Nirenia

By Grant Costello

A MAN WITH THE POWER OF THE GODS
From within the dungeons of a ruthless tyrant, they won their freedom. Now the battered and weary Nirenese are returning home, with a tale upon their lips, and enemies hot on their heels. In the defiant city of Crayethon, Nirenia’s surviving bastion of hope, Nathiel has come for the last remaining member of the Burdensong - a sect that had, for centuries, safeguarded the means in which to restore his lost memories. But upon arrival, as fires burn and arrows fall, Nathiel will learn that his struggles have only just begun.

THE WOMAN WHO WANTS HIS POWER
Sorisia, emboldened by ambitions of glory and strength, has journeyed to Nirenia at the head of a vast army of Storm Archers. Yet in her bloodthirsty hunt for Nathiel, she will discover that her heart has mysteries of its own, and that the most horrific sacrifices always come unbidden. When champions converge to wager their very lives, and destinies are forged in the thrust of a blade, Nathiel will race against time in search of a woman holding the last and final keys to his past, as well as the future of a nation that depends upon his return.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grant Costello
• Release date: Dec 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9780987466310

Grant Costello

Grant Edward Costello was born in Western Australia (1980), before moving to Queensland where he began his education in Bundaberg. Avidly fascinated with all things otherworldly and make-believe, film and literature was a mainstay throughout his earlier years, and art quickly became the output for a growing wealth of inspiration and blossoming ideas. In the closing months of Grant's schooling, he put the paintbrush down in favour of literature, for within the written word he found a limitless playground, one where he could expand from static imagery to a broader medium of expression.Grant's first story took the form of 'Aconite', a screenplay script that was faithfully recreated into a comic book format, and was then depicted in a short film at the Morningside Institute of TAFE. Grant's second project; 'Winter Realm', was his first ever novel, and it was a young adult science fiction/fantasy that was a collaboration of genres mixed into a post-apocalyptic epic. During the writing of 'Winter Realm', Grant experienced his first taste of Fantasy and its limitless potential. Hence came 'The Demonthrone', a story that was sadly never completed, mainly due to the emergence of a more vivid and ambitious idea, one involving deeper characters, fast-paced action sequences, and a narrative that contained a strong socialism theme, and also dealt with issues like autocracy and prejudice. That story was 'Brokentide'; a bold first chapter in the upcoming 'Legend of Shadows' series. With a passion for Fantasy driving his every written word, Grant's ultimate desire is to contribute something truly original and noteworthy to the world of storytelling.

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SMASHWORDS EDITION

ISBN: 978-0-9874663-1-0

© 2012 Copyright Grant Costello. All rights reserved.

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DISCLAIMER

The early modern English used by the character; Arch Empress Lailgora, is not an accurate representation of Shakespearian dialogue. Lailgora’s use of certain words is purely to give an added dynamic to the character, and was never meant to follow the grammatical rules of early modern English.

PROLOGUE

BITTER TASTE

Silence was not something that normally bothered Arch Empress Lailgora, yet never before had it implied accusation and malcontent like it did now. Today, her ministers were hushed, which was very telling for a gathering that rarely ever kept their mouths shut. Now, however, their muted breaths were passed between dry lips, and for some, those breaths were held for fear of its delayed return.

The dust permeating the air speckled as light from the room's open panes struck it, revealing everything that Lailgora’s ears could not bear to register… alienation. In the hush amidst the prestigious, albeit sparse room, the ministers stood clear of their chairs, whilst eyeing every subtle - and not so subtle - movement of their sovereign. Lailgora padded into the room soundlessly like a ghost, as though innocently, but that only disturbed the ministers more. They were standing as though the chairs themselves were laced with poison and disease!

Lailgora had anticipated this, of course. This meeting was something she had dreaded, and rightfully so. The ministers' fear of her was now absolute, and it was all due to the most profoundly despicable act Lailgora had ever committed.

The previous night, neither peasant nor better-of-blood could have foreseen the horror that would find Brokentide, the crowning jewel of Lailgora’s empire of Fellenock. Lailgora had summoned a demon; a vile creature borne from the womb of chaos, and she had unleashed it upon the unsuspecting streets of Brokentide. More than a hundred citizens had died that night, and if not for the sponsored man that defeated it, perhaps a thousand more.

Indeed, her people had reason to fear her, for she, truly, feared herself.

Lailgora had come to reason that her actions had been purely focused on thwarting the escape of prisoners. Though somewhere deep down she had hoped to recapture the young Nirenese girl, Thista, as well. The girl, an unassuming genius with immense potential in the craft of runewriting, was a treasure rarely seen. Thista had revealed a talent well beyond her years, which was surely to grow in the passing of time.

On her own merit the girl was mighty, but during the night of the demon's defeat, she had not been alone. A League of the Viper markswoman had aided her… and also a man that Lailgora had come to recognize as Nathiel Maudin, an illustrious warrior thought to be long ago dead.

Regardless of anything else Nathiel Maudin had done in his lifetime, in Brokentide his deeds had justified his sponsorship tenfold. A summoned eresaug had been sent to the depths of the ocean, and Lailgora's Royal Guard Prime and military general, Ethetius, slain in fair combat. No small feat for one man, indeed.

Now, however, Lailgora felt utterly alone - alone in a nation that would now surely despise her. She'd achieved much during her years as empress, particularly in bringing the other neighboring empresses to their knees, and forging a nation that not even the invading savages of Amazonia could shake. She'd done all of it for the eyes of the gods. All of it.

With her obsidian cloak churning about her in a curiously underwater-like manner, Lailgora glided towards the table and sat down in her usual chair, and all the while she eyed the members of her council. She stared at them coldly, impatiently.

None moved to sit.

A councilor who was skulking in a corner fidgeted nervously, jittery - torn between Lailgora’s expectant look, and the perceived consequences of actually sitting down. The others just stared at Lailgora with cautious expressions - their eyes unblinking, fearful. Another councilor, elsewhere, approached his chair, but skittered away when the others did not do the same. Lailgora gritted her teeth at the ridiculous display.

Sit down you animals! she screeched.

Backsides dived for chairs, last of which was her minister for transport; Togeron Alkora. He was a dedicated bane to her patience, and a voice forever bordering on blatant treason. The man eventually sat himself down - after a moment of considering just that - and his eyes scanned Lailgora’s waif cloak for the telltale scrolls that she usually carried.

Lailgora had not equipped herself with any on this occasion, surely enough. The mere sight of them precipitated a threat, and after what she'd done the previous night with the summoning, Lailgora thought it prudent to leave them absent this day.

The real truth of their absence, however, was far less noble.

Lailgora smiled to herself, which was lost on those around her. The ministers uttered not a sound as they kept a careful eye on her, which, to this normally discordant gathering was a monumental thing. It was so unlike the norm, that the black-bearded Haustin could ill maintain the pretensions.

What be wrong with ye lot? The minister for produce threw his arms up at the others. Speak ye minds like ye here to do!

Indeed, Lailgora muttered under her breath, tap-tapping her fingernails on the stone table.

From Togeron, a profound sigh brought the room to a hushed standstill. Stares of sympathy came his way, for they expected Lailgora to simply incinerate the poor man the moment he dared utter a single word. If that was Togeron's fate, then Haustin didn't stand a chance either.

Togeron, the most pragmatic of the lot, thought an execution quite unlikely. He knew that the true power of the Arch Empress resided in the parchments she had curiously left in her quarters this day.

Pray tell, daughter of Gwynvilla, why tapestries rocked from their hooks inside my home last night, by way of a creature which none in these lands are permitted to summon, asked Togeron calmly, hardly caring for his own welfare anymore.

The Arch Empress regarded the troublesome man, which elicited a wary scratching of his handlebar moustache. To Togeron's credit, he held his stare stubbornly, emboldened by the necessity of his question.

Brokentide experienced an incident during the darkest hours of the night, Lailgora explained. She was hardly surprised by where this meeting had begun... though she was surprised by how long it had taken. Measures were needed.

Aye, and did ye succeed in felling a healthy portion o’ Brokentide’s population? Haustin spat. Ye did well with that!

The Nirenese hath escaped, councilors, Lailgora addressed to them all, putting her usually supportive bald-headed Spane at the corner of her eyes. He, too, sat in a perpetual state of silence. Ethetius was slain, and numerous royal guards lost their lives. Proof again of the threat of Nirenia.

So you resorted to an illicit practice? argued Togeron. "Infernal summoning, I believe it is called, such that cost the lives of innocents, all in the good sport of trying to slaughter Nirenese that were also innocent."

Haustin thumped a gnarled fist upon the table in support of Togeron. Have ye seen outside yer window, empress? The streets are a right bloody mess!

The other councilors murmured their agreement, growing bolder by the fact that they were all still alive.

Lailgora blanched somewhat, and brought to mind a picture of her glorious city of Brokentide. It was a thriving metropolis perched atop a segmented portion of land - land owing more to the sea now than that of its native continent. That image hit her profoundly, for Lailgora knew she had changed it, had scarred the beauty of her mother’s legacy, and, for the briefest of moments the troubled sovereign began to wonder why she had committed the atrocity in the first place. But an overwhelming presence jarred Lailgora from her thoughts, and her gracefully aged features grew darker, menacing. She balled her hands into white lumps and stood tall from her chair.

The accursed Nirenese will suffer, she growled. Their blight will be purged!

Haustin and Togeron slumped back in their chairs and shook their heads, at a loss to reason with the stubborn empress. The other ministers took a deeper seat as well when they saw the wild look in the eyes of Lailgora.

You've lost all perspective of your position, it would seem, Togeron dared to say. If you have any decency to spare you would step down from the throne.

The face of the sovereign turned vile, emitting a glower that would make even a ghost soil itself. With a slender arm, Lailgora reached down through the top slit of her cloak, past her breasts, and to a pocket concealed somewhere below. From that hidden place, Lailgora procured a thin rod of polished wood - an unremarkable object save for the apparent and unknown ramifications the empress was trying to convey.

She placed it on the table before her.

The gathered audience stared at it, having little clue as to what the thing was.

I need no scrolls now to destroy thee, Lailgora clarified, looking at her subjects dangerously. Take comfort that I spare thy disloyalty, though I will not be so merciful should any of thee be found consorting with the enemy.

Togeron froze in his seat, his normally calm and stately features draining to a whitish hue.

Amazonians? Haustin questioned incredulously. Are ye serious?

Fool, I speaketh of something far worse. Lailgora scowled. The man known as Nathiel Maudin hath returned to the world, and with the escaped prisoners he is bound for Nirenia.

Mixed emotions rendered a colorful divergence in the council chambers, for between the gathered ministers, the immensity of this news was counterbalanced by obvious doubt. Through it all, Togeron did not move, Lailgora noticed, and more importantly, the man seemed not in the least bit surprised by Lailgora’s revelation. The Arch Empress isolated the other ministers from her focus, and brought forth her purest malice in a moment that was now just herself and Togeron.

The Nirenese escaped via our own coach company, Lailgora accused. Explain this to me, Togeron, and pray thy words smile upon thee.

The worldly Togeron feigned surprise, for he understood that the insidious empress was fast tracing the crumbs back to their source. It was moments such as these that reminded the ever-thinking man of why he had sent his family into hiding in the first place. That one act alone had reiterated the full measure of how dangerous his position as councilor had become, and of the utterly spent trust he held for the woman dominating the throne.

Doran Coaches do not discriminate by race, and all are welcome to travel in these lands, according to the coach masters! Togeron countered as confidently as he could.

And neither do they depart at hours to which even the gods sleep, replied Lailgora. Her cold voice was a chilling tone to match the pale blue of her stare. She knew that the coach master had been bought out, she just didn't know from whose hands the coins had come.

Are you implying that I arranged their escape, empress? Togeron asked, swallowing a dreaded lump that refused to dislodge itself in his throat - and all the while he wore an unconvincing mask telling that he was upset by the notion. Such is preposterous!

Is it, Togeron? Lailgora slouched back in her seat. Is it such a preposterous concept to the very man responsible for transport, and is it such a preposterous concept to a voice ever whining for fair treatment of Nirenia?

Togeron was vaguely aware that the other ministers were listening, for their deathly silence was distracting. He had no answers, of course, for the empress was unknowingly correct, and had her theory escalated to certainty, Togeron believed beyond doubt that he would now be a magic-blasted corpse. He could not even bring himself to utter lies in defense.

Worry not, Togeron, and the rest of thou sniveling ministers. Lailgora stood tall from her chair, seeming larger than her delicate proportions would otherwise permit. A full rank of Fellenock’s finest cavalry is in pursuit of Doran Coaches.

A smug grin found the face of Lailgora, and a mask of utter dread upon Togeron’s.

Nirenese earn the right to be prisoners, but only once, Lailgora promised wickedly.

CHAPTER ONE

UNFORGOTTEN TRAIL

Their vision shuddered and bounced from the rhythmic shaking of the wooden carriage, and countless cuts and bruises went untended beneath garments torn and dirtied, but to the battered and exhausted Nirenese inbound to the city of Crayethon, little of any petty discomforts actually mattered. They were returning home! Fleeing from the trials of captivity! It was a grueling escape few would have likely survived had it not been for profound intervention. But the refugees knew that they were free - a triumph won by the mighty dagger, Maudin’s Victory, and the one man in all the world who could render such a diminutive instrument so deadly.

Nathiel Maudin.

Their champion.

Inside one of the bumpy carriages of Doran Coaches, Valaria Elaneen glanced across at the sleeping form of Nathiel. She was watching his closed eyes flutter amidst peaceful dreams, and she came to wonder what such a man dreamt about in his faraway moments. She studied him intently - as she'd done for the entirety of the trip - with a mixture of pride and hope lacing every glance. Had the veteran markswoman been less emotionally stubborn, she might've realized that her distraction was personal rather than contemplative.

Heart-wise or not, Valaria realized that she was staring, and she purposefully diverted her eyes elsewhere within the cabin. She was oblivious to the fact that she was blushing profusely.

Despite the accolades the Nirenese had bestowed to Nathiel, many of them had come to recognize the valiant efforts of Valaria and Thista as well - though few might have known the groundwork sowed by Jorenis and his two unlikely allies within Brokentide itself - Hadoric and Togeron. Together, the small and vastly outnumbered band had infiltrated a palace filled with insurmountable enemies, and had rescued the Nirenese captives within the palace dungeon complex itself, who, for no greater crime than a difference of race, were to be executed in secret. No public event, and no trial. Just execution.

At the time, even the captured men and women had fought for their lives, and fought with swords and weapons none were trained to wield. But they'd been bolstered by the iconic Nathiel Maudin, and thus, they had driven onwards with zealous determination and little fear. Every last one had made it out alive, except, of course, for one.

Valaria glanced down forlornly at the wrapped body of Kalek. The boy had been a promising member of the league, but was now just a cold and lifeless corpse lying across the lap of Jorenis. Valaria's biggest regret was that she'd never spent more time getting to know the lad. Kalek had been an apprentice assassin, which, in the league compound, was a school separate from the needler division. But the League of the Viper wasn't so big that Valaria had never crossed paths with him before. Had she known him better back then, they no doubt would've been good friends. Valaria's only ties with Kalek now were his sister, who, in these troubled times, needed a friend more than ever.

Thista was sitting quietly beside her grandfather, although nothing of her hush suggested grief. Ever since the young girl’s tears had ceased their flow, Valaria had detected a seething malice boiling beneath the surface - a denial of emotions that had given the girl an edge of cruelty, and a justification for the use of the most foulest magic imaginable - infernal. During Thista's captivity, Lailgora had tutored the girl in the art of hellish runes, for reasons Valaria could only guess. It was obvious to Valaria that Thista was bottling her emotions inside, and the efforts of those around her had done little to temper the seed of darkness that was Thista’s grief.

In this, they could only place faith in the passing of time.

The two females found each other's eyes in the bumpy carriage, and Valaria offered a smile and a nod of her head. A feeble one was returned.

What was going on inside that palace? Valaria put the question to Thista. Indeed, she hadn't pestered the girl for answers since the escape, but Valaria figured that she'd given Thista enough grieving space already. What was Lailgora up to?

The young girl shrugged as though needing clarification.

We were given reason to believe that you were not alone, Thista. Information from Hadoric and Togeron suggested that more girls were taken. Surely you know something of this?

I was alone, the girl admitted with a shake of her head. What does it matter?

Obviously, Thista had never met Togeron, or the perceptive Hadoric - both of whom held grave concerns for the recent development concerning female captives. Despite the fact that Valaria had never even met the two men, it mattered little to her. Jorenis’s assessment of them was as certain as it was trusted.

Our sources were from the inside, explained Valaria, as though Thista might actually understand the significance of the claim. If Lailgora is doing the things that are said, then it could be important.

All the empress wanted to do is teach me infernal runes, Thista offered flatly.

Jorenis broke from his own contemplations, and turned his head to regard his beloved granddaughter. But did she ask you to write them, dear girl? he asked. "Was she interested in your knowledge?"

Yeah, I guess so, replied Thista’s cautious voice.

Jorenis and Valaria shared a look.

What? Thista asked, frustrated by the cryptic signals adults often passed between each other.

Jorenis ignored the girl as he frowned at Valaria. Lailgora has never been known to keep concubines, nor aides, and I hardly think she'd teach a foreign girl magic just for the sheer sake of it.

No, Valaria whispered nonchalantly as she watched the rocky landscape outside her window. But we can hardly pretend to know the woman.

Aye, those closest to her have said the same, Jorenis added. Something is amiss, girl. Little of it adds up. She can summon demons seemingly without regard for her empire, and when Nathiel confronted her, something unseen to the eye struck out at him, and hard.

Lailgora’s magic, obviously, reasoned Valaria, her eyes squinting as she surveyed the landscape beyond the carriages.

Thista shook her head vehemently from side to side. No way! The empress didn’t have a scroll ready. Impossible!

It appears Brokentide and its empress will require closer examination, Jorenis said… to a hardly listening Valaria. In due time, of course. We left too many questions unanswered, it would seem.

Valaria, having not heard a word of it, sat up and leant closer to the coach windowpane, squinting. The wind sent her hair thrashing back onto her face like a clawing, raking creature. Even that went unnoticed.

At the point where the sky and landscape met far into the distance, a faint, dusty cloud was seemingly hovering from the ground - a cloud containing a score of darker dots within.

Valaria scrambled frantically from her chair, and she stumbled into the narrow corridor between seats, inadvertently awakening Nathiel in the process.

The champion rubbed his eyes sleepily, and was oblivious to the lopsided stride of Valaria as she navigated the swaying isle towards the front of the coach.

Valaria almost tore the cabin door from its hinges as she entered the void where the front two carriages joined. From there, the markswoman reached long and wide for the handle leading into the forward cabin and, after several tries, she secured her grip on the up-and-down bobbing latch. She caught it firmly, and pried it open before leaping across the empty expanse into a carriage filled with curious Nirenese eyes.

Hooting and cheers erupted within the carriage in light of Valaria’s entry - and some of them bestowed pats on Valaria’s back as she made her way towards the front of the carriage. She was conscious of little else other than the urgency guiding her movements, and the Nirenese around her began to wonder what the young woman was up to.

The end door of the cabin opened without any argument from the wind, for it led directly into an extended section normally reserved for hired mercenaries… and, of course, luggage. Although supplies were indeed present on this journey, no mercenaries had been hired for the covert trip to Crayethon. Fortunately for Valaria, the emptiness of this section meant that she had an easy path to a ladder and hatch yonder, which was purposefully built into the roof above. And so, she dived upon the ladder and scaled upwards with all haste - two rungs at a time – and she did not even slow down when the hatch greeted her above.

She shoved it open.

Sitting outside on a padded seat, and steering the twenty-four-strong horse team, the Coach Master flinched as the trapdoor behind him flew open. A pretty female head popped up through the hole, and the man choked away his forthcoming string of curses. Females were always a pleasant diversion on long and boring trips, and to swear at them just wouldn't do.

The look upon the woman’s face, however, told the Coach Master that his boring trip might've been a favorable option. He knew that look well, for he had seen it before in the company of seasoned warriors. It always meant one thing.

Trouble, aye? asked the man.

Yes, riders coming up fast on our flank, Valaria confirmed. Can we go any faster?

Me horses can set to kick’n, don’t ye doubt, but not fast enough to be outrun’n anybody, he answered. After all, they’re the ones dragging these overloaded carriages!

Just keep pace and stay true for Crayethon, Valaria instructed. At all costs.

At me own cost! muttered the sun-weathered man. Knew I shoulda brought some heavies.

I’ll deal with the pursuit, assured Valaria, before her head disappeared back down the square hatch.

The coach master snorted at the bold claim. In truth, no one had told him who his passengers were. As far as he knew, they were just escaping Nirenese. Peasants and soft-arms one and all. He gave a hearty crack of his whip, spurring the equine group into a heightened frenzy, just for good measure.

*  *  *

With a pronounced inhale of wind, the cabin door swung open again, and the shapely black-clad Valaria threw herself back inside, sparing only enough time to reseal the hatch before she was at her belongings and tearing at strings to unbind her travel pack. Inside, she searched for her exotic crossbow Dwarven, which, due to the weapon’s size, was not a difficult task. By this time, Nathiel and Jorenis were already leaning out the window, watching the approach of Fellenock’s cavalry soldiers with grim expressions. There was no doubt about it, as chainmail armor and red and blue tabards were very telling, indeed.

Nathiel pulled his head back inside the carriage to better gauge Valaria’s intentions. I count twelve, and they're well armed.

Valaria began slipping a set of full-cast iron arrows into her quiver - setting them tightly despite possessing only a small batch. On her way back from the fight with the eresaug, she had prudently retrieved any stray shots she could find, but much of her supplies had been squandered in the futile attempt at hurting the otherworldly entity.

Well armed they might be, Valaria replied, but they have a disadvantage of range. And… if any have bows, they'll need to slow down to aim at this speed.

What do you want me to do? asked Nathiel, pondering his placement in all of this.

A kiss for luck? Valaria pouted cheekily, drawing a foul stare from Thista as the girl went about preparing scrolls. Nathiel, suddenly embarrassed, returned to the window with Jorenis, and put the two females far from his mind.

Both men blanched at the rapidly approaching horseback threat.

What did you tell the Coach Master? Jorenis yelled over the top of the wind.

Only enough to keep the man from jumping from the carriage to save his own arse, Valaria replied flatly. He will keep us moving, of that I pray.

Aye, and what is Valaria Elaneen telling herself? Jorenis asked with a raised eyebrow, for he was trying in vain to predict the woman’s intentions.

Valaria threw the sorely depleted quiver over her shoulder, and lifted her quad-pincer-shaped crossbow from its sack, hoisting it defiantly.

I’m thinking we owe it to ourselves to make it to Crayethon, she said. One dead rider at a time.

And with that, the needler twisted her body through a nearby window, and began pulling herself up towards the carriage roof - all the while suffering a blast of wind that threatened to blow her right off the back of the train. To make matters worse, the roof was of convex design, curving smoothly to either side as to direct the flow of rainfall. Valaria managed, however, to pull herself up, using the bare skin of her hands to find traction as her back legs sought purchase below. She set her feet firmly at the center of the bumping middle carriage, and the notion to stand was quickly flown as Valaria labored to remain upright. She squatted down on her knees, though even that posture was difficult to maintain.

More bumps and sways ensued, and Valaria saw clearly the enemy that had come against them - a score of horseback riders brandishing not bows, as Valaria had first assumed, but long and sturdy lances. A knowing lump grew in the back of her throat, for she could well guess the strategy these soldiers deigned to employ.

And we were so close to Crayethon, too! Valaria complained.

A snarl of defiance came next, and Valaria began loading an arrow down Dwarven’s chute. Her loading speed had increased considerably since acquiring the weapon, which was, of course, invaluable. She heaved hard on the winch, pulling the pincers back towards her in a ferociously tight locking position.

The crossbow, a gift from the flamboyant merchant, Kurtis De’Mabenis, was a rare item that had drawn much confusion as to its origins. According to Kurtis, a naval soldier had sold the weapon to an onshore trader, telling only that it was ‘Dwarven’, though every other detail pertaining to the item had vanished as it passed through numerous hands. Oddly enough, Kurtis had quickly learned that the item’s talent was to launch arrows from great distances, as opposed to the typical quarrels common to generic crossbows. Due to Dwarven’s immense range - which was enhanced by its ochre-colored Distance Lens - Kurtis had deemed the weapon more suitable for heavier full cast arrows. They were projectiles previously exclusive to small ballista and trap mechanisms.

For reasons that Kurtis had little patience for, he had experienced difficulty when trying to sell the exotic instrument. This inevitably led the wealthy man passing it into the hands of Nirenia’s most prominent needler... and perhaps the last needler remaining.

In Valaria’s hands, the Dwarven had found a welcome home, and a deadly platform in which to stretch its potential to its fullest.

With a predatory smile pervading her fair features, Valaria peered through the ochre lens - but cursed as her first target bobbed and bounced inside the reticule. Every so often, however, the coach train would encounter smoother ground, which gave the markswoman a brief moment of unhindered acquisition.

She waited patiently through several more shakes and sways, and all the while she kept Dwarven raised. Wind tore at her hair - a clean, warm freshness suggesting that Crayethon was not far away. But with each passing moment the cavalry riders were drawing closer, bearing lances capable of rendering Doran Coaches inert.

Valaria could just make out rough impressions on their faces now. She saw scowls of vengeance, and also the gait of loyal thugs fuelled by gold coins and the ruthless empress they served. They thundered forwards above a storm of hooves, hungering for their prey.

The wheels beneath the three cabins suddenly encountered level ground again, which granted a respite that Valaria could feel through her knees. A twinkle came to her eyes, and she aimed again, putting a soldier squarely in her ochre sights before tightening her hand around the release lever.

A loud clack rose above the wind as an arrow spat forth, speeding like lightening across the considerable distance, and ripping its target from his horse.

None of the other eleven soldiers bothered to slow for the tumbling, dying fellow, for they just kept rumbling onwards… ever onwards. Valaria swiftly reloaded another arrow, with her sights tracking the next closest target. The man she chose tried in vain to spur his horse into a zigzagging maneuver, but the effort only slowed his advance, putting him farther in the pack. Valaria did a quick switch to another prospect, and fired Dwarven again.

The second arrow punched deeply into a rider’s chest, and pushed through to tear past the chainmail protecting his back. The rider went limp in his saddle, and he lurched and flopped to one side before falling free of his horse.

Onwards the cavalry came.

The riders, almost upon Doran Coaches now, began fanning out in an obvious attempt to surround the much slower passenger transporter, and they turned their lances inwards to where Valaria knew they would - the wheels.

Screams of alarm erupted from within the rearmost cabin, for the Nirenese could clearly see the cavalry riders now. Valaria, likewise, began to panic, and she hastily reloaded and fired off another shot to maim her third rider. Effectively, that meant nine cavalry soldiers remained - far too many for Valaria to dispatch before their insidious lances could come to bear and end the coach train’s momentum.

Valaria put the troubling notion from her mind, and worked her nimble hands rapidly as she began preparing her next shot. But, to Valaria’s horror, the carriage bucked and swayed as it again encountered rough ground.

Unprepared for the turbulence, Valaria lost her footing and felt herself tumbling along the middle carriage, barely keeping hold of Dwarven as her body bounced and gyrated beyond control. Amidst that churning journey, the wail of Valaria was a dreadful keen, and she convinced herself that this day would be her last.

Her world was a tormented cycle of scenery and carriage, before she felt herself drop and slam against something solid.

All wind was blasted from her lungs.

*  *  *

Nathiel could clearly see the enemy now, and as the reputedly fearsome cavalry regiment drew nearer, they lifted their heavy lances from the supportive holding cups built into their saddles, and spurred their horses faster with deadly purpose. With perfect synchronization and form, they positioned the long poles horizontally under their armpits, and brought the points to bear towards the rearmost wheels.

Nathiel began to suspect what they intended, and also the unlikelihood of Valaria dealing with them before serious harm was done to the three carriages. He felt totally useless whilst confined to the middle cabin, and his mind began searching for ideas. What good was a champion if he couldn't do anything?

Nathiel's dilemma was shared by Jorenis, and the old man tightened his grip around the wrapped remains of Kalek. He, likewise, could do little to aid in the defense of the carriages. His granddaughter was an entirely different matter though. With several parchments scattered around her, the girl was an obvious paradox to her age group. Regardless her small years, Thista had attained incredible proficiency in the art of runewriting, though it had come at a price. She had forsaken much of the joys of youth in exchange for the talents she now possessed. Few in number were her friends of similar age, and few, too, were any happy memories away from heavy tomes and heavier words.

To Nirenia, a province sorely deficient in practitioners of the arcane, Thista was a supreme asset, indeed. Despite the urgings of her parents to play and have fun, Thista's spare time had been anything but... at her own choosing.

They're upon us, Nathiel cried out. He was pacing back and forth in the isle between seats, and the small number of Nirenese inside the cabin could only stare at him and wonder. I could've fought them myself had we stopped.

Every one of them, champion? Jorenis argued. Could you have defeated them all before lives were lost on our side?

With a resigned nod of his head, Nathiel accepted the logic, though he was hardly at ease. He could hear the Nirenese in the rearmost carriage clearly now, as their cries of alarm rose like an urgent chorus, and some were distinctly calling the name of Nathiel Maudin, thinking that their champion would save them.

For Nathiel, frustration dug deep its claws, as he could do nothing to answer their pleas.

Just get to casting, Jorenis bade Thista, we’ve run leery of time.

With a vehement sigh that carried a little too much emphasis on 'if I must', Thista lifted herself from the chair. She positioned herself at the cabin window with a clear view of the cavalry, and began calculating the best way to approach the situation.

The wind attempted to steal her parchments, but Thista’s slender fingers proved more stubborn. She rolled a page out so that it was relatively flat - as flat as could be managed in the wind - and her stick of charcoal flashed back and forth to mark several lines, rendering the finishing touches to a pre-drawn runeset.

A brief, dazzling flash tore the paper from the girl’s hands, and disintegrated as it brought forth a number of perfect spheres of water. Those spheres then elongated into shards of frozen ice, with sharp points adorning each end. At the will of the caster, the projectiles sped towards their human targets - most of which encountered unyielding chainmail, thus shattering harmlessly. Some of the shards went astray, however, and anguished whinnies from two horses foretold of where the projectiles had gone.

I got two, announced Thista, her tone devoid of emotion as she watched the dying mounts spill their riders onto the rocky ground, killing both in the process.

Keep at it, instructed Jorenis.

The old man was about to say more, but a sickening crunch, followed by a violent shudder, coursed along the coach train, foretelling that one of its wheels was no more. Screams of fright erupted from the first and third cabins, and those in the second just eyed Nathiel pleadingly.

A growl escaped the lips of Jorenis, and the ex-councilor reached for the Voicetravel Ring on his finger – a ring that was a gift from his merchant friend, Kurtis. Upon that one touch, the two sister rings worn by Nathiel and Valaria were connected audibly, thus they could all communicate with each other.

Valaria, what goes on out there? Jorenis asked.

Silence answered.

Valaria! he beckoned, but to no avail.

Nathiel felt his gut tighten into a knot, and with little comprehension of his own actions he threw himself through the window and latched onto the rooftop’s edge. With a gift-propelled swing, he flipped himself up and over in a move that had him standing atop the carriage in an instant. A torrent of wind threatened to blast him back towards the third carriage, but the champion held himself firm with the gift. It was a paradox of physics that quickly aroused the notice – and disbelief - of the Fellenock cavalry.

To Nathiel’s absolute horror, he was alone atop Doran Coaches.

Valaria! he screamed against the wind, a pitiful sound, his heart reeling as the apparent truth sunk in…yet… he felt something else nearby in his mind. He sensed something between the second and rearmost cabins, a weight that shouldn't have been there, suggesting at something humanoid in proportions. Nathiel was there in the blink of an eye - hastened not by the gift, but by simply letting the wind work its will against his body.

Hanging barely conscious between the gap where the carriages joined was Valaria, holding on with the last of her fleeting strength. Her hand was choking the handle of Dwarven reflexively, and oblivious to the fact that she was doing so. The crossbow itself was snagged by a jut protruding just below the lip of the cabin roof, and it was a tenuous hold made all the more uncertain by the constant shake and sway of the carriage.

Valaria! Nathiel cried with relief, eliciting a flitter from Valaria’s half-open eyelids.

Nathiel leant down past the edge and took hold of her arm, and spared only a brief glance sideways as another burst of magic flashed by. Nathiel thought that it looked like a fiery net as it sped towards a rider astride the rear cabin.

Without a doubt, Nathiel was aware that there were riders on both sides of the rear cabin. Each one was gaining speed whilst positioning a lance to intercept the cabin wheels, and this was a story told by the increasing sound of their hooves.

When Nathiel returned his view to Valaria, he found that she was blinking away her disorientation, and forcing her mind back to the moments leading up to her predicament. Soon enough, those aqua eyes connected with Nathiel’s, and it was a pure and meaningful look of recognition.

Nathiel took Valaria’s other hand and guided it upwards towards something to grab onto, and the struggling woman latched onto the lip of the rooftop securely. Nathiel, then, heard the thundering cavalry draw uncomfortably close to the rear cabin again, and he had to abandon Valaria momentarily. The champion sprinted across the rooftop with little apparent effort, and he came to a halt to view the remaining six cavalry riders.

The Fellenock men were attempting, with obvious difficulty, to align their lances sideways whilst controlling their horses at high speeds. Normally this wouldn't have been a problem for the experienced group, but they were in Nirenia now, and abundant were the rocks, and wild was the whim of the terrain. The riders would find their mark soon enough, though. The loss of one cabin wheel had proven only a minor inconvenience thus far, but a second wheel destroyed might well throw the carriage ajar, to ultimately disastrous results.

The landscape of Nirenia flashed all around Nathiel, and its lush greenery and rocky smattering quickly gave birth to the red soils surrounding the area of Crayethon. Nathiel might've enjoyed the view more had he not been atop a speeding coach train moments from catastrophe - and he might've enjoyed the realization that the scenery was indeed his homeland, had he not detected a faraway scent of smoke in his nostrils.

There was no time to consider that now, though. As he pushed the thought to the back of his mind, he stood high atop the carriage - boldly – with his black, braided ponytail writhing like a snake in the wind.

A fiercely determined soldier bore closer towards a wheel despite Nathiel’s threatening glower, and he was the only rider who presently had his lance under control. The weapon was well and truly poised to enter the wooden spokes to smash them apart.

The cavalry rider roared, and charged towards the wheel.

Nathiel roared louder.

He dived from the carriage roof and flew towards the soldier, in what would’ve otherwise been a suicidal stunt to a normal human. Out came Maudin’s Victory mid-flight, sending the sun’s rays ricocheting off the mithral blade as it drew a savage arc across the rider’s lance. The cut made no sound, and was not felt in the horseman’s arms, for the thin dagger of Nirenia’s champion was imbued with runes fashioned by the gods themselves - a mighty weapon that had passed right through the lance as though it were nothing but air.

Nathiel decelerated his reality, and landed in a furious sprint astride the horseman. He ducked reflexively as the severed half of the lance spun past his head and clipped a rider trailing behind.

To the amazement of the remaining cavalry and the Nirenese eyes peering from within Doran Coaches, Nathiel kept pace with the carriages and its cavalry pursuit. It was a seemingly impossible feat that was fast leeching his stamina, and Nathiel knew that within moments his link to the godly power would begin to cripple him.

Tossing aside the ruined lance, the horseman unsheathed his broadsword - his last available weapon - and began chopping clumsily down at the unnaturally accelerated Nathiel Maudin. The broadsword was intercepted by victory, and thus, it fell to pieces.

The cavalry rider spent a moment eyeing the hilt of his ruined sword … and then he was suddenly not there, and his horse galloping without rider. Nathiel turned and gave Valaria a knowing smile as she reloaded Dwarven above the rear carriage, though at Nathiel’s speed her eyes would've seen only a brief blur from his mouth.

Fatigue then began stealing the light from the edges of Nathiel’s vision, and his legs felt a strain that had not been there previously. By now, the sponsored of Phorin and Brevon could measure his abilities accurately, and he knew that he had but mere heartbeats before the Divine Gift would overwhelm him.

With a flick of an ankle, he departed the rough ground, leaping upwards to land firmly in the saddle of the unmanned horse. Nathiel released the gift and felt a sudden rush of wind, and his legs and arms tightened around the horse, simply to hold on.

But Nathiel’s world was now an up-and-down ride of bouncing, galloping turbulence, and the otherwise spectacular champion now fought, with little grace, to remain seated in the saddle. He had no clue as to how to ride a horse, and if he had ever been a rider centuries ago, little of any such aptitude came to his desperate call now.

On instinct alone, Nathiel clenched his legs tighter around the animal, thinking to strengthen his position upon the speeding mount, but the effort only resulted in a violent shuddering of his vision, and a barely contained chatter from his teeth. Even the horse itself whinnied a derisive snort, or so Nathiel believed.

With a sigh, Nathiel gave up trying to ride the beast, and he instead tucked his legs beneath him on the saddle and pushed out, propelling his body through the air. The gift lent him height and trajectory as he soared to the coach rooftop, and he landed artfully next to Valaria who was still crouched low, and having trouble with her balance.

Nice going, Valaria commented, though Nathiel misunderstood her compliment and offered an indignant grimace. She gave him a pat on the rump, which confused him even more.

Another display of pyrotechnics erupted from the middle carriage window, followed by a tremendous pop. Then, in the path of the riders came a wall of solid stone, and although it was a magical creation, it certainly wasn't incorporeal. The cavalry, to their good judgment, were quicker to react this time, and they strafed clear of the obstruction before positioning themselves to flank the rear carriage again.

The five remaining riders were cautious now, for they were quite aware of their decimated ranks, and due to a severed lance disarming another of their group, between