Realm of Crimson

By Quincy Dominic White

The continent of Orbita is the setting for three interconnected stories of battle and eroticism, ruthlessness and redemption.
Ring of Lava: Savage warrior Crix must ally himself with axe-wielding woman Moirn to rescue Princess Valaqua from being made a trophy slave, and avoid becoming trophy slaves themselves.
Blood of the Empire: To save his Empire of Talium from barbarian takeover, Imperator Jarian must put his trust in Raven, a fighting slave woman of the Vuls, the very people who killed his sons.
River of Black Ice: Warrior woman Moirn must battle it out with cold-blooded female assassin Sibar while the fate of an innocent boy, Pirch, hangs in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quincy Dominic White
• Release date: Jun 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781736418314

Quincy Dominic White

Quincy Dominic White was born in Springfield, Missouri and raised in St. Louis, where he currently resides. He has also lived in Wisconsin, Arizona, and California.www.quincydominicwhite.com

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Realm of Crimson

Quincy Dominic White

Realm of Crimson is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons, living or dead, events, or places is entirely coincidental.

Ring of Lava Copyright © 2021 by Quincy Dominic White

Blood of the Empire Copyright © 2021 by Quincy Dominic White

River of Black Ice Copyright © 2021 by Quincy Dominic White

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Black Onyx Tears

ISBN 978-1-7364183-1-4

Edited by Justin Cohen

Cover art by Dani Leoni

To Brenda, to Alexa, and to Jer, for all of their support and insight

A NOTE ON PRONUNCIATION

MAG-KEN-NA MAG-KEN-NITE

Moirn, the hardest name, is pronounced morn, along the lines of the name Moira.

Dureyre is pronounced dur-ire.

The last syllable of Venkir is pronounced eer, as in musketeer. The word Venkir is always singular, never plural.

The word Vul is used as both noun and adjective.

Tyg is pronounced tij.

The first syllable of the name Sibar is pronounced with a short i, as in the word nib.

Contents

Ring of Lava

Blood of the Empire

River of Black Ice

Ring of Lava

I

Shadows in the Garden

King Koyle swore that if Princess Valaqua would not be his wife then she would be his slave. No greater dowry was sent for the hand of King Sarquan’s youngest daughter than by King Koyle of Magkenna. Valaqua was the youngest of Sarquan’s four daughters, just of marrying age, and Koyle had sent four small ornate chests: one with rubies, one with sapphires, one with diamonds, and one with gold. Sarquan would have none of it. Even though Magkenna was a kingdom laden with volcanoes and mines rich in precious stones, he considered the Magkennites barbarians. Worse, their mysterious king was said to be a foreigner in his own land.

Taraqua was a peninsular kingdom jutting down into the Azule Sea, independent but thought to exist as a buffer between the empires of Western Talin and Eastern Anakara. Those living in Taraqua, however, did not consider their country to be only a buffer. Its people were prideful, as were its historic kings, including the blond-bearded King Sarquan. They considered themselves superior to the great powers surrounding them and certainly worthier than the bloodthirsty Magkennite savages.

King Sarquan of Taraqua did not doubt he had something to fear from Magkenna and its enigmatic King Koyle. Still, he considered Valaqua to be well-protected as long as she remained within the safety of his palace walls. His was a majestic castle which towered above the Azule Sea. The structure was bright white with massive domes and rounded archways that were well-lit by many lamps and torches. Tarquin sentries guarded every hallway and entrance into the castle. Sentries were clad in silver armor and turquoise cloaks and wore long, rounded helmets on their heads. There were more sentries patrolling than usual on this night, for fear of Koyle.

The warriors in black, five in all, should have been starkly out of place amidst the white splendor of the castle. This was especially true, considering the clear night sky was filled with a bright moon and a band of stars. But the Tarquin sentries could not see the skiff skirting along their shoreline. Nor had they ever considered that an enemy might anchor on the south side of the palace. The royal living quarters were on the north side, which required the intruders to cross a narrow embankment at high tide. Nonetheless, these intruders moved easily, without sound, in and out of pools of shadow.

They were the elite Venkir Guard from the Kingdom of Magkenna. The Venkir Guards wore tightly-wound black clothing with black armor. Black cloaks covered their bodies. Their boots were wrapped with soft, black cloth to make sure they made no sound. On their heads, they wore black hoods underneath their dark metal helmets, ensuring that their eyes were invisible beneath the visors. The men were armed with scythe blades atop black staffs, which were strapped to their backs.

One in the group was dressed slightly different. He wore an embossed helmet depicting a roaring lion’s head, golden in color. He was armed with a gold-hilted curved sword. He was the leader of the Venkir Guard. His name was Captain Ralag.

In no time, the warriors arrived at the northern side of the castle and moved toward a walled-in garden.

Within the garden, the lush palm trees were not too tall, in order to prevent anyone from climbing over the castle walls from within. Truthfully, the garden quarters were never considered to be an entry point into the castle, as it was thought impossible to scale the sheer, high wall. What the Tarquins did not understand was that although the wall’s surface looked smooth from afar, its stone was continually being eroded by nature’s forces. There was just enough roughness for gripping, and the Venkir Guards, trained in the mountains of Magkenna, would have no trouble.

Two Venkir Guards inserted spikes in their gloves to create handholds large enough to be inserted through the pockmarked white stone. They then made their way up the wall, their tall bodies moving faster, climbing better than anyone would have expected. In moments, they were over the wall and down the other side. Clacks sounded from within the walls, indiscernible from ordinary night sounds heard throughout the castle. Captain Ralag understood the quiet clack sounds well enough. Ropes had been thrown over the walls from the inside perimeter. He and the remaining Venkir Guards adeptly went up and over the top of the garden wall.

It was a myth that the Venkir Guards did not speak. They spoke among themselves and in battle, but only when it was absolutely necessary. On this night, their silent language was the most effective tool they possessed to successfully complete their mission.

Three Tarquin guards were patrolling throughout the garden complex, but they were more concerned with problems from within: slaves attempting to escape or anyone seeking to poach fruits from the plants. The Venkir Guards used the element of surprise to their advantage. They fanned out with their scythes drawn, and quickly cut down the Tarquin guards. Blood flowed invisibly in the night, coloring the green grass and leaves a dark red only to be noticed in the morning.

Overlooking the garden were long, spacious balconies which were primarily unguarded. The bedchamber doors of royalty opened directly onto these balconies, which curved around the towers of the castle.

On the intruders’ right were King Sarquan’s chambers, built much higher than the outside walls. While it may have been possible for the Venkir Guards to get to the King, they would not test it, for he was not their concern. In truth, King Koyle had no use for the royal Tarquin fool.

Straight ahead of the swiftly moving Venkir Guards was another balcony, this one guarded. Princess Valaqua had protested the presence of guards directly outside her bedchamber door, especially given the way she liked to sleep. In the end, she acquiesced to her father’s wishes, keeping her ornate gold-trimmed door closed. On the balcony were two stationary Tarquin guards, positioned at each end of it. A third sentry patrolled back and forth between the stationary guards. He marched quietly, lest he awaken the Princess. This was his main concern, more so than protecting her from intruders.

Two Venkir Guards took up their own sentinel duty at the base of the tower underneath its balcony, scythes out at the ready. The other two divested themselves of their larger weapons, placing them carefully on the ground. Their long curved daggers would be of better use as they prepared to climb the wall leading to the Princess’ chambers.

Ralag led the way. They did not need to use ropes, as the distance was short. Unlike the garden wall, there had been intensive maintenance on this stonework, but it was still not smooth enough to hinder the use of handheld spikes. Ralag and his fellow Venkir Guards moved upward onto the balcony like spiders. The Captain waited silently for the pacing Tarquin guard to pass him. As he pulled himself up, his two men pulled up in concert. Ralag did not need his great curved sword. He drew his short dagger and slit the throat of the sentry. The remaining Venkir Guards closed in on the stationary Tarquin guards positioned at opposite ends of the balcony. One saw them approaching, but he did not have time to utter a cry. Each Tarquin guard in turquoise was blotted out by a black shadow. Six men in all fell dead on this dark and ominous night. Their blood was wiped clean from the Venkir blades.

Ralag walked toward the Princess’ chamber to claim his prize for the King. There were no locks on the interior doors of the castle. Castle inhabitants felt safe in the hands of their trusted guards. Ralag opened the gold-trimmed door and went inside while his two men waited on the balcony, now making their own lookout possible.

The Princess’ chamber was an unsurprisingly spacious room, with a glittering domed ceiling high above it. In the center of this space Princess Valaqua slept on a large, round bed. She appeared young and soft with a head of strawberry blond hair tangled in curls. It was summer in Taraqua, so it was natural for her to be sleeping nude beneath a sheer lavender cover. Her body was curvaceous and beautiful. She had milky white skin, smooth all over save her thick strawberry blond pubic hair. She was lying on her back, her head tilted as she slept.

Captain Ralag moved quickly to her. He put his black-gloved hand over her mouth and poured a vial of elixir down her throat. She did not wake up before slipping from sleep into full unconsciousness. Ralag pulled out a black rope from his belt. He swept off the sheer sheet and turned her onto her belly. He bound her wrists behind her back and her arms to her sides, then bound her ankles. He took out a shorter strand of rope and tied it around her mouth. She was then wrapped head to foot in the sheer covering, and placed over the Captain’s shoulder.

Ralag exited her room. No verbal exchange was necessary. In much less time than it had taken them to cut their horrific path through the guards, they were out of the castle and back to the skiff. They moved off across the Azule Sea.

The young Princess Valaqua was unconscious during the kidnapping. When she finally awakened, she would find herself a naked and bound prisoner.

II

Secret Pass

King Sarquan prepared for war, although he knew that was not the likely solution. Not long after King Koyle had taken power, the eastern enemies of Magkenna, the Hawlons, were completely destroyed. The Tarquin military was trained for naval battles, not hand-to-hand fighting. Its fast, deadly ships could move seamlessly in and out of the peninsula upon which most of the kingdom lay. But Magkenna was to the north and east, deep inland over volcanic, mountainous terrain. Sarquan knew the mountainous path was the only true option he had for rescuing his daughter. He quickly dispatched his best officers, but he doubted they could navigate the dangerous terrain. They would not get to Valaqua in time. Knowing his window of opportunity was narrow, the King sent a missive throughout the kingdom promising a great reward of treasure for whoever returned his daughter to him—safe, unharmed, and unviolated.

Ideally, this missive would have attracted heroes, brave knights, and noble princes. In reality, it attracted mercenaries.

One of these mercenaries was the savage known as Crix, who emerged from the wastelands of the Comachix tribes, far to the south and west in the desert. Crix was tall, broad, and strong. His hair was long and black. His eyes were deep brown. His skin was naturally bronzed, but even more so after living a life traveling under the sun. He had a great falcon tattooed across his chest and ring tattoos around his upper arms. He wore durable leather clothes, and sometimes light armor when he could get it. He was always armed with a broadsword.

He was a well-traveled man, drifting from his home in the desert heat of Taharan to the cold of Iglooran, the forests of Ronden, and the jungles of Sharesh. He had visited many kingdoms: Nomarain, Tyg, the Talin Empire, and of course, Taraqua, where he heard news of the King’s reward. He could transform easily from civilized to savage, having lived for a time as a captive of the civilized Nomarain people. In his case, he had been taken hostage with many others in warfare. He had not been kidnapped for a specific purpose, as Princess Valaqua had been. There was nothing noble about his blood.

Crix knew Captain Ralag only by reputation. The Venkir captain was said to be a skilled and fierce warrior. Crix felt his own skills and larger size would be sufficient if it came down to a battle with Ralag. In truth, Crix did not wish to fight. He planned on quietly stealing the Princess as he would any treasure.

He would go after Princess Valaqua, for he knew a way others did not. Ralag would most likely travel overland, trespassing within Anakara, but none would dare oppose him. Crix knew some mercenaries would head north through the volatile waters of the Berua Sea. Others would travel south through the dangerous black rocks of Sheck, believing they could traverse the terrain better than they could the sea. Even if they did not die on the journey, they would lose time, and their prize would be well within the safety of Magkenna’s capital city. Crix knew a shortcut, one such that he could outmaneuver the Venkir Guards. It was a highly dangerous route, but Crix had traveled it before.

Crix first traveled to the mountain city of Sepal. Sepal had been founded as a mining city, set high up in the Nandez Mountains, just within the border of the Anakaran Empire. The Anakarans, like the Tarquins, considered the Magkennites nothing more than barbarians.

Entering Sepal was a jarring experience. After trekking up thick jungle to get to the plateau upon which the city stood, the land suddenly became flat and arid, as though a desert village had been dropped atop the jungle. The soil had been over-tilled and was now dry and yellowish. Sepal was no longer able to produce food, its inhabitants acquiring nourishment mainly by trading from the city’s rapidly depleting mines. Sepal’s buildings were squat and cubical, paradoxically appearing old and yet recently cobbled together.

Crix spotted a well and walked toward it. No one was around to greet him. There should have been women laboring about their homes and lively children running around. Crix lowered the bucket attached to the well and brought up thin, rusty water. He sipped from it and drank no more. He had filled his canteens with water from the spring at his last stop, but continued to drink mainly from the tiny brooks and streams he passed along the way, always boiling the water first. Doing this allowed him to preserve the pure water in his canteens. There were few civilized cities which maintained a water supply uncontaminated by the waste of its inhabitants.

He kept his canteens hidden under his cloak. People would rob a man for water as much as anything else. Better they think he depended on the water here. He pretended to sip a bit more of the rusty water, looking up from under his black hair to see if anyone was watching him. He saw no one, but a shift of wind brought the sound of a crowd to his ears. Something had gathered the people. He walked toward the sound, kicking up yellow dust, but not of the golden kind.

It was not a cosmopolitan city by any means, but there were plenty of travelers from other lands hoping to strike new gold or silver veins in the old mines. Crix had hoped to mingle with the travelers in order to go unnoticed. He still stood out.

The dusty crowd was making unbearable catcall noises in the town square, and he soon found out why. Hanging in cages from a wooden structure were captured thieves. These were not skilled thieves. They looked to have been gaunt even before their capture.

The crowd, other thieves likely among them, jeered at the captives, and some threw rocks at their cages. They would do this all day, as it was the harsh punishment for thievery. Crix walked away, unable to do anything for them. He had been a thief himself, but that was not his mission on this day. He would stay through part of the night and continue his journey.

Crix slept in a small room of an inn on a cot barely able to sustain his tall, broad frame. As always, he held his sword at his side, maintaining a strong grip. He slept on his back, prepared to strike any intruder. The room was sparse and the window barred. He had paid for two full nights to throw off anyone who dared study his business.

He awoke in the middle of the night due to his innate sense of time. Quickly, he was out of his room and into the dark, supplied and ready. He kept his cloak folded and bundled as it would only slow him down. It was best that his weapons were on his back for all in the night to see. Nights in a city like Sepal were filled with dangerous people. He carried a sack which held bread, fruit, and some tightly packed dried meat. Although he could live off the land almost anywhere, he did not take unnecessary chances. He also carried his two full canteens of water, which he knew to use sparingly.

The night was dead silent. The stars and moon shone in a white band from above. Crix heard the shuffles of soldiers and moved into the shadow of an alley. He had no official problem here, just one of many travelers to this place, but he was always wary of authority.

After a few moments, he put the soldiers out of his mind and moved north, out of the city of Sepal. It did not take long to get to the sharp, black rocks which loomed over the valley, leading into the Nandez Mountains. A steep, curved path cut through the rocks and he moved downward along it using the starlight as his guide. He traversed beneath great overhanging rocks which cast long shadows. Through this way was a narrow pass few others knew, and those who did would not dare take it, for it led the traveler into the perilous and mystical Emzal Jungle.

Crix did not fear the jungle. He knew enough to be wary of sorcery. Besides, the philosophy he lived by was that anything that could hurt him could be hurt by him. For Crix, fear was merely a survival instinct. Though cautious, he never wasted time with worrying. What would happen would happen. Fear would not change anything.

Crix continued along the steep path. He did not fret about his water lasting, nor was he anxious about the narrow passage or the treacherous jungle. His only concern was that there might be another who knew this route, someone he did not wish to encounter.

Crix kept close to the rising rock shelf, not wanting his shadow to be reflected in the moonlight. He would glance back now and then, not looking behind him as if he were afraid, just casual turns of his head to remain alert. He would stop suddenly at intervals to listen for the soft sounds of anyone or anything behind him. He made one of these stops after he knew he had all but disappeared under a shelf of rock, so that any follower would pass by him unnoticed. No one did, so he took a step forward.

What took you so long, savage? a woman’s voice said, not from behind him but in front of him. He saw her as soon as he heard her. She was sitting calmly on a rock under the same shelf under which he had hidden. The dark shadow of the rock shelf proved to be lacking. He could see her quite clearly in the moonlight.

Moirn was tall and slender but strong. Her frame in truth was not much slighter than many of the dangerous men Crix had come across. She came from the far western island of Dureyre, so her skin was alabaster white like that of her people. Her hair was black, which was rare but not uncommon among the Durians. She had cut it very short. Her eyes were a clear blue which reflected the starlight.

Crix had nothing against female warriors. Some were naturally that way, such as among the Vuls, distant relatives of his own people. Other women warriors seemed to try too hard to prove themselves as virile as men, often engaging in drinking, cursing, and starting fights.

Moirn was more like the former. Crix knew nothing of her past but ascertained from her manner and literacy that she came from a ruling class in Dureyre. In her realm, even the aristocracy lived close to the land and faced the rugged ways of nature. He never knew why she had left her home. What he did know was that she was quiet and cunning. She often used dry sarcasm and infinite patience to aggravate others, including Crix. She was shrewdly able to take command of any situation.

Her weapon of choice was, of all things, an axe. She always had an assortment of throwing axes and one large, sharp-bladed battle-axe with a golden snakehead. This was strange, only because it was thought there were no snakes in her land. Other axes she could easily discard, obviously the throwing axes, but Moirn’s battle-axe with its glittering gold and silver shaft and its ornate snakehead was vital to her. Crix had used battle-axes at times, so he could understand the purpose of such a weapon. It could easily make up for disparity of strength against an opponent, even cleaving right through an opponent’s armor. Still, it was a weapon that took much skill to wield. This, Moirn had. She wielded axes like they were swords, better than any master swordsman Crix had ever seen.

In the recent past, she had taken the Jewel of Paladin from Crix before he could react. He had been ready to fight her with force, even violate his long ingrained personal rule to not harm women, but she had gotten away before he had the chance. She was nimble and fast, allowing her to evade battle when possible. She was now standing before him, eyes sparkling like gemstones.

She stepped out into the starlight and attempted to encircle Crix. He drew his broadsword. Speed and agility mattered here, and although Crix had those traits, his best chance against Moirn was to stay on the defensive, and retain the higher ground.

In the moonlight, he could see a serene expression on her face. There is no need for us to fight, Crix, she said, tauntingly without trying.

Then don’t fight, Crix said in his deep, commanding voice.

She faked springing at him and he held his ground. He was bigger and stronger than she, equally well-trained, but he knew she could embed multiple axes in him before he got close to her. He took one step forward anyway, sword drawn, shield ready. She took out two throwing axes, one for each hand, and was more than capable of grabbing more in quick time.

Make not another move, Crix, she said. Crix stood coiled and primed, adrenaline pumping through his body. Moirn pulled her right arm back, one axe ready to be thrown.

We both want the same thing, Moirn said. The Princess. Together we can find her and split the reward.

You took the Jewel of Paladin from me.

And that proved worthless. Rescuing the Princess will be no easy task for either of us. A truce would be better. We can fight over the Princess after we find her. I hear these Venkir Guards are the best, especially Captain Ralag.

This was a point he had to concede to Moirn. He was better at adapting to his immediate surroundings, but she was better at gathering intelligence.

A truce, Crix said, sheathing his sword and extending his arm although he did not want to do so. She put her axes on her belts and clasped his arm, their elbows meeting. They locked eyes. His eyes showed firmness; hers guarded tolerance. If Crix was like a lion, then she was like a hyena, neither to be trifled with.

Crix and Moirn made their way down the mountain path swiftly, as they had lost time during their argument. Moirn was in the lead, as Crix would never trust her behind him, and she did not mind having her back to him. They made their way to a crest. Behind and above them were the torches and lamps of Sepal, now undetectable to the distrusting allies. Before them and to their right, hidden deep within opaque shadows, was the pass. In truth, it was a pass which led to another pass. Barely discernible on its black walls were the marks Crix had made, and Moirn had subsequently followed, which mapped the way through the maze.

They concurrently came to a halt. There was no need for either to speak. The pass could not be navigated at night. Crix had rested at night within the shadows during his initial discovery of the pass, never knowing one so cunning was on his trail.

We will sleep here, Crix said.

Very well, Crix, Moirn said.

Crix lay down on his back and covered himself in his cloak, his sword at the ready, his long black hair forming the only pillow he would need. Moirn unraveled her own cloak and lay on her side, her gold-embroidered axe held directly in front of her eyes. They slept under a sheer cliff, not quite indiscernible from the black night and mountains all about them. They slept, but it was a light sleep for both.

Moirn was like Crix, yet unlike him. He had learned survival techniques from the harsh wilderness, she from disciplined training, but both had acquired similar skills.

***

Daybreak came and Moirn was still there. Crix knew there was no way around this truce. He was no match for the cunning woman. He felt trapped, for the time being. He would have to bend to Moirn’s wishes rather than try to outsmart her.

They ate a meal of bread, neither bothering to share. Once afoot, Moirn led the way again. Even in broad daylight there were many shadows, but Moirn knew the path better than Crix, even though he had discovered it.

The mighty black Nandez Mountains loomed far above them on all sides, almost blotting out the sun, casting great shadows upon them. Using a sliver of sunlight as their guide they walked onward. This was how it would be, a man and a woman walking together. Crix would have to free himself of this alliance, but first they must get through the pass and into the Emzal Jungle.

He would not wait until night to depart, for Moirn’s instincts would be astute to such a move. Crix knew the best way to escape was in plain sight.

III

Jungle Temple

The jungle seemed to pull them in, rather than their entering it. All the vines were reaching into the narrow rock mountain pass and grabbing them. Crix did not fear many things, but the vines and the canopy that soon shaded them overhead made him uneasy, as if he were trapped. Moirn, as always, showed no fear. She simply cut through the vines with one of her axes, and Crix did the same with his blade.

Crix knew where to lose Moirn. Deep within the Emzal Jungle were the Ayama Mounds, which were really abandoned temples long since covered in dirt and vines. They were thought to be dangerous and steeped with ancient sorcery.

This way, Crix said, suddenly taking the lead.

Crix, you’ll take us deeper into the jungle, Moirn protested behind him.

It’s the fastest way. It will lead us to the flats within the day.

It will lead us to the Mounds.

I know, Crix said bitterly, hoping his ruse was working.

We are well enough ahead already. My plan will still work.

And what is your plan, Moirn? Crix spat back at her.