Surrender and be forgotten. Fight and die.

“How can they can they seek freedom when you have done so much to protect us?” Bor replied. “You-you are Thorgas! You fought the Immortal Night Haunter to a stand still when he preyed on the blood of Valtaria’s innocents! You single handedly destroyed the Combine ship, Engine of Consensus when they came to take all we had worked so hard for! You have done so much for us...how can they not see that? How can they be blind to the good in your heart…”

Thorgas’ gave the shaken squire the smallest of smiles to calm his nerves.

“You haven’t fought in battle before have you Bors?”

“No I have not Your Unmovable Majesty. My father fought beside you and my father before him. I however…” Bors’ shaking hand moved to the sword at his side which he gripped tightly. It was gilded in gold and grey – shaped by Thorgas’ himself like all of his army’s weapons and armour. Only the best for his people. “I don’t think I can fight. Not against Valtaria’s own…”

“You can and you must,” Thorgas replied, turning his eyes to the force before him. “These people are not Valtarians, for any good Valtarian would know that this will not benefit our Kingdoms. The people toil the land, they gift us food and resources so that the Kingdoms thrive. In return as Monarchs we rule and we protect. We guide you towards the challenges you need and the greatness you all deserve to obtain. All Valtarians can be Monarchs but only if they try hard enough for it. Some will live and some will die but one day...all Valtarians will fit to rule over the lesser nations of this world.”

Thorgas’ glanced at Bors who stared up at him with eyes filled with wonder.

“Do you desire the Shaper’s Gift Bors?”

“Of course Your Unmovable Majesty!”

“These people would deny you that. They would lie and offer you ‘consensus’ and ‘democracy’. They say you are good enough as you are because the Shaper’s Gift and the Imperative are not what define a leader. Would you forsake greatness for the sake of mediocrity Bors?”

“N-No. No. I would not.”

“Then they are not Valtarians Bors. They are not even people. They are creatures to be destroyed and a challenge to be overcome. Sharpen your blades upon their bones. Let their deaths remind you that only through bloodshed and suffering can those who deserve the Shaper’s Gift attain it. Show them what a child of The Karaskian Redoubt can do Bors. Show them why they will amount to nothing.”

“Yes Your Unmovable Majesty!” Bors replied, his hand snapping up to a salute. “While good Monarchs like Thorgas still stand, we cannot lose!”

Thorgas turned his gaze away from the squire. He had fought in every battle and the outcome was always the same. Worried weak mortals relying on the strength of Shapers. The reassuring speech. The offer of betterment through battle. Countless failures. Maybe today would be different he thought as he yanked on the reins of the drake, it’s leathery wings expanding as it took to the sky where it hovered over the battlefield.

The throng of nearly four hundred thousand soldiers turned their gaze to the sky. In that moment, the world was his and his alone as they stared upon him in all his majesty and might. Activating the circlet around his neck Thorgas’ spoke, his voice echoing across the battlefield.

“Enemies of The Karaskian Redoubt! I am His Unmovable Majesty Thorgas Forgefire The Spellbreaker! Bane of the Night Haunter! Destroyer of Dirigibles! The Light of Valtaria! You stand before me today because you make requests of me that I cannot answer! You come demanding democracy and the right to ruleship! You come seeking my head and the surrender of those who stand by my side in memory of those heroes who have fought the Imperatrix-in-Shadow’s will! And perhaps most insulting of all, you have come here demanding this Redoubt as your own. In response to your request, I will give you a simple answer - No!”

He grinned as his army broke into thunderous applause. Better to motivate them to greatness he thought. The other army however stood silent. Where there had once been chaos there was only conviction. He would break that...

“The Karaskian Redoubt has never fallen! It has faced countless enemies, more numerous and powerful even than you! Upon its walls lies the blood of not only knights and bishops but Monarchs too! Kings and queens alike have died leaving only broken banners and shattered bones as a memorial to their arrogance! This is what will happen to you today if you stand and fight. Surrender and you may leave. You may go back to your farms and your homes and serve knowing that we will protect you. Stand however and you will face the full wrath of The Spellbreaker. Fight and you will burn!”

Thorgas grinned, slamming a mithril plated fist into the drake’s skull once more. Electricity coursed through him as he shaped the world to his will, causing the beast to roar in pain and fill the clear sky with ash and fire. His army cheered at the twisted spectacle of heroism and hedonism as he brought the drake down rapidly to the ground where it rested beside Bors once more, twitching as the electricity took its toll.  

As the cheering died down, Thorgas’ attention turned to the force before him. He expected to see shaken serfs turning to flee. He expected chaos and confusion. Instead he was greeted by the sight of over a hundred thousand stoic unphased peasants. He grunted to himself angrily and prepared himself for the order to charge, until Bor’s broke his concentration.

“Wait...Your Unmovable Majesty,” Bors pointed before them to the centre of the enemy force. “What...what’s that?”

Thorgas’ eyes widened as across the enemy line dozens of banner poles began to emerge, flags unfolding to reveal an array of heraldry. Thorgas’ eyes widened at the spectacle as the lines began to part. His eyes quickly glanced across the various banners as his mind ran through the list of titles. The Broken Crown King. The Bulwark. The Resplendent Cardinal. The Twisted Tale. Shadows. Victors. Had this army killed them all? Last he had heard The Bulwark and The Resplendent Cardinal had fallen to darkness. Weak rulers, he thought, had no right to rule and as for The Twisted Tale...Thorgas’ refused to believe Razgorax the Unchained’s scion could have survived where his own children had not. Maybe this army would be a worthy challenge after all?

“Bors,” Thorgas replied warily, as his hand reached to his pouch. Removing parchment, ink and quill he concentrated, shaping the message as he continued speaking. “I have a request. Take this message to the Grand High Imperatrix-in-Shadow’s Court. Tell them that today another army has come to fall upon the walls of The Karaskian Redoubt. That this army had slain a dozen Monarchs and that we will prove that the light of good, honest Valtarians still endures. Tell Nicasta Doomsbane that once I have sharpened my own forces against this whetstone, Thorgas Forgefire The Spellbreaker will come to break her too.”

Thorgas watched the confused spire carefully as they responded.

“Y-y-you want me to tell her that?!? You want me to walk into the heart of the Court and say that to her face?”
“Yes Bors.”
“But I-I’ll die!”
“Not while you wear my armour, wield my sword and carry my words in your heart Bors. You will survive and you will achieve the greatness you deserve. I promised you the Gift did I not?”
“You...you did.”
“Then go Bors. Achieve your destiny.”

The scroll fluttered down on the wind to the young squire’s hands who clutched it close to your heart.

“And what about you Your Unmovable Majesty?” “I will stay. I will fight. I will win. You heard my message. Now go. I will follow after you.”

Bors nodded slowly, holding his gaze as he turned away from his Monarch. With a deep breath and a steady sigh, he placed the scroll into one of his pouches and dashed through the line of soldiers who stood at attention, eager for battle.

Thorgas turned his gaze to the enemy force once more. They stood in ranks now and looked every bit the organised army. His drake stirred in the eerie silence which was only broken by the sound of a dozen or so trudging feet. Thick storm clouds filled the sky, blocking out the winter sun. It would have been reassuring, had twilight not suddenly covered the battlefield, plunging it eerily into darkness. Even as the rain began to gently fall, the enemy army’s tattered banners continued to fly proudly, grizzly trophies in the unnatural breeze. Thorgas could only steady himself as the ranks of the enemy army parted and the figures stepped forward.

There were sixteen in total, their darkened silhouettes still distinct even event against the thousands of peasants that stood before them. They were dressed in ornate military uniforms and frock coats of various colours and origins with sabers, flintlocks, bows and shields in hand. Their faces covered in shadow, they spoke calmly, their voice carrying across the battlefield as if spoken by all present.

“You speak, Monarch of your victories. Of how you have defeated knights and bishops, kings and queens. You have defeated no one. Your achievements are founded on deceit, lies and the blood of the innocent. You have perpetuated a lie and in doing so have only dragged Valtaria further towards damnation and destruction. Victors? Shadows? It does not matter. All of Valtaria’s people suffer at the hands of a system that will never end while Monarchs like you still stand for the Imperative. Valtaria’s people cry out for freedom and we answer…”

Thorgas’ eyes widened as the tattered banners began to glow, quickly taking on a new sheen and appearance. The heraldry that once ordained them quickly faded away to be replaced with a single solitary image which alternated between black on white and white on black across the entire army. For a moment he suspected the manipulative hands of the Penitents until the image revealed itself more clearly – that of a single solitary chess piece. The Bulwark? The Broken Crown King? The Twisted Tale? No they couldn’t have-

“An end to the Imperative!” the enemy army cheered in unison.

“Bows ready!” Thorgas roared defiantly as his army readied themselves.

“Death to the Imperatrix!” the people replied, their voice growing ever louder against the rain and the distant sound of thunder.

“Lances up!” Thorgas responded in kind as his tugged on the reins and the drake lurched forward.

“FOR THE PEOPLE’S CRUSADE!” they spoke as one, a hundred thousand voices drowning out the din of the pouring rain and out the hurried orders of soldiers who guarded the Redoubt. As they did so, the sixteen strode forward, weapons readied. In their wake Valtaria’s people marched as one.

“CHARGE!” he ordered, kicking a spurred heel into the side of the drake who lunged forward.

Hundreds of arrows filled the sky as the peasant’s torches were lit,  turning the darkened battlefield into a reflection of the night sky which normally hung peacefully over the Redoubt. Thorgas did not even flinch as the arrows above his forces head seemed to shatter apart against some unseen shield, falling instead upon his own. Even as his men fell one by one to musket fire and arrows of starlight, he drove ever forward towards the sixteen who calmly strode towards him.

Thorgas had played the game of Monarchs for decades. He had taught his own to play, had defeated them and countless others and never once had been bested. He held that knowledge like armour close to his chest as the rapier blade found its mark and impaled him through the heart. The smell of burning drake filled his nose and the sound of a hunting horn deafened his ears as the Monarch-Victor quickly realised the true power of the sixteen he was now facing.

From light and dark they stood together as one and from the sodden ground where he now came to lie, he watched the majority of them stride away from him towards the keep. He tried to heal himself, shape the world to his whim but found he could not as something fought against him. Tired from the struggle, his breath rattled in his chest as lifted his head to watch the gates of The Karaskian Redoubt buckle and explode inwards before a mass of writhing veins and cheering peasants.

He felt a hand grab his hair and tug him upwards into kneeling position as his weapons were seized from him. He felt a knife ever against his neck and tried to shape reality once more only to be greeted by an unfamiliar voice.

“Please don’t resist Thorgas. If you do it will only be more unpleasant for you…”

Thorgas hated that. He growled concentrating more, only to feel the world shimmer around him like a heathaze. After a moment, he coughed up blood, the fight knocked out of him.

“Thank you Thorgas,” the voice replied. “Now Helena, as we discussed, you need to use a quick movement. Swift. You can’t allow them to use the gift before you finish the job or you and everyone you love is done for. So remember, do it as I showed you-”

A sudden pain shook across Thorgas’ body as he choked for air. He felt his neck grow warm and slick with blood as his raspy breath drowned out all other noise. The darkness began to descend even as Thorgas sought some new strategy to save the day, to help his people but came up blank. As his thoughts drifted away into oblivion he remembered only the symbol upon the banners and the rules of the game.

Knights.
Bishops.
Kings.
Queens.

Thorgas had defeated them all. But he had forgotten the most important rule of the game… in chess, the Pawns usually strike first.