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.”

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.

Rite of Passage (2/2)

Hilga gathered the last of the logs Beld had brought in the previous night and set them near the central hearth. She pulled out her hand axe and began chopping thin slivers from a log, placing them on the coals. Once a reasonable amount of slivers were in place, she lay across a few larger pieces. Taking a deep breath she blew steadily on the coals, feeling the warmth of freshly born flame licking her face.

She returned the stew pot to its place over the fire, reheating the stew for the morning meal.

Her father did not expect Beld to return soon. Though, he seemed confident he would. Hilga was scared for her brother. She remained hopeful for his return, but she remembered the toils of the trial. She had only taken it herself two years prior. It was unlikely her father remembered the awful ordeal. It seemed the older a warrior was, the more they reminisced on their youth, age forcing away the truth. Blinded by the memories of so-called better times.

She opened the door, squinting in the dawn light, she glanced outside. It was warmer. There was no sign of Beld. She sighed. Soon. He would be back soon.

“Go ‘bout yer chores,” her father limped up behind her, “he won’t be back today, took you two days, gonna take him more.”

She closed the door and returned to check on the leftover stew. “He will be back though.”

“He’s a stubborn kid, that’ll see him through.” He winced as he eased himself back down into his chair, carefully lifting his broken leg back into place, and tossing his crutch aside.

 

For three days the sun shone and the air warmed. On the fourth day the temperature plummeted. The sky was grey with a coming storm, more snow to smother the hopes that were First Thaw. And Beld had yet to return.

Hilga paced around their cabin as the snow piled anew outside. Her right hand continuously scratched at the coarse threads of her canvas pants. She rubbed at her forehead with her left hand, running her fingers through her hair, tugging at handfuls. Over and over again. Hours had passed and she paced. The sun, barely visible behind the grey and black cloud coverage, disappeared entirely as the short day drew to an end. And Hilga paced. And Hilga pulled at her hair, rubbed at her forehead, scratched at her leg. And she paced.

Her stomach rolled, as much with worry as with hunger. She had not eaten in… she did not know. The storm rolled in from the north, a bad one. Beld was still in the Ice Wastes and a storm like this in the Ice Wastes… She shook her head. Don’t let yourself think on that.

Damn the gods! She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t continue to pace. She had to find him.

Hilga stormed through the cabin as if the blizzard torn through the door. Digging through a scattering of possessions near her straw bed, she found her pack and began stuffing it with blankets. She pulled her heavy cloak over her shoulders and grabbed her sword belt.

“You know you can’t do that.” Her father was at the door, leaning on his crutch, his face flush with the effort. “He must do this on his own.”

She glared at him. She knew the restrictions of the rites. She didn’t care. She had lost one brother already and would not lose another.

“He will return.”

Hilga stood for a moment, sword in hand, pack slung over her shoulder. Her father’s eyes softened, and he shifted his weight on his crutch, reaching out a hand and taking her shoulder.

“He will return,” he repeated.

She nodded her head and sighed. If she went and helped him, he would never earn his marks, he’d never be welcomed on the Ice Breaker raids. She let her pack drop to the floor.

The wind picked up outside, whistling over the cabin. The tall pines creaked under the weight of wind and snow. She helped her father back to his chair before stoking the fire. Her stomach continued to churn. She needed to eat. It would help no one to let worry eat a hole in her stomach, it would help no one to starve. Better to put on some dinner, if Beld returned he would need to eat as well. Hilga hoped the chore would be able to distract her, if only briefly.

Despite the storm First Thaw was only days away. If Beld did not return in time, he’s not be able to finish his rites until the following. While Hilga’s concern rested solely on his well-being, she knew he’d be torn apart if he returned too late. He’d awaited this day for a long time.

Dinner made and set beside the hearth, Hilga sat next to the door, picking off bits of bread and listening. Time and again she’d crack the door, peering out into the darkness of the storm. Time and again she’d gaze out to only find a fury of snow squalling along a canvas of blackness.

Her eyes began to drift closed as she leaned back in her chair beside the door. Faint sounds, whispers at the edge of her perception, causing her to jump back to awareness until her eyes began to slowly close, beginning the cycle of near sleep again. Another whisper. Another jump. She slipped and fell from the rickety wooden chair. Her elbow cracked against the floorboards. This is ridiculous. She needed to sleep, her mind was playing tricks on her.

The door swung open, creaking on its hinges. The wind swirled, blowing snow into the house, a pile building up on the floor. She struggled to push it back closed fighting the wind the whole way. A hand pushed through. Hilga jumped back taking in a surprised breath. The door hung open and she stared at the figure standing in the doorway, wreathed in darkness.

His face was pale. Paler than any she had seen. His skin seemed almost translucent; it had taken on a blueish hue. His jaw chattered. His hands were caked in dried, black blood. The bloody, matted fur of a giant ice bear was draped over him, streaks of frozen blood lined his face. He was nearly unrecognizable.

“Brother!”

He stepped in, a distant look in his pale eyes. He was hesitant as she raised her arms to him. Finally, he fell into her. They wrapped each other in a tight embrace as she drew him in towards the hearth.

Rite of Passage (1/2)

***This is the first in a series of stories I'm writing, specifically for this blog. The story of Beld One-Hand, who later goes on to become a mercenary amongst the Stone & Shield. This is an ongoing saga that will be added to this blog periodically and does not have a written end yet.***

Rite of Passage

1044^th Year of the Great Emrosian Empire
End of Frostbern nearing the First Thaw

 

The Isles of Glass

Beld grunted as his axe arced downward. His shoulders and forearms ached, still sore from his work in his father’s forge before. Sweat dripped down his face despite the brisk air. He tossed his axe aside, rubbing his calloused hands together, blowing warmth into them, before gathering the pile of freshly split logs.

He trudged down the muddy path cut out of the deep, melting snows. He shouldered open the front door and stumbled into his family home, nearly dropping his armload of firewood.

The warmth of the fire, burning at the center of the room, hit his face. It stung as his skin adjusted from such frigid cold to fiery warmth so suddenly, his face itched, his fingers tingled. He dumped his load of firewood into a large, curved, wrought iron rack near the fire pit, taking a moment to lift the lid of the large cauldron hanging from the spit over the flames. He breathed deep the steamy aroma of stewed mutton.

“Beld, get in here,” his father’s gruff voice called from the back room.

He slammed the lid back on the cauldron, his stomach growling in protest. He pulled off his heavy cloak of bear hide, hanging it on the wall, taking his time, he had done enough chores for today, he didn’t know what his father would have in store next.

Beld stepped into the back room. Before him, his father sat, splinted leg stretched out, crutch leaning against the wall beside his chair. His older sister Hilga stood beside him, tall and stern faced, much like their father’s. Long blonde hair hung in braids over a chainmail hauberk. The sword that had once been their father’s and their elder brother’s after him was belted at her hip.

A man Beld did not know stood at the center of the room. His long beard in three braids, pulled through iron rings. He stood at rigid attention hands clasped behind his back. The swirling blue tattoo work of the Ice Breaker Clan marked the side of his face.

Beld looked back to Hilga, to the chainmail, to the sword, to her grim, tattooed face. What’s going on?

The unknown man stepped forward, grabbing Beld’s wrists, looking at his calloused hands. “It is his time,” he said, “prepare him for First Thaw, we go south with the warmth.”

The man dropped Beld’s arms and walked away, not another word said.

It is his time. Beld’s heart raced, he looked at his hands. Hands that had split firewood. That had skinned the deer his father brought back from hunts. Hands that aided in the smithy, hammering away at iron.

Hilga helped their father to his feet and handed him his crutch. “Outside,” their father commanded before hobbling out. Hilga followed behind.

Beld hurried behind. He had awaited this day since he could first grasp its meaning. A nervous mixture of fear and excitement rushed through his body. He could feel his hands trembling. His father and sister stood in the doorway, door swung open, cold air rushing into the warm house. He passed the stew hanging over the fire, his hunger forgotten, anticipation of his rites dominating his thoughts.

He reached for his bear hide cloak.

“Leave it,” his father said.

Hilga shook her head at him.

He knew what was coming, he would be allowed no comforts this night. His excitement made him forgetful.

They left the path, Hilga and their father in their sled, drawn by the family’s dog pack, Beld trudging through knee deep snow, following closely behind. Beld’s breath came out in a great plume, his jaw already beginning to chatter. In the south of the Glassian Isles the days would be growing warmer, in a matter of days, with the First Thaw spring would begin. Further north where the Ice Breaker Clan made their home, near to the Ice Wastes, the snows would remain for weeks to come.

The moons lit the outlines of thick clouds in the night sky. The snows had begun to fall again as they continued northward, blanketing the tracks they had made.

Ahead, a great cliff of ice towered above them. Moonlight glimmered on the sheer cliff face, the ice clear as glass.

Beld’s father pulled a belt-wrapped warhammer from his sled. A grisly weapon, one Beld had helped to make. Its handle wrapped in blue-stained leather, opposite its crude iron head, a curved spike protruded. He dropped it at Beld’s feet. Next, Hilga removed her pack, upending it, unloading its contents before Beld. Hooked iron blades with leather wrapped handles fell to the snow, along with two sets of spikes with leather straps. A small hunting knife and a tinder box.

Beld shivered as he strapped the spikes to his boots. He looked to his family, his father nodded his head once, his crystal blue eyes holding Beld’s for a moment before he hobbled back to their sled.

Hilga gripped Beld’s forearm and pulled him in close, her arm wrapping around him tightly. The brief, albeit minimal, warmth was welcome. “Return home, little brother,” she whispered into his ear. “You can succeed in this, and when you return and receive your marking ritual, we shall venture to the shores of the Empire and earn fortune and glory.”

He felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, for a moment he almost forgot the freezing weather. He watched as the sled was pulled away, back toward their house.

He turned to face the wall of ice gripping the iron hooks tightly. He tilted his head back to look to its top.

 

He plunged the picks into the ice, again and again, slowly, painfully, dragging himself toward the top of the cliff. He reached a ledge, jutting from the cliff face, he flopped himself down upon it, breathing heavily. He lay there, using what felt like the last of his strength to rub the ache away from his forearms. He didn’t know if he could go on.

He crawled to the edge of the ice ledge, risking a glance down. He had come so far, he could not give up now. He had awaited this day, he’d prove himself worthy of his naming, of the rites. He’d make Hilga and their father proud. He rolled over onto his back, breathing slow and deep, telling himself over and over again, that the cold wasn’t so bad. Ignoring the pain in his toes and his fingertips.

This was only the beginning of the trial, reaching the top of the cliff. Once atop the ice cliff he’d continue on through the Ice Wastes. He had heard of many children that never returned from the journey, said to be frozen, statuesque in the Wastes to stand vigil and watch over those yet to make the journey.

He hadn’t rested long when his body began to shake and he shivered violently. Sitting up and shaking warmth back into his hands, he realized he must keep moving. He was near enough to the top, he could do this. As before, one hand over the other, he’d climb his way.

Finally, he reached with his right hand, hammering the pick into the top of the ice cliff. He kicked his boot spikes in and pushed himself to the surface. His lungs felt as though he had breathed fire, his chest heaved. But, he could not rest, he must keep going. Nothing grew in the Wastes, he’d no chance to start a fire. He’d need to continue to move for warmth.

Beld knew he would not be alone in the Wastes. Stories filled his mind, tales he had been told since he could remember, of the beasts that stalked the wastes. Of the great white bears twice the size of their kin to the south. The massive, spike-toothed cats. But the monstrous animals were not the only concerns, the Wastes were the vast expanse where the spirits and the gods converged, where the living world met the spirit realm.

Beld’s eyes danced about, darting left and right, scanning vast flatness of the horizon. Fear sent chills up and down his spine. His stomach rumbled, his entire body ached, his eyelids drooped. He wanted to eat, he wanted to lay near the fire, he wanted to sleep. He wanted to go home. Without this accomplishment he’d never be able to join Hilga on the raids to the Empire. He’d never be able to help her learn what became of their elder brother. But, how he longed to be home. He remembered the smell of the stew. He wanted to cry.

He saw a figure standing tall in the vast expanse. He paused, controlling and quieting his breath, and he listened. The wind whistled around him, all else was silent. The snow had ceased. The moons shone brightly through partial cloud cover. He was alone, he felt utterly alone, yet his eyes remained on the figure.

Slowly, he walked toward the silhouette, pulling the warhammer from his belt, feeling its weight in his hand, gripping its leather-bound handle tightly for reassurance. He neared the figure, stepping around quietly, carefully. The moonlight glistened on the form and Beld saw eyes. He froze. He felt as if his heart had stopped. Trembling, he took a step back.

The form had not moved. Beld’s eyes did not stray. He searched the figure’s eyes, a look of fear. Of horror. Of Sorrow. He felt a tear begin to drip down his face, freezing solid below his eye. He shook his head. He must continue on lest he suffer the same fate.

Leaving behind the poor child that had come before him, he continued northward. There would be no turning back, he would not survive the return, he needed to press forward, he needed warmth, and food.

He felt as much as he heard the low, rumbling growl. This was it. Were he to die now it would at least be a quick death, he’d not suffer to slowly freeze on the Wastes. On this, his twelfth winter, he’d either leave his spirit to wander the Wastes, or return home prepared to take his rites and become a proud warrior of the Ice Breaker Clan.

He gripped his warhammer tight in his right hand and turned slowly, legs bent, ready. Waiting.

The Knife (3/3)

Part III

Rot’s End came into view. A grin spread across Tarel’s face. Here, the faces that haunted his dreams would not find him. Malrek’s influence had not reached north into the Ruins. Rot’s End held its independence and would not give in to the crooked lord’s rule, regardless of his desires. Here, he could find some solace, even if only briefly.

His hand went to his pocket, feeling the parchment within.

For fifteen years he had killed for the crooked Lord Malrek. He would no longer. With the last name crossed off from this list his debts were paid. His heart beat loudly against his chest, his breathing grew shallow at the thought of freedom, a tear rolled down his cheek. Freedom? The killing weighed heavily on him. Drinking helped at times. But, drinking also led to poor decisions. Poor decisions led to debt.

He never sent his earnings to his family. It was too late now. His debts had cost him dearly. Only now would he crawl out from the beneath burden of those decisions. He’d never return to Chende again. He’d no longer live in fear of Malrek’s hunters tracking him down.

He reached Madam Delena’s Wayhouse, the three-story log inn, the largest building in Rot’s End. He let loose a sigh and chuckled. I finally made it. Taking a deep breath, he shoved open the double doors and stepped inside. Thick smoke wafted his face, pungent sweet smoke from pipes of tobacco or Gods’ Leaf and the spiced aromas of incense. His eyes watered, but his smile widened. He headed straight for the bar.

“What’ll it be?” the elderly barkeep asked.

Tarel felt at his pouch of coin, “Dark ale, friend.”

A woman walked out from the back room wearing a long, flowing red dress, decorated with black lace. Her long, blonde hair was gathered and tied above her head. She glanced toward Tarel and grinned. She walked calmly through the crowd, her head held high, pausing briefly to greet other guests.

“Sir, think this is for you.”

Tarel turned to see an emaciated child behind him, holding out a fold of parchment, sealed with green wax, a serpent’s visage stamped within. He accepted it and gave the boy a silver slat; he was feeling generous. He felt a calm serenity ease over him as he prepared to read the letter of his release.

“It’s good to see you, Tarel.” Madam Delena said as she reached the assassin.

He grinned, “Always a pleasure ma’am.”

“Buy your freedom yet?”

Tarel raised the letter in his hand and nodded, “Right here.” 

He quickly broke the seal and unfolded it. His heart raced. His eyes scanned the short lines of fine script. His throat constricted. A numbness engulfed him. The parchment slipped from his fingers.

He looked into Delena’s eyes. The sounds around him were muffled, the beat of his heart seeming to echo within his ears. His body shook as he rose from his stool. He shook his head.

“I need to return to Chende,” he said, his voice low and cracking.

Madam Delena looked down toward the parchment on the floor, at the new list with her name at its top.

Tarel turned and left, his ale unfinished.

 

*

 

Tarel Ydani had a long walk ahead of him. His past flashed through his mind. The possibilities of his future gone. One path remained. He rested his hand on the hilt of his father’s knife staring toward the southern horizon. No, only one path ever existed. He was going home. And Chende would be forever changed when he arrived.

The Knife (2/3)

Part II

*

He was a tall, broad-shouldered boy of fourteen when he found himself stumbling from the small, thatch roofed cottage onto the muddy streets of Chende. Blood dripped from the antler-hilted knife in his hand. Tears dripped from his dark eyes. Behind him his mother screamed in horror. He couldn’t stay, but he had done what he needed. He ended the bastard’s reign of brutality.

The boy looked toward the center of the city, where the muddy paths gradually made their way to cobbled streets. Toward the keep of Lord Malrek. He’d work his way into the upper city, he’d work hard, he’d save money. He’d see to it his family was provided for.

He went off as dusk drew near. Still holding tight his father’s knife. He had no skills but had muscle. Would grunt labor pay well enough? He looked to the knife in his still bloody hand.

 

*

 

Tarel Ydani awoke with a start. He rummaged through his pack and withdrew the carcass of a rabbit, roasted the previous morning. He grabbed his father’s knife and began cutting strips from it. The meat prepared, he gathered some small, dry sticks he had brought with him and threw them atop the coals before taking a deep breath and blowing on them. The coals blossomed back to life, flames licking the kindling. He blew again. Slowly, he brought the fire back.

After his breakfast he scattered the fire, stomping out flames. He began back through the tunneling hallways, heading, to the best of his knowledge, southward. He hadn’t had these ruins memorized. He knew easily enough how to find them and how to gain entry. However, once inside, it was a maze, he relied solely on instinct and common sense. Finding one’s way back above ground was simple enough, following a particular path was another story.

As he journeyed down the winding pathways his mind wandered as it was wont to do. The memories of his decline haunting him still in his waking moments as they did in his slumber. After he killed his father, he never saw the rest of his family again. Chende was a cruel place, a sprawling city of mud nestled within the massive rainforest of northern Azal. The city functioned within its own set of laws, largely unhindered by the Emrosian Empire. He never did find honest work and had to survive by that damned knife. Thieving for small gangs, lucky to never be caught, never to lose a finger, or more.

Life as a mere thief provided little. What he stole was given mostly to those in charge of the gangs, often leaving Tarel with little more than a small allotment of food. Such a life was not for him, his aims were set higher.

At last, he emerged onto the vast eastern plains of the Ruins once more, in the far west he could see the peaks of the Seaguard Mountains. He smiled weakly and continued southward. He looked forward to returning to Rot’s End. The small town wasn’t much, but he had always felt welcomed there, something he could not say of many places. Upon his arrival, he’d go directly to Madam Delena’s Wayhouse, relax, and drink some ale.

Relax. That wasn’t a thought that crossed his mind often.

 

*

 

The young thief slipped beneath a merchant cart, sliding through rain and mud. He sprung back to his feet, turning down an alley. His fingers were wrapped tightly around a coin pouch. People were shouting behind him. Boots clomped and sloshed down the muddy street. Garbage was heaped up at the far end of the alley. He rushed for the pile, diving in and burrowing down.

He slowed his breath wrinkling his nose at the pungent stench of rot and filth. The sounds of the Low Market were muffled inside his cave of rubbish. Drops of rain pattered overhead. His heart was racing. He heard no movement. How long must he wait? He pressed his face into the crook of his elbow, to silence his breathing and in desperate attempt to filter the eye-watering odor.

Calm began to settle in. He had to have lost them, or they would have nabbed him by now. He began to ease his way from beneath the pile, moving slowly, quietly. He created an opening to peer through.

A hand gripped his cloak and yanked him from the filth.

The man was dressed in fine silk robes, the hem spattered with mud from the unpaved streets of the Low Market. His brow was furrowed as he looked into Tarel’s eyes. In the distance, a large figure observed, wrapped up in a dark cloak, his face hidden within the shadows of his hood.

Tarel knew the merchant would have him brought to the Blades of Honor, the guards of Chende, the crooked Lord Malrek’s goons. He knew he’d lose his first finger. He knew he’d not eat for several days without the purse he’d stolen. Unacceptable.

His right hand struck out. His father’s knife plunged into the merchant’s throat. The merchant’s eyes flashed wide before he dropped to the ground, releasing his grip on Tarel. Warm blood flowed over his hand. Images. Memories of his father flashed before his eyes.

“Well done, lad.” A hollow voice came from the cloaked figure. “Stealing isn’t your trade. Come, there’s another path for you.”

The Knife (1/3)

Here is the my first post. I've divided this story into three parts. I believe I will generally keep posts between 500-1000 words. The other two parts will be posted over the next two weeks, on Mondays (so the June 1st for part 2 and June 8th for the conclusion).

This story takes place before the novel, and centers around a minor side character that makes an appearance in the novel.

The Knife

1091^st Year of the Great Emrosian Empire
Spring’s Dawn

 

The Ruins

Tarel Ydani gazed down at the fat, bald man as he cleaned the blood from his knife. Silence settled on the plain as the man shuddered his last breath. Tarel sheathed his knife and turned from the corpse at his feet. Few travelled the Ruins, outside of the scattering of rundown towns. Coyotes and crows would likely dispose of the mess before anyone discovered it. It didn’t matter though; he’d be long gone.

He took a deep breath of the cool night air as he removed a piece of parchment from a pocket. He crossed off the last name with a nub of charcoal and tucked it away. He sighed, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, ready to put this ordeal behind him. Rot’s End was a long walk south. Toward the southern horizon a tower loomed above a relatively flat countryside. Collecting his belongings, he began walking at a brisk pace.

As he reached the ruined tower, he could already hear the cackling of coyotes in the distance as they closed in on the dead merchant. He guided his way with a hooded lantern, seeking an opening into the tower that would lead him into the network of a once vast, ancient city below ground. Once, these stone structures were likely interconnected throughout this land. Now, several lay in ruin, marked by the occasional tower or section of wall, still intact above ground.

None knew the truth behind these underground fortresses. Tarel believed few even knew of their existence. The legends of the Ruins mostly pertained to the crumbling towers and keeps seen from the plains. The cursed cities of some ancient fallen empire, they called them. The few that traveled these lands gave the ancient stone structures a wide berth. Only those desperate enough risked venturing within seeking shelter when caught out in a storm, or in the vain hopes of discovering riches that likely never existed. Tarel had learned of these sprawling underground mazes at a young age. He never spoke of his discovery.

His lantern illuminated a crack in the stonework, near the ground, just wide enough for him to squeeze through. He removed his pack and lowered himself to the opening. His hand shook as he reached the lantern within. It had been a long day. The light shone on spiraling stone stairs leading down the tower, deep underground. He eased his way within, dragging his possessions along behind him, through the narrow opening.

He wandered the meandering corridors until he found a room to his liking. He settled into the room, deep within the catacombs of the city. A wooden door, in solid enough condition that seemed impossible of its unknown centuries, was set in the center of the southern wall, several slots carved into the wall above. He gathered a scattering of broken, wooden furniture to the center of the room and removed the tinder box from his pack. Once lit, smoke curled from the small fire, forming a thin layer below the ceiling and gradually drifting out above the doorway.

He pulled his knife from its sheath. Sitting in front of the small fire, he spun the blade in his hand, examining it. It was the knife his father left him. Well, that was one way of putting it. Many regrets swarmed his mind, but that had not been one. The man was an awful bastard; he got what he had coming. When Tarel closed his mind to the world around him, he could still hear the screams of his mother and brother. He shuddered. He could see his father’s face, bloodied and beaten, moments before Tarel brought that same knife down on him. That was the beginning and the end. The moment that began his spiral down the path to where he now found himself.

He pressed and massaged at the tightness in his calves before he stretched out on the floor, his eyes drooping until it was a struggle to keep them open. He’d sleep within the cavernous ruins this night and continue to Rot’s End at dawn. With any luck he would make contact with one of Lord Malrek’s agents there. He had no desire to travel any further and hoped to never step foot in the city of Chende again. With this contract fulfilled he’d buy the freedom he’d lost to the Lord of Chende.