TALES OF ASKARI: LEGEND OF THE WOLF

By Adeniyi Adeniji

Born with sparkling, silver eyes, Eibar is a young man searching for his place in a world that has always considered him a monster. While in service to the great empire of Vastigia, he finds himself caught up in the middle of a conspiracy that almost costs his life and leaves him with no memory of his past.

A stranger in a str

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tamarind Hill Press
• Release date: Oct 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781915161031

Book preview

Dedication

To my mother, father and sister; who always believed in my imagination.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dedication

Prologue

Arturo

House of Thane

A Rose in the Garden

The Dark Man

The Market District

A Secret Mission

The Deceiver’s Plot

The Forgotten Warrior

Little Wolf

The Cemetar

Rite of Passage

Warrior

The Totem

Dark Clouds

The Village of Hensdale

The Prisoner

Bandits I Say!

The Confession

The Cemehot Wolf

Bisario

The Betrayer

Ruin

Dragondown

Dark Tower

War

The Siege

Final Battle

Epilogue

Prologue

There were eight of them left now. Eight men from an army that, just days ago, numbered in the thousands. The grounds were littered with the still corpses of his comrades. The bodies of the enemy mingled amongst them. The dim light of the coming dawn cast a foreboding shadow over the battlefield and revealed the reality of what Ulrik and his few remaining comrades already feared to be true. There were far too many of their comrades on the cold earth, far too many lying dead in ditches and far too little of the enemy lying beside them.

It was unthinkable that they had lost this battle, but the truth was plain for all to see. They had lost, though no one dared voice their fears. There was honour in death, especially the kind of death which came in battle. Ulrik still held hope that he would meet his end with honour. It was their way, the warrior way, the way of the Morg. And so they continued the fight in whatever way they could.

Through the night, they pushed forward, aided by a thick mist that moved across the battlefield. Skulking in the dark like a pack of wolves, they ambushed the unsuspecting enemy. The tactic worked well for them. With it, they had managed to take a group of enemy soldiers four times their size, the irony of it not escaping the weary Morg warriors.

The Morg–like most of the great nations of Ederill—were a nation of conquerors. Battle was bred in their bones, and there was no greater honour than dying in battle at the hands of a worthy adversary. However, this enemy had proven far more worthy than any of them could have imagined. The Morg conquered entire countries, they brought Kings and Emperors to their knees, yet here in a land already subjugated under their mighty hand, they had lost.

Fang—the leader of the small group of men—signalled over to Ulrik. On his signal, Ulrik and Pander—the Morg warrior Ulrik had been paired with—quickly made their way across the field, making sure to keep low and out of sight before ducking into a ditch. They in turn signalled to the next pair of men, who repeated the process.

The bodies of dead soldiers scattered across the battle ground served them well as camouflage against the possibility of being spotted by enemy scouts. With the night-mist dissipating quickly and dawn approaching fast, it was necessary for them to make it off the open field and find some sort of haven where the already tired and battle-worn soldiers could take a moment to rest themselves and formulate a new plan. Fang—their leader and a warrior of some repute amongst the Morg—was experienced and had fought in many battles. It was he who decided it would serve them best to head east towards the rocky hills which overlooked much of the battlefield and were known to house several small caves. A good enough place for the weary Morg to rest-up and gather their thoughts; provided of course, that they could make it there without being seen.

And so, they went on their way, crawling through ditches and hiding amongst the bodies of the dead. Now and again, they would come across a small patrol of enemy soldiers moving about the battle ground, possibly searching for survivors or any remnants of the Morg army. Once, they came across a group of enemy soldiers guarding a large group of men and women. They appeared to be natives of this land—common folk of a nearby village perhaps? They were digging what appeared—very much to Ulrik—to be graves. Tired and hungry, the Morg warriors decided it would be best to avoid the enemy for the time being.

Once they reached the eastern hills, it was easy enough for the Morg to find a safe enough hideout which provided them with a good view of the battlefield below. Ulrik rested his back against a rock, hungry and tired; he let himself slide to the stone floor and sighed deeply.

It was a good fight, he thought. Pain in his body—not apparent just seconds earlier—suddenly cut through him like a hot blade. He rubbed his neck intently, sighed again, and then looked around at his comrades. He did not know most of them. Ulrik himself had been part of a battalion of over five hundred men, and even then, he’d known each of those men by name, as he should have. After all, he had been third in the chain of command of those men and was primarily responsible for preparing them for battle. Knowing the names of all your men was necessary to inspire trust and loyalty. Just one of the many lessons he had learned from his father. It all seemed pointless now. From his battalion, only two others survived; at least as far as he knew. The enemy proved to be highly effective in separating and scattering their forces. Of his own battalion, only Fang and Sinod remained. Fang had been second in command of Ulrik’s battalion but took the position of First Commander after their previous Commander had been killed by an enemy arrow. The other warrior—Sinod—was a good friend of Ulrik’s and could usually be found at his side at the beginning and end of any battle. Ulrik was glad—at the very least—that Sinod was still with him.

The remaining five men had been picked up along the way. As far as he could tell, their names were Rutgard, Grodwen, Pander, Proxus, and a young boy with a bow the Morg warriors had taken to calling Boy. Under normal circumstances, he would have asked the young warrior his name, but he was too tired to care. The battle had taken its toll on all of them. Rutgard—the veteran warrior amongst them—was missing three digits on his left hand. How he still managed to keep fighting after losing so much blood was a mystery to Ulrik, but sure enough, the old warrior fought and fought well. Grodwen and Proxus had been equally brave. Both men seemed to know each other  well and complemented each other’s fighting styles and technique, with one wielding a sword and the other a two-edged battle-axe. Both had suffered only minor injuries. The Boy remained unscathed, as was often the case with warriors who fought with a bow rather than a sword or axe. Yet, he had proven to be more than skilled with his bow. Such skill—Ulrik thought—was obviously the reason why one so young had been allowed to partake in such a crucial battle. And then there was Pander, a strange man, skilled with a blade, quick and agile. The man hardly ever said a word. He seemed to regard their recent tribulations with an almost frightening coolness.

Ulrik looked about at the remnants of the great Morg army and thought back to what it had once been. It had been a glorious campaign under the leadership of the legendary Morg warlord, Ander Grod. Theirs was an army of sixty thousand men. The Morg had made their way across the continent of ancient Ederill, decimating the armies of the great central provinces and then along the great coast of the Twin seas, conquering the port cities of Freemandel and Veadan and then finally east into the lands of Falkaan. The army of Falkaan fought well, but in the end, were no match for the highly skilled fighters of the Morg.

Eventually, the Falkaan King had no choice but to surrender his lands to the invading army.

Bolstered by their victory over the armies of Falkaan, the Morg then journeyed to a small fort on the eastern borders of Falkaan, where their great army would come to rest for several months. It was then their intention to make their way a short distance across the border to a small ancient mining city called Dragondown.

The city of Dragondown considered itself to be a sovereign state, remaining neutral in its affairs from the rest of the world. But over the centuries, the city had been ruled over by several nations and conquerors, including a former King of Falkaan. Ulrik was not exactly sure why the city was so important to so many of the kingdoms of Greater Ederill. However, many great battles had been fought over the rights to rule it and that was enough for the Morg. Many great legends and heroes had been born with each of these wars. Currently, the city of Dragondown was under the protection of one of Falkaan’s neighbours. For the Morg, the glory in taking the fabled city would be in breaking the four-thousand-year-old hold its current rulers had over it. They would be remembered for this, for this one great thing. Ander Grod had promised them victory; he had promised them glory.

Their names would be written into the pages of history, becoming the stuff of legends. And so, they marched onwards, ripe with the anticipation of the glorious battle ahead and taking no small pride in all their accomplishments thus far. But news of conquering armies travels fast. On their way to Dragondown, they were intercepted by enemy soldiers: an army sent to stop them from taking the fabled city. The army belonged to Falkaan’s neighbours, the Imperial army of Vastigia.

Ulrik’s thoughts were interrupted by the voice of one of his comrades. Proxus was speaking to their leader Fang. He and Grodwen had been ordered to scout the area and apparently found something they thought might be of interest to him a short distance to the east. Ulrik looked up to the heavens. The skies were darkening and he could sense a storm was coming.

Humph! Fang grunted.

What is he doing? someone asked.

I do not know, Proxus answered, shrugging his shoulders.

He’s praying, the normally silent warrior named Pander said in a whisper.

Praying?

Why would anyone come all the way out here, simply to pray? someone asked.

The grim image of the corpse-filled battlefield to the west of the hills flashed morbidly across Ulrik’s mind.

Is he one of them? Fang asked more to the point.

Yes, we believe so, Proxus answered though Fang’s question was directed at the warrior, Grodwen, who remained silent.

For the first time, Ulrik realized that —Grodwen probably couldn’t speak. He may have been born this way, but an old scar across his throat suggested otherwise.

And he is, alone? the question was again directed at Grodwen but was answered by Proxus.

Yes. Grodwen and I were trying to decide whether he was brave, or simply foolish.

And what did you decide on? Ulrik questioned with amusement. A little bit of both, but perhaps one more than the other.

They stifled their laughter.

Do we take him? the gruff voice of the battle-hardened veteran asked. He sounded weak and tired but did his best to hide it.

Rutgard’s skin had gone pale from the loss of blood caused by his missing fingers. Ulrik had managed to stop the bleeding, but without the aid of a healer, Rutgard wouldn’t last much longer.

Yes, Fang said dryly. Ulrik turned to his commander with a puzzled frown. You do not intend to kill him? he questioned, making his disapproval obvious.

If he is an enemy soldier, what does it matter? someone said. Ignoring the statement, Ulrik directed his arguments at Fang.

There is no glory in eight Morg warriors slaying one lone enemy soldier, he told him.

Fang turned and stared at Ulrik intently. Fang knew enough about him to know he was no coward.

He is the enemy, he began and then sighed. Very well, if it pleases you, then he will only have to face one of us.

Is there any need…?

Need…? Fang interjected sharply. I have no wish to fight one solitary warrior; it serves no purpose. What interests me is what this warrior has with him.

Ulrik looked down at the single enemy soldier. He was kneeling on the ground facing the stone wall of a cliff face with his hands together in what, according to Pander, was some form of prayer. He noticed—for the first time—that the soldier had a horse with him, and on that horse was a saddlebag with a large leather-skinned sack hanging from it, which was traditionally used for carrying food and other such items. Perhaps even the kind of herbs used for healing injuries. He was so worn out from their efforts over the past few days that he failed to notice it earlier. Instantly realizing he may have spoken out of turn to his leader, he apologized to Fang who said nothing in reply.

They made their way down to the clearing, sneaking up on the area where the soldier still prayed silently. While Fang, Sinod, Pander and Ulrik came up behind the lone soldier in an arch, Proxus and Grodwen approached him from either side, effectively cutting off any possible escape route the prostrate soldier may have had. The Boy took up an elevated position on top of a small boulder, his bow at the ready.

Rutgard took the horse by the reins, startling it slightly but the soldier didn’t seem to notice. By this time, they were taking no steps to conceal their presence, but the soldier still gave no indication that he had even noticed them. They looked at each other intently.

Pander stepped cautiously towards the soldier, his short sword already drawn. It had been decided earlier that he would be the one to fight the lone soldier. Though in truth, Pander had insisted on this point.

Were you planning to just steal my horse, or were you planning to stab me in the back first…? The voice was cool and calm and reverberated off the stone wall of the overhanging cliff face in front of them. The Vastigian himself did not move, and for a second, Ulrik was not certain the voice had come from the obeisant enemy soldier at first. There was a brief silence.

You are from Vastigia, are you not?! Pander began with a ferocity that startled even his comrades.

Yes, the lone soldier replied.

Then you are my enemy. Stand and face me!

The lone soldier seemed to sigh, then slowly rose to his feet, but did not turn to face the Morg warrior.

I said face me, dog! Pander demanded.

Ulrik frowned in disapproval at Pander’s tone.

I wish you no harm, the soldier began. If it is my horse you want, then take it. I give it to you freely, he said. There was something in his tone that sounded sincere.

Freely? Proxus began. We are eight armed warriors of the Morg. Surely you do not imagine yourself free to give us anything we can simply, take? Proxus remarked. He gave a stifled laugh and Grodwen shared in his amusement.

As you say, seeing as I can do nothing to stop you, then take the horse and let us be done with this.

You would let us take your horse…just like that? What kind of a warrior are you? Sinod  said with more than a little disgust.

He’s no warrior! Pander exclaimed. He’s a Vastigian Officer.

An Officer? Ulrik was surprised.

Yes, Pander answered. When the fighting began, I was part of the first attack. On the frontlines of the battle, I watched as these so-called Officers hid behind their men like cowering dogs while we fought and died.

Are you sure? Fang asked, somewhat puzzled. Are you sure this man is what you say he is?

Yes, Pander replied with seeping hatred. They all wore those garments around their shoulders, those red cloaks. See how clean and unspoiled by the touch of battle it is.

It occurred to Ulrik that there was more to Pander’s distaste for the Vastigian Officer than he was aware of. However, whatever this man was, there was surely no need to kill him. There would be no honour in doing so. He seemed willing enough to give up his horse and supplies without a fight. But the only person who could stop this was Fang. As Commander, Pander would be forced to listen to him or risk incurring the wrath of the whole group.

If this is so, then what use would there be in killing him? He has already relinquished his rights to his horse and supplies, so let us take it and be on our way, Ulrik reasoned.

What use is there in killing any enemy, save that he is your enemy? Fang countered.

If Ulrik could not appeal to Fang’s sense of reasoning then perhaps he could appeal to his sense of honour.

I will have no hand in killing this man. I will not stain my hands with the blood of a coward.

Fang said nothing.

Ulrik could tell by the look in his eyes that he agreed with this argument and so he pushed further. Let us leave this man be and be on our way. There is still much for us to do.

NO!! Pander exclaimed angrily. I fought on the frontlines; I was there when the line broke and my comrades were forced to retreat.

I fought on the frontlines too Pander, Proxus inserted. It was a good battle, and our comrades were honoured in their deaths.

Aye! We all faced the enemy at some point or other and lost many good friends, Rutgard added wearily.

But I lost a brother, Pander told them.

There was a hushed silence.

I am sorry for your loss. It is regrettable, the lone soldier noted solemnly, his back still facing the Morg warriors.

Your regret will not be enough to save your worthless hide Vastigian dog! Pander said and angrily pointed the tip of his sword at the Vastigian's back. My brother is dead, and your regret will do nothing to bring him back.

Such is the nature of war, the soldier said with a sigh. Your people killed my brother! Pander exclaimed.

In a war your people started, the soldier countered.

Pander, Ulrik began solemnly, this is no way for a warrior to act, if this man is an Officer, then he was not the one who slew your brother. This kind of revenge, it is not honourable.

Honour or no, I will satisfy my revenge, he said with finality.

Ulrik turned to Fang, intending to ask him to intercede, but before he could even open his mouth, the Morg Commander stopped him.

There is no point, Fang said with a sigh, we have to kill him.

And as Ulrik opened his mouth to speak again, Fang raised a hand stopping him in mid-speech. Once we revealed ourselves to him, his death became a certainty. We cannot let him live. He will alert his men to our presence. We do not need them hunting us down. If his death also serves to satisfy Pander’s need for revenge, then let him be the one to do it.

Ulrik sighed in resignation. He was tired, and besides, once again, Fang was right. They had enough problems as it was.

Pander smiled to himself, relishing the idea of gutting the Vastigian Officer. Confident his misguided need for recompense would be satisfied with yet another victim for his blade.

There is no one left to defend you, dog! Turn and face me! he said.

The wind was picking up and the skies up above grew darker and more menacing. The storm would be fierce.

The lone soldier turned slowly, his entire being seemed to sigh in reluctance. Finally, they  got to see the face of this unfortunate fellow but nothing could disguise their amazement at what they saw.

There was nothing extraordinary about his features. His hair was a dark, obsidian black. However, this was not uncommon in these lands. He was a young man with tanned skin like many of the peoples of the southern continent often were. He was not very tall, though Ulrik had noticed this earlier. He had a strange, distinguished look to his face—or perhaps more to the look he had on his face—making his appearance somewhat regal in its fashion. What first struck Ulrik was how young he was. The Vastigian could not have been more than fifteen or maybe sixteen years old. This, however, was not the cause of the feeling of amazement earlier mentioned. The Morg warrior had seen much in his lifetime and there was very little left that could surprise him. This was different, mostly because none of the Morg had expected to see anything but the ordinary face of an ordinary soldier.

It was his eyes. They seemed to sparkle in brilliant silver, like all the stars in the sky had shot off in all directions all at once and did so constantly. They twinkled. A darkening sky full of rain-filled clouds gave the soldier’s eyes an even more ominous effect, as they would sparkle even more brilliantly as the light from the lightning in the distance struck them. Even Pander must have put his anger aside for a brief instance when confronted by those ghostly eyes. For some reason, they reminded Ulrik of the eyes of a wolf. He had seen eyes like these before. He was no stranger to the world. Elves had eyes like these, which sparkled under the light, but never had he seen eyes of quite this colour. When he thought about it, he realized the soldier resembled the Elves in more ways than one. He was slender and slightly muscular but not too tall, and although he lacked the chiselled perfection of the elfin races, his facial features were distinguished enough. However, he also lacked the requisite pointed-ears attributed to the Elven races which meant he was no Elf, or at least, not fully Elven.

Pander’s surprise did not last as long as his comrades. He ordered the soldier to draw his sword. The lone soldier drew his sword reluctantly, seemingly resigned to his fate. A fierce wind swirled around them as dark clouds hung ominously overhead.

He stood there, his red cloak fluttering in the wind, his sword hanging loosely in his hand. There was something about him Ulrik couldn’t quite put his finger on. The Morg found himself transfixed by the soldier’s eyes. He watched them closely, wondering. He then found himself curiously tracing the lone soldier’s line of sight. Ulrik could see he was watching Pander’s movements intently. Perhaps more intently than one who had resigned himself to death probably would. It seemed there was more to it though, so he looked closer. Pander gave out a battle cry that would have woken the dead and charged at the soldier. The storm made it difficult for Ulrik to concentrate, so he did what his father had taught him to. It was a technique handed down from his father’s father and his father before him. His family learned to concentrate their thoughts on a sole objective: on their enemy. To tune out the unwanted noise and distractions around them and focus on the necessary elements of battle until in a single solitary moment, time itself seemed to stand still. In that moment, Ulrik saw something he never would have thought possible. He saw that the lone soldier was doing exactly the same thing.

The splash of blood was incredible. The force of the blow which hit Pander was one of such ferocity and grace, the Morg warrior was dead even before he knew he had been struck. The lone soldier killed him with a mere flick of his wrist. The rest of the Morg were not even aware of what had transpired until Pander’s lifeless body slumped helplessly to the floor. Immediately, they drew their weapons at the ready.

So, Ulrik thought, he was a warrior after all.

Grodwen and Proxus were the first to react. Both men charged the man with almost perfect co-ordination. The Vastigian evaded the first few strikes and then parried Proxus’ attacks. A storm-filled wind swirled faster around them. There was the crack of thunder just up above. Ulrik watched as the two Morg warriors moved in on the soldier in almost perfect unison. Proxus’ attacks were quick and skilful, all the while designed to manoeuvre the opponent into the range of Grodwen’s battle-worn two-edged axe. Like thunder and lightning, one followed the other. The lone soldier seemed to have enough sense to steer clear of Grodwen’s massive battle-axe and avoid parrying its crippling blows. Ulrik had seen Grodwen cleave a man virtually in half with it and knew any attempt by the soldier to block its strikes would almost certainly cause him to lose his footing, leaving him vulnerable to Proxus’ swift blade.

The Morg warriors must have fought together on numerous occasions, Ulrik thought.

He imagined the glorious battles both men had fought in and won to have honed such skill. The feeling of admiration was overwhelming. There was a tingle of excitement. He wished he had gotten to know both men better.

Proxus began with another flurry of attacks. The lone soldier parried these attacks, but as Proxus moved in for the final strike, the soldier countered with a skilful parry, pushing forward—this time—instead of merely dodging or blocking the attack. The movement forced Proxus to shift to his left in order to avoid the soldier’s counter-strike, inadvertently putting him into the path of Grodwen’s battle-axe. In his efforts to avoid striking his comrade, Grodwen moved the weapon further to the left and let his axe-blade drop to the ground. Seeing this, the soldier pushed forward, flicking his wrist in a spiralling motion, in an apparent attempt to hit Proxus with a killing blow. The move surprised Ulrik. By continuing to press forward with a second strike, the lone soldier risked opening himself up for a death blow. The move forced Proxus to shift further back in order to evade this second strike. At that moment, the lone soldier did in fact open himself up for a final and fatal attack, so Proxus saw his opportunity. However, he was so taken by the battle in front of him that he failed to realize what had transpired behind him. The lone soldier’s second strike had come within mere seconds of his initial counter parry. The second strike was not a strike at all, but a feint designed to force Proxus to move further back and into his onrushing comrade. As Proxus bumped into Grodwen, his movements stalled for a brief second and he suddenly found himself exposed to the blade of his opponent. A brief second was all it took. A flick of the lone soldier’s wrist and the cold air was suddenly filled with the blood of the Morg warrior. Using Proxus’ dying body to shield his movements, the soldier spun around swiftly, driving the point of his blade into the side of a bewildered Grodwen. The Morg stared at his assailant in disbelief, unable to speak. He turned and looked at the body of Proxus, his trusted comrade and dearest friend, which now lay on the cold ground beneath him. As the soldier removed the blade from his side, Grodwen felt his knees buckle under him. Moments later, he was dead.

There was silence. Burgeoning rain clouds turned the morning light into the dark of night. The lone soldier’s ethereal eyes flickered against the darkness. He stood, waiting.

Fang gave a curdling battle cry. Sinod and the injured, but still battle-ready veteran, Rutgard, responded to their leader’s cry with one of their own, waving their weapons in the air.

They charged towards the lone soldier, brave, unafraid, and hopelessly outmatched. Ulrik watched as the battle dance began and he wondered.

At the beginning of their battle against the Vastigian army, the Morg had forty-thousand men; forty-thousand Morg warriors against just over ten-thousand Vastigian soldiers.

Was it true? he thought. Was one Vastigian soldier worth eight of their own?

As the thunder cracked through the air, the first drops of a threatening storm began trickling down from the sky above. Ulrik watched as the lone soldier dispatched the three brave Morg warriors. Fang was the first to fall. A cut to the neck immobilizing him; a second strike freed his spirit from his body. Sinod, his loyal friend, was next. The soldier had disarmed him before striking him down. Ulrik’s heart sank. Old Rutgard lasted a while longer than the others, though. In truth, it seemed the lone soldier was loathing cutting him down. Alas, the old veteran finally fell; an honourable death for one who had witnessed many battles.

The rain was pouring now. Ulrik stood face to face with the Vastigian. Icy raindrops swirled around them in a violent wind as sparks of distant lightning bolts illuminated the lone soldier’s ghostly eyes. Without warning, the Morg Boy who had watched the unfolding events in abject horror, pulled on his bow with a deft quickness, sending an arrow speeding towards the lone soldier. For an instant, Ulrik believed his chance to face this soldier in combat would be taken from him. But with an almost casual wave of his hand, the lone soldier knocked the shaft of the arrow against the flat of his sword and sent it flying harmlessly into the earth. The boy stared at the soldier in disbelief and awe.

Boy! Ulrik shouted, not out of anger, but so the boy could hear him over the noise of the rain and thunder. I want you to leave this place.

The Boy frowned, thinking, Why? Surely he was a warrior of the Morg just like Ulrik? He did not fear death and had as much right to die an honourable death as any other warrior of their Tribe.

And as though Ulrik knew what the boy was thinking, he said, There is no shame in you going. You may be the last of us. Someone has to tell the others we left behind to guard our conquered cities, what has transpired here.

There was a strange sadness in his voice, like the voice of a man resigned to his fate. Noticing the sadness in his own voice, Ulrik turned and smiled at the young Morg warrior.

The boy looked at him solemnly, nodded, and attempted to return the smile.

He will need your horse, he said, turning back to face the lone soldier. You offered it before? he added.

The Vastigian soldier said nothing. He stared at Ulrik quizzically for a moment and then nodded. The boy got on the horse and then rode away from the two warriors.

The rancorous sound of thunder rang once more into the air. The two men stood facing each other in the pouring rain. The soft earth below their feet turned to a dark slush of mud.

You are a great fighter, Ulrik commented. The words were almost involuntary.

And you stood by and watched me cut down your men, the lone soldier said without any real emotion. Seconds later, he asked, Why?

Ulrik laughed dryly. I would have thought it obvious.

In truth, it was obvious. The lone soldier knew the Morg wanted to test his skill against him, but he wondered if there was more to it than that.

I am a Morg warrior born and bred, Ulrik began, my only wish is to die honourably in battle with the bravery and courage of my forbearers. And if I am to die, then let it be at the end of the sword of a worthy adversary, so my spirit may rise to meet my ancestors and find a place of honour amongst their number.

The words were spoken with conviction; the lone soldier could not deny that, but he was still reluctant to fight the Morg.

You may leave, if you wish, he told the Morg. Ulrik frowned, slightly insulted by the remark. You offered me as much, the lone soldier added.

Only because I thought you a coward unworthy of any effort.

And now?

I can see you are no coward.

Because I killed your comrades…?

You defeated six brave Morg warriors, all of whom have been honoured in battle countless times.

I slew six tired and hungry warriors; one an old man with seven fingers. Their deaths served no purpose for me.

It was the first time the Vastigian had shown any true emotion aside from cold indifference. Ulrik stared at the Vastigian curiously for a moment, and for some reason, he felt sorry for him.

Then why do you fight? Ulrik asked, before adding, What brought you to this battle?

I had no choice, he replied. There was a hint of regret in the lone soldier’s voice.

Then we are the same, Ulrik said and sighed, gripping the hilt of his bastard sword tightly. Ulrik could see the questionable look of doubt forming on the brow of the Vastigian’s face. It seemed the lone soldier did not agree with him.

I am Morg, Ulrik began, a man like you. But first, before the world and in the eyes of the gods, I am a warrior born, like my father and his father before him. A warrior’s purpose is to fight, he said with unwavering certainty. And if I cannot fight, then of what use am I to the gods?

The lone soldier stared curiously at the brave Morg warrior. His mind seemed to wander. The rain was still heavy, but at least the wind no longer swirled violently around them. The soldier looked up at the sky and closed his eyes, letting drops of rainwater wash down his face and breathed deeply. He turned his silvergaze back on the Morg warrior and smiled.

What is your name? he asked.

I am Ulrik of Banabas, the Morg answered proudly, son of Jurik.

It is an honour to meet you, Ulrik son of Jurik, he said, his tone sounding almost friendly, I am Eibar Strohm.

Arturo

It was a day like any other day in Vastigia. A golden sun burnt brightly in an almost surreal blue sky. A light wind blew silently over lush green fields full of sweet-scented flowers, carrying the fragrance of a false summer for miles around. Nearby, a young deer made its way cautiously out into an open field as songbirds danced on currents of air cooled by a nearby sea.

On the very edge of the sea lay the port city of Anvil, the Capital of the Imperial nation of Vastigia and home to its Royal Households. The city of Anvil was as immense as it was beautiful, a true marvel of architectural brilliance hundreds and thousands of years in the making. Beautifully crafted stone and marble houses lined equally beautifully set cobble-stoned streets. Great fountains and statues portraying the image and deeds of past heroes lay scattered across its landscape. A number of meticulously tended gardens only served to enhance the city’s aesthetic beauty. And adding even further to the city’s already magnificent visual splendour was the fortuitous fact that much of it had been built on the slope of a very steep hill. At the pinnacle of that hill against the backdrop of an almost perfect sky, overlooking an array of ships dotting a bustling trading port, was the even more resplendent Imperial Palace.

Yes, the people of Vastigia had much to be thankful for. Rich and fertile farmlands, great forests, rivers, and lakes teeming with wild game and–perhaps most of all—rich, mountainous regions laced with huge deposits of precious stones. Wealthy and powerful, the Vastigians enjoyed many of the vicissitudes of life, including the protection of what was thought to be the most powerful army in the known world. Not surprising, considering Vastigia was a nation born out of war.

Several centuries ago, the nation of Ghent was a country ruled by warlords and conquerors. The Great War Kings of Ghent sustained much of their military strength by incorporating the peoples of the lands and nations they conquered into their own armies. Many nations and Tribes fell before the swift hand of what had once been the most powerful kingdom in all the land, and then suddenly found themselves slaves to the ambitions of belligerent Masters. Over time, it was discovered that the Barbarian and Nomadic Tribes of the north often made the best fighters. The War King, Barbarus the III, looking to do away with the meddlesome and often wasteful act of gathering new recruits for his army—in order to replace the ones he’d lost in previous battles—came up with the ingenious idea of 'Fighting Camps.' These Fighting Camps would be made up mostly of both the northern Barbarian and Nomadic Tribes for the sole purpose of breeding new soldiers for his army. Huge numbers of these enslaved Tribes were brought to the fighting camps. Gathered and bred like cattle, their offspring would yield a new type of fighter, seemingly without fear, schooled in the art of war from the very moment they could walk. The effectiveness of the Fighting Camps was undeniable. The nation of Ghent boasted the fiercest and most skilled warriors in all the land.

Many centuries passed and though in time these slaves came to live free among the mountain ranges of northern Ghent, they were a people without a name, bound together in servitude in a prison that no longer needed walls or chains to bind them.

Until one day, out of the wilderness, a holy man came to them. A prophet named Vastaag, bringing with him the religion of Oa and the worship of EO.

In the southern most parts of the Imperial Palace, in a room illuminated by the bright glow of an afternoon sun, a man sat wearily in an extravagantly designed oak-wood chair. His head rested against the palm of his hand. His appearance was of a man dignified by the position of power and nobility, and the troublesome concerns which often came hand in hand with both. His brow riddled with age-worn lines betrayed the countenance of a man often given to excessive frowning and deeply troubled thoughts. Steely blue eyes and silver streaks running through thick dark hair, gave him the appearance of a man approaching the fiftieth year of his life, though in truth, he was much older than he appeared.

His name was Arturo, which in the Vastigian tongue meant: Free Spirit. It was an irony that was not lost on the highly distinguished noble as it seemed to him his spirit was anything but free. A member of the Royal House of Remon, Arturo held the much-coveted title of Lord Protector, an honour bestowed on him by his cousin, the former and now deceased Emperor of the sovereign nation of Vastigia. He was a man he so openly despised for many years, whose body now lay dead in the Royal crypts, his soul rotting away for all eternity in the fiery confines of hell. Or at least Arturo hoped.

At first, Arturo had not fully understood the motives behind his cousin’s appointment. The position of Lord Protector granted him all the sovereign powers of the deceased Emperor, giving him absolute rule and control over the land and its people. It seemed strange to him–and all the members of the Royal Households–that such power should be placed in the hands of the man who had shown so much animosity towards the Emperor in the past. But in time, his Imperial cousin’s motives became clear.

The House of Remon was one of seven such Royal Houses, along with the House of Najel, the House of Manticur, the House of Lokum, the House of Antradaes, the House of Paridees, and the House of Thane. Arturo was a direct descendant of Remon; the first ruler of Vastigia. His great ancestor Remon came to Vastigia—as many did—led by Prophet Vastaag, who had delivered their people from their former Masters in the land known as Ghent. It is said that Remon possessed great skill with a sword, as most warriors of their Tribe often did, but possessed even greater skill in the art of war. Skills which had earned Remon the somewhat esteemed rank of War Regent in a time when the Vastigian people, still fought under the auspices of the War Kings of Ghent. The rank of War Regent was much like the rank of General, but due to certain reservations, the then ruling Warlord had about awarding a member of a slave race of warriors the same rank as his own unwontedly proud Generals, the provision of War Regent was bestowed on those amongst the Tribe who showed exceptional leadership abilities on the field of battle. Remon’s exceptional skills as a leader would eventually play a major role in the emancipation and deliverance of his people from the clutches of their former Masters to the lands in which they now resided. Once delivered to their new home, he would then lead his people to the sea and to the site of what would become a symbol of the sovereignty of a new and proud nation: the Capital City of the nation of Vastigia, the port city of Anvil.

The people of Vastigia followed Remon’s leadership without question. Not out of fear as they once followed the War Kings of Ghent, but out of admiration and respect. It was Remon who was responsible for building the foundations of what would eventually become the Capital of their great nation. Remon was the first to establish trade and war alliances with the outside world. He was the one who built an army and naval fleet capable of challenging even the Elven nation. It was also Remon who was responsible for all Vastigia would become.

It occurred to Arturo that his ancestor was also responsible for the current situation in which he now so precariously found himself. It was true, the people of Vastigia followed Remon without question. It was also true that they had revered their heroic leader. However, it had also been true, that at some point, the Ruling Council–with the absolute backing of the people of Vastigia–had offered the title of Regal Lord to Remon, effectively making him the first King of Vastigia and ensuring his descendants as heirs to his throne. A title Remon refused to accept without hesitation.

Remon was a student of Oa, a religion paying homage to EO; the one true god. Through his studies of the scriptures of Oa and his own personal studies on the history of the known world, he had come to understand the dangers of the often necessary need for regal rulership. Confident his people had nothing to fear from his rule, he was, however, wise enough to be uncertain about the trends followed by his descendants. In his efforts to ensure no one man would ever be able to attain complete control of the kingdom, he decreed that not only would his bloodline be empowered with the vestiges of regal status, but an amendment be made to include the bloodlines of the then Ruling Council as well. Giving rise to what was now known as the seven Royal Houses of Vastigia.

For many centuries, the House of Remon managed to retain its role as the ruling House of Vastigia. But as the centuries rolled by, other Royal Houses assumed the responsibility of rulership and lost it just as easily. Each of the Royal Houses had had its turn. For a hundred thousand years, the title passed from one House to the next. Eventually, it would come to rest with the line of his cousin, the Emperor Caius of the House of Thane.

The name Thane left a bitter taste in his mouth. How he hated them so and wished to do away with the very memory, the very existence of their entire bloodline. He sat, festering with hate and obscene rage, castigating himself for how foolish he had been to fall so carelessly into his cousin’s trap.

By accepting the role of Lord Protector, Arturo also unwittingly accepted the role of guardian to his nephew, the heir apparent to the throne of Vastigia and the last surviving male member of the House of Thane. As long as Caius had an heir, the rights to the title of Emperor would remain with the House of Thane. The son of Caius would one day rule Vastigia but being a mere infant at the time and not having come of age, the young Prince would have to wait ‘til he was old enough to take his throne. In the meantime, Arturo would rule the Empire in his stead, a mere stand-in on a throne which in his mind was rightfully his. It was not as though he couldn’t simply kill the child, but circumstances now made this an unthinkable solution. In the event of the untimely demise of the young Prince and considering the fortuitous fact that the Prince was the only child and last surviving heir to the line of Caius, the rights of rulership would fall to the Lord Protector and in this particular case, to Arturo and the House of Remon. By awarding Arturo the position of Lord Protector, the Emperor had ensured that if there was any mysterious circumstance surrounding the death of his heir, suspicion would undoubtedly fall on the immediate benefactor of such a death. Knowing full well he had more to fear from Arturo and the House of Remon than any other Royal House, he made sure Arturo—and consequentially, the House of Remon—would be the subject of such scrutiny.

The first ruler of Vastigia had been the tribal warrior known as Remon. He had been a stout