Dawn of Empire

 Age of Conquest
The Dawn of the Great Emrosian Empire

 

Emros City

King Keltan stood beneath the moons of the Great Hunt as Ghanray slowly slipped beyond Skelis, avoiding his grasp, and beginning their endless pursuit once more. His hands gripped the battlement of the keep as he looked out over the great western city-state.

“I have seen glimpses of possible futures,” the old seer said, “a great empire shall be born. Spreading between the oceans, embracing all of this land under its banner.”

The Emrosian King turned toward the seer, looking in the gaunt man’s pale eyes. Why should he trust this old wizard?

“Power, King Keltan, and notoriety. Your name will be remembered for ages to come, none shall forget the great Keltan the Conqueror, he who founded the Emrosian Empire.” The seer’s long, white beard fluttered in the breeze as he stared back into Keltan’s eyes. “Of all the possible paths that may be taken, that does not change. You are destined, King Keltan, you cannot shirk destiny.”

Sakri

The Death of Wonder
Approximately 2,400 Years Before the Emrosian Empire

 

Alhu

The great central city burned. Those few survivors dispersed into the surrounding forests hoping to find succor somewhere far from these devastated lands. The charred soil was littered with the corpses of the slain. Alheen and Firlosii warriors, their allies the stout folk of the distant Mountains of Ice, as well as the southern demons.

The trail of the dead led south, a hundred miles of carnage. A swath of destruction carved into the land, leading to the mountains from whence the demons spewed forth.

Deep below the ruined city a dozen figures surrounded another. They each carried their exhaustion plainly.

“Are you sure of this?”

“There is no other option. They must be kept at bay. This power must be controlled. They cannot handle it.”

“Then so be it.”

“I am sorry my friend.”

“It is the only way.”

Sorceries flared from the dozen figures, wrapping about the central figure, his body contorted with pain as he was lifted from the ground. He aged millennia over the course of mere moments. Wisps of light spiraled about the man as he was locked into a timeless prison of agony.

The others turned their backs on him. There had been no other choices. They did as they must. For themselves, for Alhu, for the world.

Othun of the Winds

 Age of the Legends
Approximately 4,000 Years Before the Emrosian Empire

 

Southern Firlos

The gathered warriors assembled near the border with Alhu. The Chieftain of the Drakniir Isles held her axe high, her commands carrying across the winds to all the warriors that followed her. This night their march would begin down through the mountain passes and into the Alheen territories to the central settlement of the Alheen tribes. As the moons waned their march would begin. And when the sky lacked the light of either moon, their battle would begin against the demons of the south.

The woman pointed her axe southward and gave a final roar. A heavy, chill wind blew from the north kicking up colorful autumn leaves in its wake. For the first time the Firlosii clans had united into a singular army against a common threat. The winds of change stirred in the south.

Massive, long horned drakniir pulled heavy wagons of supplies down winding mountain paths as the Firlosii clans began their march to the aid of the Alheen tribes. Quite possibly to the aid of the world.

*************************************

And here's a preview of the map of Firlos (unlabled, just the outline so far)

The Emperor of Ash

 The Age of Kelril
Approximately 5,000 Years Before the Emrosian Empire

 

The Eastern Lands

Rain poured over the expanse of grasslands. Thunder echoed across the land. Heavy black clouds filled the sky, blotting out the light of the moons. Lightning lit the sky above the stone walls surrounding the sprawling City of the Plains. A fire raged at its center, spreading rapidly outward. People ran about in a panic in their desperate attempt to flee.

Atop the largest tower of the city the Emperor of Ash stood, arms raised toward the sky as lightning crackled around him. Flames danced about his fingertips as he cackled maniacally. As he brought down his right hand, gouts of flame burst from the ground below. One building to the north of the city remained untouched. Within its walls, deep below the ground, awaited those of the city the Emperor deemed worthy to survive.

Those that ran through the streets below had earned his wrath. He had built this Empire on the ashes of the previous, doing so again would be but a minor inconvenience.

A lone figure walked the streets below, unhindered by the walls of flame closing in. Their pace was slow and never quickened even as flames licked at the trailing hems of a dark robe. The figure sought the charred remains of those too slow to escape the fire. A dark hand extended in a warding gesture at each corpse. And each corpse withered to dust upon the figure’s passing.

Visions (Prologue 2/2)

1095th Year of the Great Emrosian Empire
Night of the Moon of the Great Hunt (Late Summer)

The Ebon Peaks

The black, stone tower pierced the thick clouds that hung about the Ebon Peaks. Atop the tower’s flat roof, a hatch door flung open. The gaunt, dark-robed man crawled out into the bright moonlight. The moons were full, hanging low in the dark sky. The bright crimson of the Hunter shone around the edges of the Prey’s deep cerulean. The man closed the door beneath him, his white beard fluttering from his cowl in the brisk midnight breeze. He looked to the eclipsing moons, the Moon of the Great Hunt, a rare occurrence indeed. He stood at the center of the tower’s roof, staring toward the moons, arms outstretched, spectral moonlight beaming onto his pale, withered face.

He mumbled to himself, head raised to the sky, as the winds began to swirl. Faster, they continued to gain speed. Faster, swirling about the man. Faster, as they began to form a cyclone. Faster, and the man was lifted from the platform, spinning within the whirlwinds. He closed his eyes, and the visions began, flashing in rapid succession through his mind.

To the northwest, a man on his deathbed. He spun within the winds. Northeast, a boy surviving alone in the forest. His spiraling continued within the storm. Southeast, rebellion. Southwest, death, regrets, revenge, and plotting. The surge of images began to batter his mind more and more rapidly, glimpses of events from anywhere in the world, past, present, and future. Betrayal. An exodus. An old world made anew. A civilization brought to ruin. The scenes were too many, too scattered, too fast to make sense of. The seer’s head began to pound, as if he were drowning in a sea of overwhelming, incomplete bits of information. Not yet, there must be more, I must find a connection, I must make sense of this, any of this. Soldiers, flames, uprisings, a world torn asunder. Blood began to trickle from the man’s clenched eyelids, as his teeth ground at the immense pressure that weighed down on him. Where? A throne, its occupant but a silhouette. A man, crippled in torturous pain, light flowing from his body. Powers the world could neither understand nor handle, seeping away.

The seer came to a sudden halt facing westward. Slowly, the winds dissipated, the man gently lowered back to the stone platform. Eyes still held tightly shut. Tears of blood ran down his ghostly face. The visions slowed now, more concentrated. Glimpses of the past, hints at the future. There was something important in all of this. Ah, but what is it? And what is the link?

Opening his eyes, he clutched his dark, grey robes and slowly stepped forward toward the western edge of the tower. He concentrated, envisioning a dark room. Within, a round wooden table surrounded by eleven high-backed chairs. A moment’s hesitation and the old man stepped forward off the edge of the tower, plummeting into the mass of clouds towards the rugged mountain below. The black clouds engulfed him.

A Job's End (Prologue 1/2)

***Below is the first half of the prologue to Stone & Shield: Tales from the Emrosian Empire: Book I

Prologue

1095th Year of the Great Emrosian Empire
Summer Solstice

Breshk

He felt the wind brush along his ear as the arrow flew past. He tried to slow his charge but his momentum was too great; the toe of his boot caught the rough, packed sand, spinning him off balance. With a crack, his knee struck the ground, pain shooting through his leg, the iron platelets scaling his leather cuirass clattering. Another arrow whizzed over his head as his left hand hit the ground and he shoved himself back to his feet, his forward momentum slowed, but not stopped, his charge continued. In mere moments he was upon the archer as the man dropped his bow and scrambled for the knife at his hip. Diirg’s axe came down with a crunch into the archer’s skull. The man crumpled.

His breath was heavy, his lungs burning, as he pulled his axe free. Alongside him his comrades had already disposed of the other archers. Good. He didn’t know how much longer he could go on. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked to the others. Yahmu stepped up beside him, wiping the blade of his short sword on the tattered shirt of a fallen archer, his shield held at the ready. Diirg raked his fingers through his tangled and sweat-soaked beard as he stared ahead, squinting his eyes as he peered through the bright desert sun to the large, domed building at the city’s center.

They’d been on contract with the Empire. Baking under the summer sun. Bleeding on the desert sands. Fighting Ahnveshii rebels. This day would see the leaders of the insurrection dealt with.

A calmness settled on Breshk. Its streets emptied of civilians. Diirg’s heart continued to race as he and his comrades began toward the domed building at a slow but steady march.

“Let’s… get this shit… over with,” he panted.

“C’mon, old man. Enjoy the fun while it lasts.” Fiirla called from behind him as she caught his pace and strode ahead, black-iron great sword resting casually over one shoulder. “We finish off these last few bastards, all we’ll have left to do is march in this damned heat. And by Byrn’s cursed forge, marching through an Azalian summer isn’t my idea of a good time.”

Fiirla let out a roar and began charging toward the building. Diirg looked over to Yahmu, grinning wildly back at him. The stocky Chendese man shrugged, “There’s always more work to do.”

They joined the charge.

*

Captain Esher led his horse through the dusty streets of Breshk as the sun slowly sank behind the foothills that bordered the deserts. Faces peered through windows backlit with candlelight. The streets were empty save for the cooling bodies scattered near the town’s center. The gates of the wall surrounding the palace were battered and broken, torn from their heavy hinges and tossed aside.

The captain’s eyes scanned the bodies. The mercenaries did good work. He recognized several of their number stretched out amongst the rebels, but not many. Far less than the number of Imperial dead he had left behind in Gokras. Breshk stood as the last bastion of the rebel forces; their work here could mean an end to the wars in southern Azal.

Within the palace was mayhem. Blood pooled about the tile floor, growing sticky as it dried. Crumbled stones were scattered about, the indiscernible remains of crushed statues. Captain Esher followed the trail of wreckage toward the palace’s inner rooms. He heard voices in the distance.

The hall ended at a set of large, white double doors with fanciful handles of gold. Smeared blood drying across their faces, slashes from sword and axe marred the painted woodwork. They creaked on their hinges as Captain Esher pushed them open, scraping as they dragged over the marble floor.

A tall woman dressed in thin rags sat in a throne at the room’s center, one leg draped over the chair’s arm. In her right hand spun the hilt of a massive black-bladed sword, its point scratching into dried blood upon the marble floor beneath the dais. A man lay motionless on the floor before the throne, his fine silks matted with black blood. A smaller woman sat nearby, a green cowl hiding her face, as she disinterestedly picked at her fingernails with a knife.

On the far side of the room the wide, red-haired man and a one-handed Glassian sat against the wall passing a water skin between them. The red-haired man glanced up, catching Captain Esher’s eye. He nodded and raised the water skin in salute.

“Aye, Esher. Job well done isn’t it.” He tilted the water skin to his mouth, ale spilling into his wild beard. He wiped his face with a dirt smeared, tattooed forearm. “The Marshal should be by shortly to go over the details with you. Then we can be on our way. Back north to get paid and get our asses home.” The man slowly pushed himself to his feet, wincing as his knees straightened, one hand rubbing at his leg. “By whoever’s gods, do we need a damned break after this one.”