The Curse of Destiny (Winter 2013-2014)

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Flashback by Mike Brenizer.


For eight days, Sabastian paced back and forth through his well-appointed and lavishly comfortable room. The chain and manacles around his ankles clinked and rattled with each step, but besides that he couldn't complain. The Galanthian had never eaten so well in his life, and every request he made was given to him, except for his freedom. The grizzled guard at the door made that perfectly clear. Sabastian never was able to recall exactly when or how he fell in battle. One moment he was alongside his fellow Swords of Lore and the next he was waking up here.

Damned Icenian mages must have gotten the drop on him.

The door handle shook, the sounds of keys releasing the heavy locks sunk deep in the hard wood. As the door swung inward a tall man dressed in fine, comfortable robes walked in carrying two crystal glasses and a dusty bottle of clear liquid.

"I think today we could try some of the pepper mead I was telling you about,” said the man with a friendly smile.

This had been the norm for the last week of Sebastian’s life. At first he had been tight lipped with his captor, expecting him to ask about troop movements and then threaten torture. Instead the Icenian brought refreshments and only seemed interested in stories of Galanthia.

What was your home like? Where are the best ports for travel? What were Galanthian cuisines flavored with? Have you seen any good plays lately? None of it made any sense. So he eventually obliged his captor in hopes of winning his freedom. Five days later and his hope had turned to frustration, at eight days now he was furious.

"Take your mead and shove it up your ***," Sebastian growled.

"In two more days I am taking you home."

"You... you’re taking me back to Galanthia? Just like that? Keep me like a pet and then release an enemy soldier back to his home?" Sebastian stuttered in disbelief.

"Something like that."

"Yeah, and how many limbs will I be missing when I get back?"

"I promise not a drop of your blood will be left in Icenia,” the man said as he popped the cork on the bottle. The two men took their ritualistic places at the small table in the center of the room. The glasses were laid out and each filled in turn, the scent of crisp golden apples filled the air.

Sabastian raised his glass in toast. "To home."

"Agreed,” the Icenian replied. “To home.”

Both men drank deeply, draining their glasses. They took a moment to savor the slight burning sensation given by the sweet alcoholic elixir. Stifling a yawn, Sabastian reached for the bottle, but faltered and knocked it to the floor.

"You poisoned the… the mead?”

“The glasses, actually,” the Icenian remarked.

Sebastian’s eyes grew heavy very quickly and his head sunk to the table, where he began to snore. The Icenian stood up and walked to the door, where he signaled to the Guard Captain.

"Bring in the sample, Captain, and please move the incubator to the laboratory. Use the indestructible table and straps. Secure him as if your life depended on it."

+++

Sabastian awoke groggy, light headed, and cold. In the darkness, he tried to move his limbs, but his body would not obey him.


"So I'm dead, and this is the way I shall spend eternity?" He said to himself.

A light flickered into being in front of him, then another followed by many more until the room was almost blindingly bright.

"You’re not dead, just restrained." The Icenian sat at a table in front of him, staring intently at an empty vial stained dark red.

"I thought you said you were going to release me!?"

"I said that I was taking you back home, most of you anyway. Your blood, to be specific. Not a drop will remain in Icenia. It’s much too dangerous to have inside the borders, post transition. Everything else must be burned."

"What madness is this?"

"There is something very special, and very terrible, flowing through your veins. It will not only change your body and mind, but your very spirit as well. You will be the first Galanthian of many to be effected by the Luminus strain."

"You ******* bastard! What are you talking about? What is a Luminus?"

The Icenian sighed and set down the vial very carefully.

"I am truly sorry that I don't have time to answer all of your questions. Just know that you are very special, Sabastian. Your body will provide enough contagion to flavor half the wells in Galanthia Major. I'm also afraid that this will be our last conversation. When you see me next you won't recognize me. Not that your mind would be able to form words even if you did."

The Galanthian spit into the Icenian’s face. The Icenian wiped the phlegm from his cheek and calmly picked up the vial on the table.

"Fortunately, saliva doesn't become infectious until stage three. Goodbye, Sabastian. Thank you again for all the information, it should help greatly in my travels."

Screams and curses followed the Icenian out, as the door was pulled shut and tightly locked.

+++

"Yes, Captain?"

"Are you sure this is how you want to proceed? If this works, thousands will die."

"Hundreds of thousands, Captain. Galanthia has been a problem for Icenia for far too long, and as long as they are ruled by the blood-leeches they will continue to be a threat."

"Yes, but is this how we really want to beat them?"

"I don't want to beat them, Captain. I want to break them! This will be the end of Galanthia as it exists today. It will either crumble upon itself or change. Either way, they will never challenge us as a major power on this continent again."

"Forgive me, my Lord, but if you do this... your spirit will forever be tainted. The Hero’s Graveyard will be closed to you."

"Perhaps, Captain, perhaps. In the end it does not matter. I'm not important. Those who will die are not important. All that matters, Captain, is that Icenia endures."

+++

“Galanthia will endure, Rezimus.”

Silas Omegaddon and Rezimus had arrived back in Boltcliff as the sun set. Once the siege’s foundations had been laid, Silas had no qualms about leaving the daily trivium of command to his necromancers and skeletal warlords. Rezimus expressed no resistance to the orders to return, which meant he was learning his place. That was good.

Silas instructed Rezimus to debrief the captains of Boltcliff and reorganize their dispositions, but already Silas could tell that it had been a quiet few weeks in their absence. There were no signs of Red Madness activity at all. There had barely been any on the road north as well. Perhaps, they had finally slain enough of the damnable things.

He considered stopping by the healer’s tent to find something to eat, but activity by the Grand Ballista stopped him. A figure clad in black clothing was busily working at the base of the war machine. Even the Empire’s siege engineers were plainly identifiable. This was an intruder.

“You, identify yourself!” Silas called out to the man. He drew his blades and began to run to apprehend him. The man looked up and gave a whistle-signal. Two men dashed out from behind the marble pedestal wielding swords in one hand and oaken stakes in the other. One man had an ugly scar across his throat and the other was tattooed blue.

Silas was set back by their furious assault. He worked his defense while trying to pass through. He got sloppy and one of their swords bit with a flash of light. The wound exploded with red, vampiric blood. Enchanted swords.

He redoubled his efforts to defend and it slowed his advance to the ballista. The men began to make daring jabs with their stakes, which he slapped away as quickly as possible.

“Rezimus!”

Rezimus dashed out of the command tent just before Silas called his name. He drew his sword and scanned the opposition, but when he saw the bald man trapping the ballista he panicked and pulled up his hood.

“Rezimus, take the blue one!”

Rezimus charged the Vakkar, swinging high and slow. The Vakkar disengaged the vampire to deal with the new threat. He leveled hard, quick strikes at Rezimus’ head, but Rezimus blocked the blows and stepped inside the warrior’s reach, shoulder charging him back.

The Vakkar braced against the impact and hurled Rezimus to the ground. As he raised his blade for a quick finish, Rezimus punched the hilt of his blade into his knee. The Vakkar was taken off of his feet and landed on the ground next to Rezimus. He dove on the fallen warrior and placed his blade upon the blue stained throat.

“Tell your leader to keep working. I’ll buy him time,” Rezimus whispered.

The Vakkar looked absolutely confused as Rezimus got back up and slipped an oaken stake out of his boot, but did as the stranger asked. He rolled and ran to the bald man to deliver the message. The bald man tried to get a look at Rezimus, but the rigor of working with traps required his attention.

Rezimus stalked behind Silas as he dueled the South Galanthian, looking as if he were about to flank. With a cry that consisted more of primal hatred than of language, he thrust the stake into Silas’ back.

The South Galanthian was shocked more than relieved, but said nothing. He shook off the surprise after a second and stabbed his own stake deep into Silas’ chest. Silas’ screamed and roared in ways that were not human.

The saboteur took the screams as his cue to run. The traps left on the ballista began to tick. The Vakkar and the South Galanthian began to run with him. The ticks accelerated and there was a muffled bang. The ballista disappeared in a puff of flames before a shock wave blasted everyone nearby to the ground.

+++

Andros von Stratton picked himself up out of the dirt and debris. The explosion had been a lot more spectacular that he’d predicted. When Dominus Miliardo had offered him a mission to track the vampire who led the Plainsheart assault and bomb his crypt, Andros had only one question, “How big are the bombs?”

Getting in to Boltcliff had been simple. The soldiers had gotten lazy in the absence of their boss. Especially on the aspect of watching the cliff for climbers.

As he looked around, North Galanthian troops were pulling themselves back to their feet. Some were crying out for healers, some weren’t moving at all. Haldr and Lucius were pulling themselves to their feet, bloodied but alive. Their escape options were beginning to thin, so he grabbed the two and pulled them toward the front gate. They’d make a run for it before the confusion settled.

The outer wall was buzzing with activity, but none of it directed inwards. The guards on the towers were shouting and blowing rally horns. One word could be heard above all in the frantic cries.

“Red.”

The saboteurs exchanged concerned glances and ran back the way they came. Hiding was not difficult as the soldiers ran in a panic to the front gates. All of them were shouting about the same thing: an incoming wave of the Red Madness. Andros decided that the only way out of Boltcliff was the way they climbed in.

The courtyard of the Grand Ballista had cleared itself out. All that remained were the necromancers that were tending to the oaken stakes embedded in the vampire. They had removed the one in his chest and he was moving yet again. Andros nodded to Haldr and Lucius and they ran forward to stab the necromancers to death. Andros lamented that he did not have the Book of the Dawn, as the vampire must have been too old for the stakes to finish him.

The vampire struggled against the paralysis that had gripped his lower body, as he screamed angrily for “the traitor.”

Andros assumed he meant the man in the hood standing on the edge of the cliff, where the ballista had become a burning ruin. The man was speaking to an obsidian falcon. As he let the construct fly, he took a step off of the cliff, speaking aloud the words,

“Icenia endures.”
 
The Glass Age

Glenmoore and Amisara suffered terribly in the onslaught of the Marwolaeth. Despite their resistance, their nobility structures had been carved into pieces. With little to no governance, the two sinking nations looked to Brittington for aid.

After succeeding from Icenia, Queen Sonia Bouchard was glad to take on any allies she could. As Brittington restructured itself into Counties to better support its new royal structure, the Barons Emeritus of Forderick and DunkaLee worked to merge the two nations into a single County. Dame Shona Taggart was installed as the Countess of the newly named AmisMoore, for the Amisarans were more supportive of a female leader and the Glenmoorans were too relieved to care.

Forderick was joined with RomWing and DunkaLee was joined with WidowCroft, cementing in place the Royal Counties of Brittington.

The eastern port city of Amisaria quickly became a popular destination for the nobles of the formerly landlocked nation. Its white marble villas and blue ocean waters were a stark contrast to the greys, blues, and blacks of Brittingcrest.

Today, the blue and black came to them.

Countess Shona Taggart gave Sir Amaranthus Landcharmer permission to rise.

“Your Honor, Her Majesty has sent me with the supply requests and caravan orders that you requested. She offers no hard schedule, but the Imladari are happy to pay for expedience.”

“Understood, Sir Amaranthus, thank you,” she said. “Have you had a chance to walk around Amisaria?”

“I have not, Countess.”

The Countess gestured for the Court to journey outside to the seaside. The day was pleasantly warm and the sun sat in a cloudless sky. Ships were docking and departing in equal measure and by all standards the County was prosperous. Her County paladins, Sir Douglas Forderick and Sir Ewan DunkaLee, looked just as pleased as the Countess to be getting outdoors on such a day.

“I didn’t know much of Amisara or Glenmoore before I was placed in power here. Of course, I was familiar with the Glenrake-Moorgrave War, but even details on that conflict are kept quiet. I’m not a warrior knight like yourself or Sir Ewan or Sir Douglas, I’m a healer. That’s why I was selected. The Amisarans prefer both women in power and healers in power. I am a walking political statement. As much as I love both of my paladins, we all understand that they are here to babysit.”

Sir Amaranthus cast a confused look to the rambling Countess. “Your Honor, I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”

She sighed, “I don’t know either. I feel far from home, I thought talking to someone with a reputation for adventuring might help. Do you ever feel that way?”

“Constantly, Your Honor.”

“How do you cope?”

Amaranthus thought for a moment. “I don’t think I actually do. I just keep taking missions and completing them. I let my work distract me.”

“I hear that a lot from artisans. The focus on their craft and it pushes such thoughts to the back of their minds.”

“I can agree with that. War is my craft.”

“Do you believe that Imladar and the biata to the south will come to war?”

Amaranthus stopped and gave her a look.

“Apologies, Sir Amaranthus, if I have offended you racially, I…”

“No, no, it’s alright,” he said quietly. He held a hand to his temple as if he had developed a headache. “The Thessi are not good people, I’m surprised no one’s come to blows with them already.”

Shona nodded and leaned in sheepishly, as if to tell a secret, “I hear rumors that you’re petitioning for Queen Sonia and Duke Nevin to marry. Is that true?”

Amaranthus looked at her through the now splitting headache and tried to speak, but his breath was short. Ship-horns were sounding in the harbor. The paladins looked for threats on the waters, but saw nothing. Just to be safe, they instructed the Countess and the ailing Sir Amaranthus back into the villa. Then Amaranthus noticed it. It was a feeling, more than anything, a feeling of riotous sensation along his nerves.

Only one thing could cause that level of pain at this distance.

“Paladins, you have to get everyone off the docks,” he strained. “You have to do it now. The Daralassia is here and she’s coming in fast.”

The paladins nodded and left the Countess and him in the villa to shout to the people on the docks. It wasn’t until a heat shimmer in the harbor twisted and became a massive ship of porcelain and silver that people began to panic. It showed no hint of slowing down and it was headed straight for the seawall.

People screamed and horns continued to blare, whilst the paladins did their best to restore order, but there was not enough time. The Daralassia hit the seawall with a cataclysmic impact. Wooden docks splintered and vaporized in the ship’s arcane field. The stone of the seawall crumbled like dirt and the ship slid into land like a beached glass whale.

The Countess laid Amaranthus down as he began to convulse. She tore a strip off of her gown to soak in a nearby basin and laid the cool cloth on his head. She didn’t know biata physiology, so she could only make educated guesses on treatment.

She looked out on the devastation and wondered just what could have gone so wrong.

+++

Sir Ewan DunkaLee picked himself up from the wreckage. He’d been fairly lucky being tossed aside by the bow wash of the ship before it send splinters everywhere. Wounded were already being tended to by anyone still walking. A hand grabbed his shoulder and turned him around.

“Ewan, are you alright?” asked Sir Douglas. “Good, we need to board her and find out what is going on.”

Ewan and Douglas ran through the wreckage to the port side of the ship, which was slightly lower to the ground. They pulled all of their elixirs and potions as they ran to hand to anyone tending the wounded. With effort and some strategically placed wreckage they climbed onto the ship. They felt the tangy buzz in the air of the arcane field as it resonated with their own. There were none living on the ship, as far as they could see.

At the helm, they found the permanently dead body of an Imladari mage next to the kneeling, inanimate form of High Lord Valdorian Thantellin’s golem body. Ewan reached down to touch the charred porcelain form.

The construct jerked weakly into life. “Help…us…”

“My lord, what has happened here?” Ewan asked.

“Thessi…weapon…”

“What do we do?”

Valdorian looked up at Ewan as best as he could. There was pain in his quicksilver eyes. There was confusion. There was fear.

“I…” he stuttered. “I don’t know…”
 
Scars of the Mind

In the Emperor’s private arming chamber, Calibos Thardik placed another bloody scalpel in the murky basin. Several more magically sharpened knives sat on the stone slab serving as an operating table. The body on the table seemed to be in perfect, peaceful sleep, but the top of his skull sat on a nearby table.

Calibos wiped his hands on a rag, before grasping the next scalpel and handing it to Khordel, Arzt of the Blaues. The blue and orange feathered biata set back to work carefully making incisions in the Emperor’s grey brain.

“It’s truly fascinating how much of the brain is used to store memories. As you can see here and here, this is where normal sensory memories are held. It doesn’t look much different than the rest of the brain, but here you can see where the memory of magical talent is held. The wrinkles are tighter, more densely packed.”

“That is fascinating, Getragen,” said Calibos. “I partially regret not giving more time to study the brain. Improving the body has mattered much more for the impending war.”

“I really wish you would stop referring to your war.”

Calibos gave a look to Khordel that caused the Painguard in the room to loosen the swords in their sheaths. Khordel stopped his cutting and matched the glare.

“It is not my war. This war belongs to the man you are modifying.”

“As much as I have relished the opportunity to modify a personality into the brain flesh of a gryphon, I have been carefully deciding how to ask you a very important question.”

Calibos considered Khordel’s words carefully and nodded, “Please, ask.”

“Besides the promise of imminent and painful death, what is stopping me from causing irreparable damage to his personality?”

“The promise of imminent and painful life, Getragen. I won’t have you simply murdered. I will have you scarred, injected, tattooed, and drowned in gryphon blood. When you resurrect you will live every day of the rest of your life in abject agony.”

Khordel thought for a moment, “Oh, well then.”

“It will be a far easier life for you if you just do as I say. I don’t expect you to understand the gravity of this moment, but late Emperor Bernd Thrommel so desperately wanted a son.”
 
Standstill
by Donna Hellmuth

“Thank you for receiving our summons, Dame Vacht.”

She had only been to Cil Cilurion once in her entire life, and only for her squire’s test. It had seemed then a place of limitless wonder, the embodiment of all things that the Code of Chivalry protected; it was the treasure of all Icenia, a place of peace and learning. But now, the beauty was lost on her. The glistering buildings and gilded halls held nothing special for her, no charm, no wonder. Even now, standing just beyond the ornate doors of the grand and glorious throne room where the Ordo Aurum sat in fastidious judgment and justice, she could only feel a strange sense of disgust for the opulence.

Men and women were dying for this place. Her men and women. They were dying to preserve these old halls, and Paladin Nevis Honorium wasted her precious time with politeness.

“We understand that you’ve been preoccupied with the clashes in Stirling – that you even resurrected while evacuating a town of its citizens. That’s actually why we asked you to come here.”

“Gabriela Tolmie is dead, if that’s what you were wondering, Your Justice.” For a fraction of a moment, Vacht could see it again: the claws coming through her chest, the shock on Gabriela’s face, the mist of blood hitting her cheek. There was a long pause while Paladin Nevis looked into her face, as if he could see the memory unfolding in her eyes. Yet, he didn’t seem to shy from it. Looking back at him, Vacht thought she saw recognition. It was familiar to him. He nodded solemnly.

“We are sorry to hear that news. Though she was indeed a traitor to the Code and Crown, no one deserves to meet a grisly end.” The sentiment almost surprised her; wasn’t the Ordo meant to be cold and unfeeling? She nodded her agreement, averting her gaze instead to the intricate carvings of the throne room’s doors.

“However, that is not why we asked you here, Dame Silverfang. We sent for you because we feel that you continue to honorably serve the Crown even in defected Falkirk, and we’re well aware of the deteriorating situation. The most recent reports have been of great disturbance to us. We grieve for our brothers and sisters there, but we have no strength left there to help.”

“We need you.”

Vacht hesitated a moment, unsure if she had heard those words correctly. Need? What need did the Ordo have of a broken knight in a land that was trying to eat itself alive? She looked back to Paladin Nevis and he seemed to pick up on her surprise. He sighed deeply, as though the weight of all the world rested upon his shoulders – as if the burden wasn’t one he wished to ever place upon another. He turned, standing between the doors of the throne and herself, and he placed a heavy hand upon her shoulder.

“You may very well be our last chance to reach out to the fallen duchy. We will not abandon the people we swore to protect, but we do not have the forces to act directly. This is why the Ordo Aurum has asked for you, Dame Silverfang. You have proven yourself faithful to the Kingdom and the Code, and we believe you are the key to returning Falkirk to where it belongs. But you swore an oath to a Duchy that is no more, to men and women who have since died, and therefore we cannot order you to do anything that you do not choose to. The choice, then, is your own. My peers of the Ordo await inside those chambers for your answer.”

“Will you, Dame Vacht Silverfang, accept the charge of Paladin of Falkirk?”
 
DESTINY

Imagos Pyatt sat in silence. His arms were still sore from the brutal beating he took, but the lack of anything to do was hurting him far more than any physical ailment. He had tried sleeping, but even that was too boring. He’d even calculated the arcane shift vectors in the orbiting lights. It was a challenge, but now even that was behind him. There were holes in the coverage of the anti-magic field, but only for moments that were so brief that there would never be any way he could interact with them.

It’d be like dodging sunbeams from seven separate suns.

One would have to be powerful and fast beyond imagining just to have a chance.

“Human, Galanthian, Imagos Pyatt.”

The voice that rumbled behind him was feral and terrifying. It was not, however, entirely unexpected. As he had already calculated, only one type of creature could get into this prismatic cage magically. He turned to face the dragon armed only with a charming smile. Then he noticed that there were three of them.

“Three… dragons...” he stuttered in shock.

“Incorrect,” said one as he stepped out of the colored shadows. He wore a black robe, his skin was pale white, and his ears were pointed as if he were Saribdian, but black scales and horns covered his face and head like a mask. “We are Bryn. I am Ostekha’n Sardeh Mordeh, Bryn of Order and Death.”

“Bryn?” Imagos repeated. “That’s the Sarr word for wyvern. Matter of fact, your name is all in Sarr. Your name means bone… cold… dead.”

“As a literal translation, yes. It is the language of the Bryn, which the Gorbe took a liking to, centuries ago. They still butcher it to this day.”

“Did you break into the most well-guarded prison in Icenia just for a linguistic discussion?”

The larger of the two remaining silhouettes stepped forward and lifted Imagos out of his chair, severing the chain with his bare claw effortlessly.

“My brother requires more respect than that, worm,” this one roared into Imagos face. It looked like a tiger sarr had sprouted red and black scales and horns. It reeked of fresh blood.

“This is Khun Jangidan Koshtan, Imagos. His name’s literal translation is all too appropriate. My sister there is Zan Zaida’n Jazza’b.”

The smallest of the wyverns stepped forward and offered an ironic curtsy. Her skin shifted with the colors of the prism like a chameleon’s. Her scales and horns shifted actively, like living hair. Ostekha’n continued speaking.

“We are here to inform you as to the purpose of your life. The reason the fates of the intruder dragons were etched onto your bones before you were born. You are the intersection of the fates of all the nation of this continent. It is your destiny to ensure that this continent is not destroyed by the greed and violence of our unwelcome cousins. Our older brother vowed that upon your bloodline, but he no longer lives to see it so. Now, it falls to us and believe me when I say…

We will do anything to ensure Tar’Navaria’s survival.”

+++

Robillarde Bezznia unlocked the door to the Prism and stepped inside. He had heard Imagos yelling and thrashing about. He did not know how to stop the Jade Skeleton from having his seizure, but he was still wary of the man for fear of deception. His attention turned to the chains which held Imagos to the floor. They were whole.

“Whatever nightmare you’re having is still not punishment enough for your crimes.”

Imagos eyes snapped open and glared at Robillarde. The eyes were damaged, seemingly sightless, but they bore right into Robillarde’s spirit.

“The nightmare has yet to begin.”
 
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