War in the Dustlands [PG-16][Chapter Four posted!]

[Umbra]

Alright, so I finally got around to penning down that fantasy story I mentioned a few days back. This scene that you're about to read popped into my head as I wrote it, mainly, but that's how these things tend to work. For me, at least. The world grows as I write, with more and more backstory emerging from this mysterious realm where the story takes place as it is needed. I don't consider myself as much a writer as I am a storyteller, simply narrating the stories that come to me.This one starts in the land of Latheria, in a place known as the Dustlands. Where it ends, nobody knows.

I put a PG-16 tag in the title, since I think a sixteen-year-old is capable of reading what you're about to read, but I would like to throw in a second warning nonetheless. There is some graphical content in this story, and - if I continue it here - there will most likely be more further down the line. I didn't put it there with the purpose of being graphical, that's simply how it turned out. If the content is deemed inappropriate for the site, I will gladly remove it.

Without further ado, let's start. Feel free to leave your comments and thoughts below.

[spoiler="Prologue: The Sparrow"]If he had seen the man put his hand on his blade, Cripp might have been able to run away that night. He could have made it. Now, he was lying in the doorway of the Laughing Calf Inn, trying his best to keep the wound in his gut closed while the stranger was... up there. He had heard screams coming from above for several hours now, almost all of which had turned into a gargle. Cripp had thought of himself as a skilled swordfighter, one of the best in the village, but he had been no match for the pale-faced stranger that was working his way through their guests. As the blood started to soak his undershirt, memories were coming to him. Old Man Barston, the innkeep, had taken Cripp in at the age of fourteen, when his mother died. His father had been a soldier, in service of King Malys the Just, and like many others he had perished in the War of the Snowdragon. She used to say that he looked just like his father; the same brown hair and deep-set blue eyes. Cripp had been apprenticed to the town blacksmith then, a rough and hard-skinned man called Leonar. Without his mother to pay for the apprenticeship, Leonar had kicked him out. Barston took him in after that, and he had guarded the inn ever since.

But not anymore. He coughed, his mouth tasting of blood. He had failed. Barston was dead, and all the serving girls were dead, too. Vellis the Wandering Bard had come down the Northroad and played for them that night, and now his lute lay on the floor, split in half much like its owner. Lord Darle's son, Quentin, had come with a following of six men, all armed and armored. They had held out for a time, but not for long. The stranger had slain them all, with that wicked blade of his, and Cripp could do nothing but watch.

Then, an idea struck him. It was madness, he knew that much, but if he was going to die either way, he might as well go down fighting. He dropped to one side, praying to Father Hathoryn that the stranger, in his killing, wouldn't hear him, and started to push himself across the floor. Each burst of effort made his gut wrench, but he kept pushing forward. Every time the floorboards creaked, he paused, holding his breath, waiting for the stranger to come down the stairs and cut off his head like he'd done to poor Bessy, but there was nothing. With one hand on his chest, he reached out in front of him... and grabbed hold of something. The lute had been snapped in half, probably by the stranger's boot, right where the neck met the body, and the strings had been torn apart. Careful not to make any noise, Cripp picked the neck up and held it by the head. It was no sword, but it would have to do. He had seen the Inquisitors kill a heretic in one stab with their stakes, and this was as close as he was going to get. The broken side was very sharp indeed, and could serve as a weapon... if he had the chance to use it. He would only get one shot at killing the stranger, so he had to take him by surprise. With his new weapon in a firm grip, he started to crawl.

He had tried not to look at the others, but he couldn't stop himself. The inn was usually full of guests on nights like these; not just locals, but travelers heading for the capital, traders from the Steppes, or the occasional nobleman. They had started to thin out after the Snowdragon died, but they would still come. For the best ale in the Dustlands or the smile of a pretty girl, the Laughing Calf was a sure stop for anyone coming down the road. Tonight had been no different. There'd been more than two dozen here tonight, that was for sure. Cripp had never been much of a number person, but his mother had still told him to keep trying. Two dozen had seemed like a good place to stop, so he had, and that had been enough for him. He could make half a dozen swords in a week if he had the right materials, and he could make two dozen in a month. He had let more than two dozen people in here, and had thrown out more than two dozen people that had had a little too much to drink that night. Even then, there were still so many people here.

Two dozen on the floor that had been dancing, two dozen at the tables that had been drinking. Half a dozen at the bar, waiting for the old man to pour his finest tap, straight from the Greenward. Cripp had seen the old man's eyes shine when he talked about the breweries there, vast towers on mountainsides overlooking the lush forests. Cripp had never met a Lord Brewer, as the elven brewmasters called themselves, but to hear the old man tell the tale, they were legendary. Now, the old man was lying across the bar, his right arm cut clean off at the shoulder. When Cripp finally came to the stairs, his shirt was covered in blood and dirt. Most of it wasn't his own. He propped himself up against the wall, weapon in hand, and ready to leap. He cried, just a little, and waited.

He wasn't sure how long it had been when the stairs started to creak. It had gotten cold already, that much he knew. He'd managed to stop the bleeding from his guts by ripping his shirt apart, and the fireplace had died out a long time ago. Night had fallen, but it had already been late when the stranger arrived. It had been more than two dozen minutes since then, that was for sure, but beyond that it was hard to tell. The blood on his shirt had dried up, and his legs were sore, but he had to prepare himself. He would only get one chance.

The stranger came down the stairs. He'd thrown away the brown leather coat he'd been wearing earlier, in favor of a rough-sewn white shirt. From where Cripp was, he could only see the man's right side, drenched entirely in blood. The blade in his hand was black as the night that surrounded them, dark enough to drain away what little starlight came in through the windows.
Heartsteel, Cripp thought. His old master Leonar had talked about it once; many years ago, Lord Darle had asked for a blade for his son, who had just turned fifteen the day before.
“Had it been anyone else, I would've shoved him out the front door and turned 'im over to the Inquisitors. There's no stronger steel than heartsteel, son, and Lord Darle wanted the best of the best, but it can't be done. It's not blacksmithing, it's witchcraft, I say to you and hold me to it. Heartsteel is forged with the blood of unborn children, feasting on the very essence of their lives. Even a simple dagger needs one death.”
They had not talked about it ever again but his words had stuck in Cripp's mind. The stranger's blade was no dagger; it must have reached at least five feet from handle to point, and at least nine inches across. Cripp had seen larger men carry smaller blades in both hands, and yet the stranger carried his sword effortlessly in one hand, showing no effort or strain. Or remorse. Cripp could only see half of the stranger's face, but it seemed completely void of all expression or emotion.

The stranger reached the bottom of the stairs, and started heading for the door. Cripp readied himself as much as he could, with the broken lute in a firm grip in his right hand and his left at his gut. The familiar rattling of ringmail followed the stranger's every step, and the steel wristguards that poked out from his sleeves made it very clear that he was better protected than he seemed. Except for one place. Just where the shirt met the neck, the stranger's white hair parted to reveal an unprotected patch of skin. That's where I have to strike. Cripp got onto his feet, and crouched in the shadow of the stairs. He inched forward, lute in hand, ever getting closer to the stranger, who was standing perfectly still in the middle of the room with his back to him. For a second, Cripp thought the stranger had heard him, and that he'd turn around any second, with that black heartsteel blade of his ready to cut his head off, but so far he hadn't made a sound. They were less than two feet away from each other now. It's time. In a single movement, Cripp raised his weapon above his head and leaped.

Other than the occasional fight at the bar, Cripp had never hurt anyone before, and even then he'd only used his fists. He knew how to swing a sword, and how to chop lumber with an axe, but he'd never used a weapon against someone else before. He didn't know what it was like to bury a blade in someone's throat, or a mace in their skull. He didn't know what he was supposed to feel when his fashioned stake made contact with the stranger's flesh, ever digging deeper. He didn't know if he should throw up when he heard the stranger's neck snap as the lute broke through it, but he felt like it. And when the wood broke through onto the other side, sending another spray of blood onto the floor, he wasn't sure if he could stand any longer.

He let go of his weapon and fell back, leaning against the stair's railings. He had done it. It was over. A relieved sigh slipped through his lips, and the sound of it – so simple, so safe – made him laugh. I don't have to hide, he thought. He could leave the inn now, and go away to wherever he wanted. Old Man Barston was dead and gone, and so was everyone else he'd ever known. Leonar, the blacksmith, had left town a few years back, and no one had heard from him ever since. Everyone else that mattered to him, or had mattered to him, was somewhere in this inn, drowning in a pool of their own blood. It was sad, yes, but in a way, he felt better than he ever had before. Until he heard the gargling, that was. He looked up, and instantly froze. Impossible.
The stranger was still standing. Perfectly upright, as if he didn't have a foot of lute right through his neck. The sword was still in his hand, and still at the ready. Cripp felt his fingers dig deeper and deeper into the railings. He didn't have his weapon anymore. Defenseless. Slowly but surely, the stranger turned his head, the bones cracking and breaking against the wood with every move. Cripp clearly heard it snap as it turned behind his shoulder, and it kept going. When it finally did come to a halt, the stranger's head was facing him, but the rest of his body wasn't.

The stranger raised his left hand to his throat, grabbed hold of the stake, and simply shoved. It flew out of his neck, arcing in the air, and landed on the floor behind him. Cripp could see straight through the hole it had left behind, and the flaps of flesh inside it that moved as the stranger breathed. Finally, he managed to speak.

“What are you?”

The stranger smiled, an impossibly wide smile that unhinged his jaw. His voice came through the hole in his throat; the smile did not move.

“I am sorry, little Crippen, I truly am. But I do not speak with the dead, I only feast on them. Don't be mistaken, little sparrow. You are dead, and all of you Dustlanders are. The duke will soon march, and his shadows will come for you. War is coming, on the backs of death and destruction. A king will rise once more, from the depths of his grave.”

And with two quick motions of the heartsteel blade, darkness fell upon Crippen, son of no one.[/spoiler]

[spoiler="One: Misthill"]
The knights of the Dustlands had flocked to Castle Misthill by the hundreds, it seemed. The field behind the castle had been cleared out by Lord Darle's workers many weeks in advance, and was now almost entirely covered in tents of varying sizes and shapes. A tournament was rare in times of war, and rarer still in the Dustlands, where knights would change their banner more often than Mother Moon would change her face.

The poorer knights only kept a smaller tent for themselves and their squire, while the more wealthy ones had entire pavilions set up for them and their followers. Where the knights went, the people would follow. Dozens of servants rushed from tent to tent, carrying some important message from their lord to one of their allies... or to their enemies. Hundreds of goldhawks would switch hands before the day was over, that much was for certain. A friend now could easily become your worst enemy tomorrow.

San Perdon Wylde liked to think he was better than that. In the fifteen years that had passed since the War of the Snowdragon and the fall of Hecaton, the banner he followed had only changed a handful of times, and only once had the promise of gold turned him around. Fire. He shied away from the thought, and kept walking.

Now, he found himself here, in the service of Edmund Darle. The Duke of Misthill was a good man; san Perdon had seen as much on the day they met. The duke had lead an ambush on san Perdon's liege, but spared the knight in exchange for his fealty. That had been five years ago, and the knight had found no reason to leave. The Dustlands were at war, as they always were, but it was not his war. He was too old for that kind of fighting. The hair on his head had started to gray, and the sword felt heavier in his hand every winter.

No, the battlefield was not his place. That was for younger men, those who still had a spring in their step and nothing but glory and gold on their minds. Those who still think they're invincible. He sighed, and continued walking past the tents. His place was in the courtyard now, training Lord Darle's new recruits in the art of warfare. Many of them were little more than boys with less than a scratch of stubble on their chins, but they were competent fighters nonetheless. In a few years, san Perdon thought he would see most of them on the battlefield, be it in service of Lord Darle or fighting against him, or perhaps competing in a tourney like this.

Today, his mind was set on a specific young man, the one that he had come here to find. Kace Harmon was born during the War of the Snowdragon, and like many others, he had been abandoned. Rumor had it that the boy's mother, a second cousin of Lord Darle, had come to Misthill in the black of night, after her husband had been killed in a raid on their village, and left the boy in his care. Some say she hanged herself after that; others say she left for the Steppes. Whichever it was, san Perdon did not know; it had happened long before he had arrived at Misthill.

Back then, the boy had been a piece of work. Lord Darle had taken him in, kept him fed and clothed and cared for, but other than that, young Kace had seen little in the ways of parenting. He was a menace to the servants, played pranks on the kitchenfolk and disturbed even the knights. He was fearless, but arrogant, and he was a bad influence on the duke's son, Quentin. When san Perdon had taken Kace in as his squire, he'd tried his best to set the boy back on the right path. The boy had become more disciplined, that was certain, and he had no doubt become more skilled with the sword... but the arrogance was still there. He had complained – quite loudly, the knight thought – when Lord Darle appointed him as courier during the tournament. “The duke's messenger boy”, he'd said, and spat on the ground. “They never write songs about messengers.”

However, he had accepted the job, and now Lord Darle had summoned san Perdon to bring the boy back up to the castle. Kennon Roache, the duke's steward and right hand, represented the duke down on the field. He told him he'd sent the boy off not five minutes ago, with a message to san Hark Farlon. San Perdon knew the man; a knight in the service of Tion Redane, the duke of Alnoreid Bay. The two of them had seen eye to eye many a times on different battlefields, and over the years they had earned some mutual respect. Roache had pointed him in the direction of Farlon's tent, and that was where he was headed now.

He had expected something more impressive from Farlon, that was for sure. Word had come in that Redane had made several successful conquests in the last few months, even granting some of his knights castles of their own. Even so, Hark Farlon's tent was just over ten feet across and not nearly as high. Two servants, a girl and a giant of a boy, neither of which could be more than sixteen, were unloading crates from a wagon, and three horses had been bound to a post. As san Pardon came closer to the tent, the two of them raised their heads almost in unison, and the knight almost shied away. Both of them had had their eyes carved out, leaving only two empty sockets.

Before san Perdon had any chance to react, the girl turned to face the boy.
“Penn, keep going. There's still a few boxes in the back, be careful with those. Someone's here to see san Hark, I'll talk to them.”
With surprising elegance and a fierceness in her step, the girl walked right towards him.
“Good day to you, san. What is your name?”
San Perdon, slightly baffled, hesitated for a moment.
“How did you know I was – “
“A knight?”
The girl smiled, which was an unsettling sight to say the least.
“Your armor, san. It clinks and clanks when you wear it, and it leaves a stench on you when you don't.”
San Perdon was actually surprised when he felt a slight blush on his cheeks. She's brusque. I can see why Hark keeps her around, she must make for very interesting company on the road.
“I'm Perdon Wylde, Kace's master. I've been told he was sent here.”
The girl nodded.
“He's inside, with san Hark. The master has been telling him stories from the war, you see.” She paused for a moment. “He's very sweet, your boy.”
The knight, unkeen to engage in any other discussion on that matter, simply nodded, and headed for the opening.
“Thank you, girl.”
As he went inside, the girl returned to the cart, quietly humming a tune.

The interior of the tent was surprisingly bright, with several slits on all sides to let the sunlight shine through. The tent seemed even smaller on the inside, as almost every available space had been filled with some sort of furniture. A round wooden table dominated the center of the room, with a circle of chairs around it. Over to san Perdon's right were the weapon racks; various different swords and axes neatly put on display, while easy to grab a hold of should things turn sour. San Perdon noticed that one stand, much larger than the others, more fit for a greatsword than anything else, stood empty. On the opposite side, two busts had been set up, where san Hark had put up his two suits of armor; the white-gold-plated one he wore for tournaments, and the dim gray steel one he used in battle. After fighting several wars with the man, not always on the same side, san Perdon recognized them both.

The knight himself was standing at the tableside, in a surprisingly clean white shirt. As always, san Perdon was a bit taken aback by how young his fellow knight looked. They had known each other for almost ten years now, but the silvery-haired knight seemed untouched by the ages. San Perdon had brought it up once, during one of their few travels together, but san Hark had only laughed. “Maybe my father was an elf”, he'd said. “ who saw my lovely mother on the roads through the Steppes and thought he'd leave her a present.” Neither of them had brought it up again.

Kace was sitting right across from him, listening more intently than he'd ever done during one of their lessons. The girl was right; san Hark was telling stories from the war. The way he was talking, his arms waving about and making gestures, one would think he was still there. He had a sword in his right hand, fine elven steel from the looks of it, at least three feet long. To the untrained eye, such wide movements with a blade of that length would seem reckless, if not destructive, but san Perdon was no apprentice. Hark Farlon was a master swordsman, one of the best in the Dustlands.

When they noticed him, they froze. San Hark stopped right in the middle of a complex maneuver, with the tip of his sword pointed directly at san Perdon. The younger knight smiled, and lowered his blade.
“Perdon! What a pleasure to see you again.”
San Perdon nodded back, smiling.
“Under peaceful conditions, nonetheless. Though one that might not know that, from the way you are acting.”
Walking around the table to put the sword back on its stand, San Hark nodded.
“I was just telling your boy here of Lord Redane's conquests in the east. You're familiar with duke Kastor of Dunning, aren't you?”
A castle in flames, and a hidden path through the backwoods.
“I served his father, for a time. Long ago.”
The younger knight continued, almost uninterrupted.
“He had been trading with some merchants from the steppes beyond Salqahai. Most of his men were foreigners, mercenaries that care little of honor or glory. Gold drives them, and gold can come from anywhere. One of us snuck in through a back door and made a deal with their captain. There was barely a fight to speak of.”
San Perdon made sure to take note of that. All the dukes in the Dustlands knew that Tion Redane had been warmongering along the Salqahai River for the past few months, but Dunning's fall was news to him. The older knight nodded back, through the opening of the tent.
“Was that where you found the children, Hark?”
The young knight nodded, his eyes seeming to trace the lining of san Perdon's boots.
“Wynne and Penthick, you mean? Yes, they were the duke's personal servants. Slaves, no doubt. You know what the steppefolk do to the ones they take, and the ones they sell back. They got lucky, just losing their eyes.”
He smiled.
“But I don't suppose you're here for my war stories, san Perdon.”
The old knight nodded back.
“That's true. Lord Darle requests the boy's presence up at Misthill. He sent me to–“
San Hark laughed, just a little.
“The duke wants his messenger back, so he sends you to fetch him? I would've expected someone other than the armsmaster for that job.”
He waved his hand at Kace, and the boy got to his feet.
“I won't hold you up for any longer, then. Go, boy. Perhaps we will talk again soon.”
Stumbling on his words, the squire made a clumsy bow and walked up to his master. San Hark's eyes followed his path, until they connected with san Perdon's.
“Will I be seeing you in the lists tomorrow, san Perdon?”
The old knight shook his head.
“No, san Hark, you will not. Farewell.”
Together, the knight and his squire left the tent. They had places to go, and people to see.[/spoiler]

 

[spoiler=Two: A Black Blade]

 

As they left the tent, san Perdon felt a gaze on them. After spending most of his life on the battlefield, one way or the other, he had learned to perceive his surroundings. A dagger in the back was just as dangerous as a sword from the front, if not more. He cast a quick glance around... and was met with nothing. A very special nothing, as it turned out. The girl was... observing them, for lack of a better word, from the seat of the cart. She was facing them almost directly, with frightening precision. She sniffed loudly in the air, and smiled a half-smile.

”I see you found who you were looking for, san Wylde.”

San Perdon heard his squire chuckle slightly to his side, and the knight sighed internally. His squire had never known when to keep his mouth shut.

”No, you don't see. You can't see anything.”

The girl's smile widened as she leaped from the cart, dropping at least seven feet, and landing just in front of them. There was an audible gulp from the boy.

”Not with my eyes, no, but with everything else. Everyone's smell is their own, young Kace, and your stench could be sensed from a mile away.”

Kace's expression changed from surprise into anger. When San Perdon saw the boy's hand go to his waist, reaching for his sheathed dagger, he put his hand on Kace's shoulder and yanked him away.

”Restrain yourself, Kace. I made you my squire, not my fool.”

Leaving the boy flabbergasted, san Perdon turned back to the girl.

”My apologies, girl. My squire does not know his manners.”

The girl laughed, shaking her head.

”Don't blame yourself, san Wylde. He was not the first, nor was he the worst.”

She hesitated for a moment, as if a thought came upon her.

”Will you fight in the tournament, san Perdon?”

The old knight shook his head.

”I am only armsmaster here at Misthill, girl. It is not my place to fight at the duke's tournament, only to aid his soldiers.” Besides, the lance is not as light as it used to be, he thought, and the sword not so swift. ”If Lord Darle or his son want to fight, then I will aid them the best I can.”

The girl nodded.

”I see. San Hark will have to be disappointed. He said he looked forward to meeting you out on the field.”

Oh, did he now? San Perdon was surprised. He had not met Hark since his coming to Misthill, and even that had been on a battlefield, on different sides.

”Well, if Lord Redane continues his conquests up the river, he might get to do that soon enough. Tell your master that, girl.”

She looked like she was going to say something for a second. Then, she promptly – although a bit clumsily – curtsied and went back to the cart. San Perdon nodded at his squire, who had remained wonderfully quiet during the short talk, and then up to the castle.

 

They had been walking for less than a minute when the boy broke the silence.

”You almost tore off my arm there, san. Could you be more careful next time?”

The knight shot him a glare that could have cut through steel.

”Careful? If you could be more tactful, I would never have had to do that. Keep your mind at peace, Kace. It would be useful for you, both on the battlefield and at court. You may serve a different knight some day, or if the Father remembers you, you might even be knighted yourself. Then, you would serve a lord somewhere, perhaps Duke Edmund, perhaps someone else. They will not be as kind, or as forgiving, as I have been.”

The boy's gaze dropped to the ground.

”Alright, san, alright, I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

If we only were so lucky, his master thought. Nonetheless, he nodded. As they walked along through the camp, passing numerous tents and banners that san Perdon did not recognize, he nodded at the boy's dagger.

”What were you planning on doing with that, anyway?”

The boy's face lit up like a sunrise in spring as he pulled the weapon out. When the duke's son had turned fifteen, three years before, his present had been most magnificent; a black warhorse, taller than the boy himself. San Perdon had heard the boy ask for a sword, the sharpest and strongest in the land, but the Duke had only laughed. When Kace first laid his eyes on Sindos, as the young lord had named his steed, he had been incredibly jealous. San Perdon told him, time and time again, to forget about the horse, but even then the boy had refused him. It came as a shock to both of them when the duke had showed up at one of their training sessions and gave him the dagger. ”A knight must learn to protect himself, even without a sword.” The boy had been overjoyed, and thanked Lord Darle many times. Now, he carried it with him every day. The blade was eight inches long, slightly curved, and sharp as ever. He had practiced with it ever since, and had gotten quite skilled with it.

“I only wanted to scare her a little, san. I wouldn't hurt her. Even I know that.”

San Perdon couldn't help but to suppress a laugh.

“Scare her, Kace? With a blade she couldn't see?”

He shook his head.

”Besides, didn't you listen to what Farlon said?”

Kace was silent for a moment, fumbling slightly with his dagger. Perhaps it was only the setting sun, but Perdon thought his face was getting redder by the second.

“He didn't tell me anything about the girl, san.”

San Perdon shook his head again, and sighed.

“What's the first rule of combat, Kace? What have I always told you, ever since the day I named you my squire?”

The boy didn't have to think so long this time.

“”Always mind your surroundings.” But I don't see –“

“Exactly.“, the knight interrupted him, “You don't see. San Hark told me about her, and you should have been listening. You will rarely fight one-on-one on the battlefield, Kace, nor will you ever be alone at court.” He paused, to punctuate what he said. “Either way, the girl was once a slave, bought by one of the eastern dukes from the steppefolk traders on the other side of the Salqahai river. The tribes take children from the steppefolk and raise them among their own. Then, they start... breaking them, tearing at them until nothing remains but an obedient shell of a person. They take the eyes first, to keep their prisoners from running away. Those who try to escape, they get captured and lose something else. If they survive, they're sold to the traders.”

San Perdon looked his squire directly in the eyes.

“That girl knows fear, Kace, true fear, and it is not you.”

They continued the rest of their walk in silence.

 

In its day, Misthill had been a magnificent castle. Built by the second king of Hecaton, Kallon Elfkiller, as a bastion against the woodland elves in the northeast, it was made to hold two thousand men. In time, the elves had retreated, and a village had grown outside the hundred-foot walls. By the time Hecaton fell and the Dustlands rose in its place, that village had become one of the largest cities in the kingdom. They had built their own walls, and formed their own city watch. Lord Edmund Darle, Duke of Misthill, now employed less than a hundred men in his personal guard. Most chambers in the old castle stood empty, and more than one of the great towers had fallen into disrepair. For the last five years, san Perdon had called the castle his home. He had slept within its walls and trained numerous young lads in its courtyard. While he had served many a lord in his years, Misthill was one of the few places he had ever considered home. When the war came here – it would, he was sure of that – he would fight tooth and nail to keep it safe.

 

As they made their way through the city, walking down busy main streets and passing by dark alleyways, he knew he would not be the only one. The people of Misthill loved their duke, even in times of war, and he loved them back. Lord Darle's father had died fighting the Snowdragon's war, and the young Edmund had done his best to restore order to the land while his men died. The royal bastard himself, the boy who picked up his father's sword and called himself the rightful king, had served at Misthill from a young age, and was said to be a good friend of young Edmund. He had come to them as Faeras Grimm, but with the white blade in his hand, breathing white flames, he had left as the Snowdragon. His lust for power had torn the kingdom apart. A day rarely passed when Lord Darle didn't curse his name, and he was far from the only one. Many wives had become widows in the war, and many children orphans. There were very few old men in the Dustlands now. San Perdon was one of the lucky few... if you could call it luck, that was. There was no place for him but here.

 

They crossed through an alley, and soon found themselves on the main street leading up to the castle. It was crowded, more so than usually; the tournament was in full swing, and that meant business. Wherever san Perdon looked, he saw errand-boys and messengers, running as fast as their legs could carry them. Those who dared to do so even traveled across the rooftops, risking high jumps and fateful leaps for an even faster route. Every so often, there was someone that didn't make the jump. The back alleys and dead ends of the city were often stained with blood, but rarely flesh.

 

Misthill was still magnificent, truly, with its five towers reaching towards the skies, always watching over the people below. Once, they had been manned by every man in the castle, with a bow and arrow ready, facing north to the elven lands. Now, the garrison was thinner and the arrows had turned south, but the men of Misthill were still a force to be reckoned with. San Perdon had seen to that as well as he could over the past years, and he had seen more than one brilliant swordsman walk through those gates after finishing their training. Some times, they come back. Only some times. The castle was the only place he could call home, and as he and Kace passed through the massive wooden doors, both sides decorated with the faces of past lords, he felt at peace.

 

Two young knights were sparring in the courtyard as they crossed it. One of them caught San Perdon's gaze and saluted him; the other, seeing a quick opening, took his chance and made a wide swing. In a skillful sweep, the first knight raised his own blade to block it with enough force to send his opponent's blade flying. It warmed the elderly knight's heart to see them. They had come to him as Ladd and Redd, orphans of the city, and they had left as San Haeladd and Redovir of Misthill. He had knighted them himself the spring before, and they had served Lord Darle loyally ever since. Redovir hasn't forgotten my words, at least... and Haeladd hasn't forgotten his arrogance.

 

However, the only thing he saw in their faces as he came closer was sadness... and perhaps a shade of guilt.

“Hail, san Perdon. Hello, Kace.“ Redovir said. With a quick bow, Haeladd turned away to fetch his sword. As he turned, the old knight thought he could see tears in his old apprentice's eyes. He nodded, and raised his hand to his chest. At his side, Kace did the same.

“Hail, Redovir. Lord Darle called for us.”

The younger knight nodded.

“Yes, he's awaiting you in the grand hall... You should hurry, san Perdon.”

San Perdon raised an eyebrow.

“Why is that? Is something wrong?”

Off to the side, Haeladd had picked up his sword. He almost spun around, blade in hand. His eyes were swollen with tears, his blonde curls a mess.

“We were supposed to protect him! We had to... We should've...”

He threw the sword to the ground again. San Perdon made a start towards him, but felt the younger knight's hand on his shoulder. Redovir simply shook his head, his eyes locked on his sparring partner. Haeladd was breathing heavily.

“I'll kill him. Whoever did this, I'll kill him.”

Redovir nodded.

“We will, Ladd. We will.”

He cast a single glance at San Perdon, who simply nodded at him. The older knight turned to his squire.

“Come, Kace. Let's find lord Darle.”

 

They found the duke in the grand hall, just as san Redovir had said they would. It was a majestic hall, large enough to seat hundreds. The walls were lined with stone arcs reaching almost fifty feet above, where the stone ceiling was decorated with ancient runes and tales from the olden days. At a quick glance, San Perdon could see the most famous tale of them all; the fall of Father Hathoryn the Just at the hands of Twisted Witmalacc. Hathoryn, the god of Justice, had three sons; Aigora, Caine and Kyaran, and it was Caine that had marked his downfall when he turned to Witmalacc's side. A tragic tale, but from the ashes of the Father, a new faith had risen, the faith of Dead Hathoryn and his Lost Sons. Even today, the Searing Sword Inquisitors hunted for black magic and the last servants of the dark god. Casting his mind off the past, San Perdon pushed on.

 

Four longtables decked the hall, with the duke's table on the far end, as was custom. There had been a feast the day before, to welcome the knights and squires of the Dustlands to the tournament, and the castle servants were still cleaning up the mess they had made. There was still a slight stench of drink in the air, mead and elven ale from the Greenward. San Perdon had had one or two glasses himself, merely not to offend, while the duke and his more noble guests had drunk to their heart's content. Lord Darle had seemed stressed the night before, but san Perdon had thought little of it. Someone doesn't arrange a gathering of almost five-hundred people without breaking down a little.

 

However, that was nothing compared to now. The duke was a big man, half a head taller than san Perdon and shoulders as broad as an ox. His hair was a mane of dark brown, framing his rather round face and deep-set black eyes. When San Perdon first had seen him, he couldn't help but to be awestruck. If there ever was a man who could claim a god's blood, it would have been Edmund Darle, Lord of Misthill. What was now sitting in the duke's throne, sipping from a keg of last night's ale, was a wreckage of a man.

 

It seemed as if he had shriveled and shrunk over night, the way he was cramped into his chair. His hair even seemed grey at the temples, as if he had aged thirty years overnight. His eyes were dull, lifeless, carrying none of the splendor and willpower they had the night before. Keeping his eyes straight forward, San Perdon headed down the longtables with Kace in tow, and knelt before his lord. It seemed as if the duke hadn't noticed them until then; when san Perdon's boots scraped against the floor, he looked up. His eyes, too, were reddened, and his face was strained.

“My lord, duke Darle... We have answered your calling.”

The duke dropped his keg. Slowly but surely, the ale ran over the table and started to drip down onto the floor. He laughed, a dry laughter entirely void of joy. When he spoke, his voice was but a whisper, a memory of what it once had been.

“Yes... san Perdon and squire... you have come because I have called for you. If only it was that simple. If my word could command any man to my hall, kneeling before me. But there is more than that, isn't there? I am weak. Powerless. Now, sixteen years of my life are gone, a fire that has been left... to die.”

He reached for something to his right, on the floor. When he grasped it, his face twisted into a sinister grimace. His eyes fell on Kace, who couldn't repress a shriek.

“You are too young to remember it, boy... but there was peace, for a time. When both Snowdragon and the Hawkspire Prince had fallen, we thought there could be peace. We thought there was an end to the killing, this senseless killing. We were wrong, of course. The war has continued ever since, on the fields and in the courts. I thought I had grown used to it now. I thought I had seen enough. That was wrong, too.”

He threw the blade in his hand at the floor before them. It bounced on the cold stone, scratching it each time, before coming to a halt at San Perdon's feet. It was a massive blade, at least four feet from hilt to point, with a wide blade. The metal itself looked like nothing San Perdon had ever seen, only heard stories of. Heartsteel. Forged by foul rituals born out of Twisted Witmalacc's embrace, the blade was of another world. Tainted... in more ways than one. The blood that caked the black edge was dried, but fresh.

 

“Quentin is dead, san Perdon. My son is dead. I want you to find the man who did it.”

 

The duke sighed.

 

“I want you to bring me his head.”

[/spoiler]

[spoiler=Three: Stranger]

 

San Perdon couldn't believe his ears. They had gone to the duke's private chambers, the three of them, and the duke was telling them of the night before. He had taken a seat in front of the magnificent fireplace in the southern wall, while San Perdon had chosen the duke's armchair. Kace was standing idly by the door, his eyes flickering between the duke and his master. Lord Darle held the massive black blade in his right hand, the edge burying itself deep into the wooden floor. When he spoke, his words were slow, but deliberate.

”Last night, after the feast... Nessa found this here, lying in our bed. Scared her half to death, it did. You know how she is.”

The knight nodded, although he rarely met the duchess. Lady Shanessa Darle had come to see her son spar in the courtyard once, three years before. When Kace had managed to land a cut on young Quentin's cheek, sending a sliver of blood into the air, she had covered her face and retreated into the comforts of the castle.

”Where is she now? How is she?”

The duke shook his head.

”She has retreated to the chapel, she and the girls. They pray to their dead gods, they pray for Quentin and they pray for the end of the war. No stone god will do that for them. Only men.”

He coughed.

”A courier arrived from Ashkeep early this morning. Quentin never arrived at Lord Renwick's court, nor did he pass through the city gates.”

San Perdon raised an eyebrow. True, he hadn't seen Quentin in a while, but that happened often. He rarely needed to spar with the boy these days; he was an excellent swordsman and could easily hold up against most men in Misthill. But leaving the city?

”Ashkeep, my lord?”

For a second, Lord Darle seemed a bit surprised at his question.

”I guess I hadn't told you, san Perdon. I sent Quentin to broker a marriage agreement between Tarea and lord Renwyck's oldest son, Nestor.”

San Perdon heard Kace gasp behind him, but decided to ignore it. Instead, he simply nodded. Tarea was the oldest of the duke's three daughters, and at the age of fourteen she was more than ready for a marriage. The duke continued.

”Quentin left for Ashkeep two weeks ago, and yet there hasn't been a single word from either him or his followers. I would have thought that they had simply been held up on the road... before we found the blade, that was. Now, there is no doubt in my heart. My son is dead.”

From behind him, San Perdon heard his squire sniffle. The old knight himself could only sigh. He had only known Quentin for the last five years; he had seen a boy becoming a man. Under his guidance, he had gone from a fumbling youngling to an excellent swordsman. San Perdon would've knighted him himself, when the snows came. Now, he was gone. He couldn't imagine what they must feel like. He had never had a child himself, although he had once held a boy in his arms, and his friends from his early years were nothing but faded memories. The lives he treasured the most had been lost in the war, brothers of steel and soil rather than flesh and blood.

”What would you have us do, my lord?”

The duke looked up, his eyes watery.

”Vengeance. It won't bring my son back, I'm no fool, but it will bring me peace. Whoever did this slipped past my guards and stole into my chambers unnoticed and without disturbing a soul.”

”But then he could still be here!”

Thoughtless as always, San Perdon thought. Kace had spoken, as always, out of turn. However, lord Darle didn't seem to take offense, but rather returned his outburst with a stern smile.

”Yes, he might still be here, but so is every knight in the Dustlands. There are five-hundred tents on the field, and I have no doubt that the man who killed my son is among them. But we need to find out who it is, before anyone takes notice. If he knows that we're searching for him, he will flee, and it will be too late.”

He turned back to San Perdon. If there had ever been a smile on his lips, it was gone now.

”You will leave for Ashkeep at dawn tomorrow.”

Dawn? So soon? The elderly knight was somewhat taken aback, but the duke showed no signs of stopping.

”I need you to follow Quentin's path as closely as possible. Go where he went, talk to those he talked to and leave no stone unturned. When you find the man who killed my son... bring me his head.”

San Perdon nodded.

”Yes, my lord. If you give us leave, Kace and I must return to our chambers. We have to make preparations for the journey...”

His eyes turned to his squire, who was standing at his side now. His eyes were teary, but focused on the duke.

”...and I suppose the lad has some goodbyes to say, too.”

Kace, seemingly ignoring his words, nodded.

”We will find him, lord Edmund. We will find him and kill him.”

 

They retreated from the duke's chambers, leaving the man to grieve in peace. Walking down the hallways of Misthill, San Perdon thought the castle seemed much colder, sending shivers down his spine. Night was still a few hours away, it would seem, but the shadows seemed to draw nearer for each step they took. San Perdon spoke quietly.

”It would be best if we are not seen leaving the castle, Kace. Run down to the stable and tell the boys to bring Mattie to the western gate just before sunrise.”

”Just Mattie?”

Kace hadn't quite recovered, or so it would seem. San Perdon tried his best to smile, but could only muster a twitch of the lips.

”I'm not as young as I once was, Kace, and many a year has gone by since last I travelled the long roads. Even longer since I travelled them on foot. You're still young, you still have the strength in your bones to walk.”

He sighed.

”You're going to need that strength in the days to come. We will travel from sunrise to sunset, along the western road, to every village and every tavern from here to Ashkeep. We will only rest when we have to. Pack lightly, take only what you need for the road. And... say your goodbyes.”

The boy nodded, and ran off down the hallway. He was seventeen now, his young squire, but now san Perdon saw nothing but a frightened child, someone in need of a mother's embrace... or a lover's. It was no secret that the orphan of Misthill was on very good terms with young lady Tarea. While the boy did have a drop of noble blood, it was... improper for them to be together. They would never be signed in blood, not before the gods. Even so, the duke had not separated them, though he must have known for a long time now. Tonight, however, perhaps it was for the best. The girl had lost a brother, and the boy had lost his closest friend. No harm, no foul, I suppose.

 

It felt strange, packing his things. He rarely ever left the castle these days, much less Misthill proper. It had been many a year since he'd slept beneath the stars, away from warm hearths and the safety of castle walls. He had not forgotten the loneliness of the long roads, the dark and desolate life of a wandering knight, nor did he look forward to it. Hopefully, they would find the man soon enough... and bring him to justice, if they could. His thoughts wandered back to the heartsteel blade the duke had shown them, caked with blood. As a boy, he had heard the heralds and the Inquisitors preaching from their high towers, warning them of the dangers beyond the world. Shadow creatures, marching in an endless army from horizon to horizon. A blackened spire where twisted Witmalacc stares into the hearts of the weak. A blade, forged from the blood of the innocent, lighter and stronger than any steel. If Quentin's killer had possessed such a blade... what kind of man would they face? What kind of darkness would stare back at them from his eyes? He put his sword in its sheath, hoping that it would be enough, and slept... for a time.

 

The noise caught him off-guard. For a second, he thought he heard the wind howling outside, tearing through the cracks and arrowslits of the old castle. No. There was a wind, somewhere, but that was not what had awakened him. Many things were gone from his unlanded days, but the lesson he taught all of his recruits still stayed with him. Someone was here, in the room with him. He could hear footsteps, quiet taps of cloth shoes against stone. He heard the swift, sharp sound of a dagger being unsheathed, and the still breath of a hunter zoning in on their prey.

”Night-night, san.”

The voice was soft, smooth like a singer's, like a river in spring when the snows melt. It reminded him of a summer long gone, and a girl with white flowers in her hair. That was before the war, when Deron Hawkspire still wore the crown of Hecaton. Before the Snowdragon's blade tore the kingdom in half. A happier time. When the blade finally touched his throat, after what seemed like an eternity, he could see her face clear as day. Her black curls glittered in the pale moonlight, a moonlight that had not been there a moment ago. Her face was nothing but blackness, three deep pits in the night. A smile, a cackle, and the swift slice of a knife.

 

When he opened his eyes, dawn was close. The sky outside the little arrowslit he called a window was a dark purple, the color of kings and emperors, but the sun had yet to grace them with its presence. Blood. He grasped at his throat. He could still feel the blade on his skin, the cold steel against his throat, but there was nothing there. No stain, no cut, no blood. As if nothing had happened.

A dream?

Could it have been? Just a shadow from his mind, a nightmare?

It must have been. I saw it, felt it, but it never happened. No one would sneak into my chambers at night, no one would try to kill me. No one could.

He tried to reassure himself, but another thought surfaced in his mind. They came after lord Darle. If they could sneak into his chamber, they could come here too.

He'd never thought himself to scare easy, but this was... different. Quentin's death, and the cursed blade... it was a dark omen. A sign of terrible things to come.

He coughed, and spoke to no one in particular.

”Or maybe I'm just old. Seeing things that aren't there. Hearing things.”

Sunrise was close. His chambers looked exactly as they had the night before; his saddlebacks were hanging at the foot of his bed, packed with all sorts of provisions and supplies they could need for the journey. His suit of armor was on one of the stone busts the duke had gotten for him, and his weapons were over on the rack. The longsword, for when he had to move swiftly, and the dagger, if his foes came too close. Two weapons. Hopefully, that would be enough.

 

The city was almost entirely still as he arrived at the western gate. Only a few poor souls were awake at this early hour, no doubt merchants and messengers, dallying about with their daily ordeals. San Perdon had no doubt that the main road was busier already, going north-south through the city and passing the knights' camps just outside the city proper. By the time the tournament started, when the crowd would flock to see their champions in steel fight to the death, Misthill would be many miles behind them.

 

Clad in leather and cloth, as befitting a squire, Kace was tending to the brown mare that San Perdon had called his own for almost ten years. After the self-proclaimed lord that san Perdon had been serving at the time found himself in a ditch with his throat slit, the knight had bought the horse from a farmer and went on his way. Mattie had been with him through storm and snow, from war to war following endless lords under many different banners. Like himself, she had trudged on, unyielding and never losing hope. When he came closer, she neighed, as happy as always, and Kace turned his head. His squire's eyes were tired, as expected, and unsurprisingly empty. Disregarding the mark on his neck, san Perdon simply nodded at his squire.

”Has everything been arranged, Kace?”

The boy nodded, gently patting Mattie on the back.

”Yes, san. The saddlebags are packed, and Mattie's been fed.”

San Perdon walked up to the boy, and placed his hand on his shoulder.

”And how do you feel?”

The boy froze, his hand on Mattie's back. The horse neighed, just a little.

”When I was seven years old, we left the castle. Me, Quentin and Tarea snuck out just before sunrise, when the city was still sleeping. Just like today, everything was still and quiet. We left through the northern gate, headed into the forests up towards the Greenward. Tarea thought she saw an elf once, but it was just a deer. Quentin laughed, and she hit him for it, and I just smiled. Lord Darle was furious when we came back, of course. Said we couldn't just run off like that, without someone watching over us. ”Anything could've happened to you,” that's what he said. That, san Perdon, was the last time I left Misthill. Quentin's left town, on the lord's command, and now he's dead, too. We're riding out the same way he left, heading down the same road. We'll catch the man who did this, san Perdon, and we're going to kill him. I don't know if we'll be coming back, though.”

The old knight was baffled, to say the least. The boy is becoming a man. Placing one foot in the stirrup and swinging his leg across the horse's back, he nodded at his squire.

”You're right, Kace. We can never be sure. All we can do is to keep walking, and hope we catch up with our foes before they do the same to us. Come, boy. We have many miles to go, still.”

The boy nodded back, and with the first rays of sunlight in their backs, they passed through the city gates and into the great world beyond.[/spoiler]

 

[spoiler=Chapter Four: A Righteous Man]

 

The roads of the Dustlands hadn't ever been safe, not since the war began, but so far their trip had been relatively uneventful. They had maintained a steady pace for at least a half-day now, only stopping to let the horse drink from some stream they happened upon. The summer was still kind to them, although late. Within a few weeks, the leaves would shift from green to brown, and gray clouds would cover the skies. While san Perdon hoped they would be back at Misthill before then, he couldn't be sure. Kace had stayed diligent, but the old knight could see that his squire was weary. Still marching on, the boy sighed.

”How long until we reach another town, san?”

San Perdon paused for a second, then nodded.

”We'll get to Renfield by sunset, if the road is kind to us. The last time I was here, it was a small town, hunters and farmers mostly. They should have an inn or a tavern where we can sleep.”

”And ask about Quentin.”

The older knight nodded again.

”Yes, we can ask about Quentin, but I would think he made it this far, at least. The boy is no fool, Kace, and he had half a dozen knights with him. Renfield is not so dangerous as to take them out. They could tell us when he came through, but I would not expect any more than that. We will talk to them when we get there.”

 

Suddenly, there was a tug on his right stirrup. He looked down, and to his surprise there was a little boy standing at his side. He could barely have been eight or nine, if even that, and was wearing what looked like a sackcloth shirt. His face and arms coated in dirt, san Perdon could barely tell what he looked like. When their eyes met, the boy's yellow smile widened.

”Are you a knight, san? A real knight?”

Before san Perdon could respond, there was a shout from behind them.

”Calion! Calion!”

The knight turned his head. Not twenty feet behind them, a scrawny black horse was rushing toward them. On its back sat a young woman, no more than twenty years of age, her blonde hair flowing in the wind. Casting a glance at the boy, san Perdon could see the clear resemblance. She came to a halt behind them, breathing heavily.

”I'm sorry, san.”

Her eyes shifted slightly toward the boy.

”My brother... sometimes, he can't help himself with the way he runs up to people.”

By now, Kace had turned around, reaching for his sword but remaining cautious. San Perdon nodded, smiling.

”I understand what you mean. You are not the only one with an unruly youngling at your side.”

Almost in unison, Kace and the young boy lowered their faces, their faces slightly redder. The girl smiled.

”I... thank you, san. We'll be on our way.”

”And which way's that?”

Kace. The old knight cast a disappointing glance at his squire.

”You'll never change, Kace, will you?”

The boy managed to break a smile, and shook his head.

”Not if I can't help it, san Perdon.”

At the mention of the last word, the young boy's face lit up.

”You are a knight! I knew it, I knew y-!”

”Calion, hush!”

The girl covered her brother's face, and looked back at them.

”We're headed to Kingspire. Our uncle, well, he lives there. We're going to stay with him for a while, just for safety and such. We'll be out of your hands in no time, san, no time at all.”

San Perdon shook his head.

”You are many miles from the capital, girl. The roads can be dangerous, especially if you travel by yourselves.”

The girl shook her head, and pulled up her left sleeve. A dagger was attached to her wrist, held in place with a pair of leather strips.

”We've been on the road for a while, san. I can take care of myself, and him too, keep both of us safe and away from harm.”

Pulling the sleeve back down, she reached out her right hand.

”The name's Mara. This little runt here is my brother, Calion.”

Not hesitating for a second, the knight took her hand and shook it.

”I am Perdon Wylde, of Misthill. This is my squire, Kace. We will be heading the same way, for a time. Please, accompany us.”

The girl looked at her brother, who seemed overjoyed at the very idea of traveling with a knight.

”I suppose it would be a welcome change to travel with some company for once, it has been a while since last time. Uncle Harron was supposed to meet us both in Misthill and...”

She trailed off, her voice fading away.

”I'm sorry, san. I shouldn't bore you with our stories. We...”

She hesitated, but only for a second or two.

”We would be glad to join you, for a time.”

 

The four of them made good progress on the road. Calion sat behind his sister on their horse, a black mare they called Shanty, while Kace and san Perdon travelled as they had before, with the boy on foot and the older knight on horseback. Kace and Mara had been talking almost since they took off from their meeting, which san Perdon long since had lost track of. With the road relatively quiet, he turned his attention elsewhere.

”Calion, was it?”

The boy turned his head, smiling.

”Yes, san knight.”

San Perdon smiled.

”Please, call me Perdon. It's a good name you have, one to remember. Do you know who he was?”

The boy nodded at him, his smile even wider.

”Mara told me all about him. He killed the queen of the dead and saved his friend's life.”

San Perdon nodded back. The legends of Calion were many, and were told to children everywhere. The tale of the dark queen had been a favorite of his, too, when he was a boy. Some said that he was a man, others spoke of him as a ghost from worlds beyond our own. He heard the story on the shores of the Western Sea, where they said he was killed in battle, and fought his way out of the underworld to come back. According to the traders from the steppes, he had fought tooth and claw into the dark queen's realm, breaking the boundary between the two worlds all by himself. What was true and what was false, none would ever know. If it had ever happened, Calion's descent into the underworld had happened in the age of shadows, when darkness clouded time itself and all became unordered.

”He was a hero, a gallant knight and a protector of men. Your parents chose well when they named you.”

A sadness came over the boy's eyes, and he looked down. San Perdon could see a tear break out in his eye.

”My apologies, boy. I did not mean to bring up any unpleasant memories.”

The boy sniveled a bit, and looked back up at him. The smile was a mere shadow of itself; still there, but barely noticeable.

”It's alright, san kni-... san Perdon. You didn't... you...”

He broke down again. At this point, Mara had noticed, and brought the horse to a halt. Kace, continuing along his merry way, needed half a second to do the same with Mattie.

”Our parents... they were killed. That's why we're running, our village isn't safe, we couldn't stay so we had to leave. Uncle Harron's all we have left now, and we don't know where he is or why he didn't meet us where he was supposed to or... or...”

She trailed off, but her eyes told san Perdon everything they needed to know.

 

”What's that?”

San Perdon turned his head.

Might be an elf.

They were close to the woodlands now, with the road passing through the forest of Caelbrandt. These had been elven lands once, in the early days of the kingdom, before Kallon Hawkspire had chased them out and slaughtered them. Their second king had earned the name ”Elfkiller”, and the forest had been claimed for Hecaton. Every so often, some peasant from Renfield or one of the smaller villages would come to Misthill, claiming that their child had been kidnapped by elves who had survived the conquest. Lord Darle and the others had dismissed them as rumors or the words of a drunkard, but travelling through the verdant depths of the Caelbrandt, one couldn't help but to wonder.

”Where is it, Kace?”

His squire pointed ahead, not to the woods but at the road. As soon as san Perdon saw what it was, he sighed to himself.

How could I have missed that? I must be getting old.

Casting a quick glance at Mara, who was talking to her brother in a low, reassuring voice, the knight jumped off his horse and tredged forward on the road, approaching the wreckage. Kace was not far behind, leaving Mara to take care of the two horses.

 

A wagon had been tipped over at the side of the road, the front facing the other way. The stench of death became more and more noticeable as they came closer, and the source was obvious; two dead horses, massive steeds, lying in the dust. It looked like a merchant's carriage to san Perdon, with an unfamiliar sigil – a green cat on a black field – sowed onto its sides. Unfortunately, whatever they had been shipping was now lost; the back of the cart was cleared out. San Perdon took one last look into the wagon, and sighed.

”Bandits, most likely. Unfortunate, but we should be-”

There was a blood-curdling scream behind them. The old knight and his squire spun around almost in unison, swords drawn... and froze.

 

Mara and Calion were no longer alone. The girl lay strewn across the road, clutching her side with one arm and desperately reaching for Calion with the other. The man who had cut her down, a titan in leather armor with a scar running down the right side of his face, simply laughed and pushed down the sole of his boot onto her hand. The knight could clearly hear the cracking of bones.

”You stay still, girl, or the boy stops breathing.”

He nodded toward Calion, who was trapped in the firm grip of the bandit's right arm. The boy's screams were muffled by his hand, and his arms were flailing desperately. San Perdon took a step forward, and the man shook his head.

”Same goes for you two. I don't want to hurt the child, Father Just knows I don't want to, but I can't help it if you decide to tempt fate.”

Mara let out another scream, and clutched at her hand.

”Let my brother go, you bastard! I swear I'll hunt you down if you don't give him over, I'll hunt you to the end of the world and back if I have to!”

The bandit shook his head, laughing.

”You're brave, girl. You remind me of my own sister, back when I was a little lad myself. She got herself into trouble, too. Sometimes 'cause of me, sometimes not. Most of all it was her bravery. Such a shame it was, when they had to bury her.”

He turned back to San Perdon, meeting his eyes.

”You, my friends, are lucky. Some of my more brutish friends would have cut both the boy and the girl down and stolen the horses, much like they did to the poor merchant. The boy would have been dead before he hit the ground, but the girl... Oh yes, some of them would have very much fun keeping her around. They might not even kill her first. But as I said...”

He smiled.

”You are lucky, because I'm not like that. My companions may have given up on their souls, but not me. I fear the gods, truly I do, and when I enter the life beyond our own, I want them to know that I, Rikker of Renfield, am righteous and pure. I'm here to make a deal, you see.”

 

San Perdon shook his head slightly, pondering. At his side, he could see Kace growing restless, ready to pounce. He prayed that his squire would not do anything foolish; that he would get the boy Calion killed if he wasn't careful. Then again, I pray for that every day, and so far the gods have been quiet.

”What kind of... deal are you proposing, outlaw?”

The man Rikker smiled again, and gently shook the boy in his grasp.

”The boy here, he's obviously very valuable to the lot of you. And if there's one thing my mother taught me, it's to hold on to things that are valuable. My camp is deeper in the forest, up near the old elven temple. The folks back at Renfield know the place, they sure do, they'll tell you how to get there. Now, when I leave, I will be taking the boy here with me.”

Mara shrieked and tried to move, but winced from the pain. Rikker shook Calion again.

”I told you to be still, girl, or else it's your brother's corpse I'll take with me.”
He turned back to san Perdon.

”I'm going to ride off on one of them horses you have here, too. Seeing as there's only three of you left now, that shouldn't be much of a problem for you. If you want the boy back, come to my camp tomorrow, by sundown, and bring... say, two-hundred silverhawks.”

The three of them gasped. That sort of money could buy a good suit of armor and a sword, or enough food to last a winter... or Calion's life, apparently. He sighed.

”Take the brown one. Take good care of her; she's been with me for a long time, and I would hate to see her go to waste.”

Mara and Kace gasped. His squire managed to catch his breath first.

”You're just going to let him run away? With Calion and Mattie?”

San Perdon shook his head.

”I don't like it any more than you do, but we can't risk him dying. We'll be there tomorrow.”

Rikker smiled, and with the boy still in a tight grasp, he made an elegant bow.

”You are an honorable man, san. For that, I will let you keep your things. I told you that I am righteous, and a righteous man does not take that which he does not deserve.”

He drew the sword at his side, and in a few quick moves he cut off the saddlebags from Mattie's sides. They landed with a heavy thud on the road, not far from where Mara was laying. As he stepped over her to climb onto the brown mare, putting Calion on the saddle in front of him, she spat at his feet.

”I'll come for you, Calion. I'm gonna kill this bastard first, and then I'll come bring you back. We'll be back with uncle Harron in no time. I promise.”

Rikker let out a short laugh.

”You have spirit, girl, I'll give you that. For that, I might let you live, but I have a lesson for you.”

He turned the horse around, the hooves missing Mara by a few inches.

”Don't make promises you can't keep.”

He kicked Mattie in the sides, sending her off into a gallop down the road they'd come from. In a desperate last attempt, Mara tried to reach for him, but her arm fell to the ground.

 

As soon as he took off, San Perdon dashed towards her, with Kace close behind. She was bleeding profusely from an almost vertical cut on her back, running from her shoulder to her waist. They had to stop the bleeding, now, or else she would be dead. He nodded at his squire.

”Kace, run over to the wagon. If we can get it standing again, we can strap her horse to the front.”

”He's called Shanty.”

Mara coughed. When she looked up at him, her teeth were red with blood.

”Rest easy, girl. We'll get you to Renfield and have them patch you up. The healers there are very skilled, I've been told.”

She coughed again.

”You don't understand, san Wylde. He was my dad's horse before he died. Now that you let that bastard run away with my brother, he's all I have left. He knows that, too. He's not going to let me... let me die here.”

With those words, Mara passed out.[/spoiler]

[Synchronized]

Oh ho ho how much I owe you a detailed review for this.

Give me, say an hour.

[?someone?]

A very short, but intruiging, start.
That's what she said.

[Umbra]

[quote name='- Neo -' timestamp='1352255211' post='6062760']
Oh ho ho how much I owe you a detailed review for this.
[/quote]

Looking forward to it!

[quote name='?someone?' timestamp='1352255573' post='6062762']
A very short, but intruiging, start.
[/quote]

I'm glad you liked it. This prologue is mainly here to set the "feel" of the story and to introduce the setting. The first chapter will introduce the main characters and get the plot going. Depending on feedback and how much time university consumes, it should be up before the end of the week.

[Synchronized]

Yeah, just for the record, I lied about the hour thing, but once I get out of my Political Science class in a bit I'll get that up for ya.

[Umbra]

It's alright, take your time.

[Bahamut - Envoy of the End]

The master returns in all his glory.

Well, most of it anyway. The shine is dimmed by a little rust in places, but that will polish out.

Creepy as hell as always, our twisted narrator (I mean that in a good way) lets us into a pretty dark and disturbing place, littered with some nice tidbits about the world that weren't awkwardly placed or gone overly into detail, just mentioned as appropriate to build the world and not be distracting with infodumping, although some was a tad too cliche (I found the War of the Snowdragon was a 'Really?' moment). Your description of death, with the various means of beheading and drowning in blood and the way you talk about it so casually both amuses and slightly frightens me. Are you qualifying to be a moritician or on of those autopsy guys?

Cripp's character is done well enough for a jobber to Mr X. He's a plucky young man, even if his death was inevitable (you spelled hair as hait in the opening paragraph btw). But Mr X was just plain creepy. I love back to front heads and that he wasn't moved at all by the minor inconvenience of half a foot of wooden stake poking through his breath hole. He has an air of the Sephiroth about him, might be the white hair, cold demeanour and seemingly slaughter for fun attitude. His attire and sword were nice too, fitting. What bothers me is that he just going for the door, then cRipp moves and suddenly he was just standing in the middle of the room not moving (wasn't mentioned he'd stopped). That seemed a bit 'ok, is this just cuz plot'? for him to do that, knowing Criips then letting him have a shot just to terrify the pants of him and gloat before cutting his head off. Oh, and Mr X, you did just speak with the dead. Quite extensively. Yes it's a prologue and you have to give advertisement space, and narrator/voiceover speak afterwards would have been awkward and broke the mood, but I think he said too much too vaguely. For me personally.

A slaughter of maybe 40 or so people taking hours seems a bit exaggerated, as well for Cripp to still be alive at some point, although I guess that might be down to a dying uneducated man's perception of time.

I'm nitpicking on minor details for the sake of it anyway. Because you give me through reviews of critisism and I feel I should make an effort because I know you want your writing to be immacculate. I just find it bloody hard to find faults in your writing, partly because I'm not that good a reveiwer, but mostly because this was very enjoyable throughout.

Writing bad guys scenes is easy though. Introducing good guys in a way that isn't plain and generic is harder.

[Umbra]

Thanks for the input.

I have a bit of a morbid fascination with death, is all. That, along with a desire for realism and a tendency to describe the surroundings way too much, usually creates something like this.

The War of the Snowdragon is a bit clichéd right now, yes, and definitely something that I will elaborate on in future chapters. It was a very important event, historically, for the people of the Dustlands, and something that will end up having a significant impact on the story.

The idea that I'm toying with here is that the stranger is well aware of Cripp's location and intention, and sees no reason to stop him. Remember that everything you read is strictly from Cripp's perspective here, and may not be entirely reliable. The pause may not have been as long as it seemed.

Same there, Cripp isn't a reliable narrator and, as you say, the concept of time from an uneducated, dying man may not be very defined.

Nitpicking is understandable; there's not a whole lot of story to comment on right now anyway.

I'm glad you liked it, and hopefully I'll be able to keep this up for the rest of the story.

[?someone?]

Uhh, am I missing something? Snowdragon?

[Umbra]

The War of the Snowdragon was a conflict that happened around the time of Cripp's birth. I mention it maybe once or twice in the prologue; more information will come in future chapters.

[?someone?]

Ahh. It appears, for some reason, that your full prologue is not displaying for me. Probably why I called it short.

[Umbra]

[quote name='?someone?' timestamp='1352335358' post='6063492']
Ahh. It appears, for some reason, that your full prologue is not displaying for me. Probably why I called it short.
[/quote]

That's odd. Where does the prologue end on your screen?

[?someone?]

This is more than slightly embarrassing, but at "memories were coming to him."
Ah-huh. Once I read Bahamut's post I had the strange feeling I wasn't getting the whole thing...

[Umbra]

That is really, really odd. Probably something with the WYSIWYG editor, I'll see what I can do.

EDIT: Did some editing, take another look.

[?someone?]

Yeah, I can see it now. This gives me a [u]much[/u] better idea, and it's a good one. The story is well told, dark and very descriptive. The grammar is impeccable, and, most importantly, I want to read more. The only awkwardness I noticed was in paragraph eight, stating that "Cripp readied himself", and in the next sentence, referring to the stranger as "him". I would replace "him" with "the stranger", but even that's debatable; besides, my knowledge of grammar is hardly extensive. I think I can see now why everybody goes apesh*t when you post.

In other words, I definitely amend one half of my first comment, but not the other.

[Umbra]

That little nuisance has been corrected, thanks for pointing it out. The grammar must've collapsed a little.

In other news, the first chapter has broken one page, and will keep going from there. I have to say, writing this feels much, much better than I thought it would.

[Vector Nightmare]

Hoo.

There's always that feeling when you get to reading a new story. Whether it's YCM's latest Duel Academy garbage, or this year's worldwide top bestseller, you're about to enter a new world. It's the kind of journey only reading can take you through. Whether that journey will end in a huge disappointment after the first few paragraphs, or will spiral into an awesome experience throughout the whole story, is up to the author. Needless to say, when the story you begin is not YCM's latest Duel Academy garbage, but a work of the renowned Umbra, the promise and expectations of an amazing, enjoyable journey are that much higher. Will War in the Dustlands live up to those expectations?

Well, that's a question that won't be answered today. Of course, you wouldn't be able to judge a story by its first chapter anyway. But, after reading the first installment, it becomes obvious that this isn't even a first chapter - it's a prologue. Big difference, one might say, a prologue is just a fancy word for the first chapter of the story. But that's a naive line of thinking. A chapter, and especially the first chapter, is responsible for introducing us to the events that we will be following throughout the story. It can have any variety of things in it, but without introducing at least partly (some of) the main character(s), and giving us a hint of what we're going to read them doing for the next X chapters, it's not a first chapter, or at least, not a good one. When you have a, probably chronologically-detached, piece that focuses solely on background-building, world construction, and gives us the premise of the plot without touching on who will probably be the protagonist(s), then you don't have a first chapter. You have a prologue. And this rant was a rant directed moreso to others than Umbra himself, since Umbra, of course, has already aptly titled this first installment the prologue. So let's take a look at what this prologue does.

1) It introduces two characters. Given that one dies at the end, and the other is already immortal, it's safe to assume that neither of those is the character whose story we will be following. In this case, Cripp is probably a prologue-only character that has appeared solely for the purpose of having a perspective to narrate the prologue from, and the murderous stranger is an antagonist, either one-of-his-kind, or one of many with similar attributes. Of course, Umbra could flip things over their head and have the story be about a resurrected Cripp, but I doubt it. It would be an entertaining prospect, though.

2) It introduces the world. Just from the information provided to us, we can extrapolate that we'll be exploring a medieval setting, where sorcery is an established plot element. There will be a lot of hacking around with swords, axes, and other happy things. The existence of magical weapons is also confirmed. This means that there's [i]a lot[/i] of freedom with the design and interaction of plot and characters, and if the author wants, he can have a surprise waiting for us at every corner. On the other hand, therein lies the danger of introducing too many crazy things, and trying to shrug them all away with "it's magic". But we trust in Umbra.

3) It introduces the general feel of the story. The prologue makes it obvious. We will have death, a lot of it. People will die and not just random people. The author isn't afraid to introduce a character to us, have us care about them, add some smooth-ass backstory and development to him and then - surprise mothafucka, he's dead. And not just dead, but probably dead in some gruesome, thoroughly described manner that will set our hair on edge. Hey, the bloodier the merrier, say I, and the happy-go-lucky style of fantasy is pretty boring compared to dark, 'realistic' fantasy. So far, so good.

I won't sit and nitpick over the few technical errors I caught because at this stage, they aren't that important, and there's few enough not to distract from the overall picture. I will pause on the naming scheme a little. While some names are really good and fitting (character names, for example), some others just... seem out of place. War of the Snowdragon was the one that stuck me the worst, probably. Also, Wandering Bard being capitalized as a title is just... weird, because it's simply a plain job description. Also, two things struck me as off. In the first paragraph we have 'Cripp had thought of himself as a skilled swordfighter, one of the best in the village' and soon afterwards 'It was no sword, but Cripp was no swordsman'. It just feels iffy that Cripp thinks of himself as one of the best in the village at using a sword, and then essentially references his sword-wielding skills as inadequate, compared to his ability to wield a wooden stick as a weapon. And then, the fact that he was praying to Father Hathoryn (who I assume is the priest figure of the village), rather than actually praying to God, is either weird or they have some form of seriously twisted religion up there. But hey, if Cripp's first thoughts after witnessing the murder of practically his entire village and thinking he had killed a person himself are "finally, I can get the hell outta here!", worshipping a priest is the least of his issues.

There are a few interesting things to be said about the prologue, mostly the end. The heartsteel killer seems to be familiar with Cripp. His father, mayhap, if the 'son of no one' is a hint? There are a few possibilities. For now though I'm calling red herring on this, and thinking that the prologue's characters and events won't play into the main story directly. Feel free to surprise me, though - either way can work equally well.

Overall verdict is certainly positive. We have a rather refreshing take on standard fantasy elements. We have demonstration of great storytelling and worldbuilding. I have no complaints. If this was the prologue of a published book, and without having read or heard anything about it, it was the only thing I read, then I'd definitely want to continue reading. So you can safely pat yourself on the back and call 'mission accomplished' - the prologue did all it was supposed to do.

Now, onto the real challenge.

[Umbra]

Thanks for the in-depth review.

The Cripp inconsistency was definitely not supposed to be that jarring, and will be amended shortly. While it still demonstrates the general level of his abilities, it does so in a rather unfair light and in a rather confusing way.

Without spoiling too much, I'll say that magical weapons are not exactly commonplace. You won't find a heartsteel blade just about anywhere, for instance, or someone that can craft it. Magic in general is rather uncommon as well, and a lot of it is simply folklore or superstition.

The War of the Snowdragon will hopefully redeem itself once I get to explaining it. There is some reasoning behind the name, but that doesn't excuse it from being a bad name. Criticism noted, though, as well as for the other names. Vellis named himself, more or less. He was the kind of character that would give himself a pretentious title like that.

As for only introducing two characters... there's a bit more going on in the background than you might think. Some plotlines have already started to unfurl.

Ah, religion. Father Hathoryn is not a priest. Actually, he's a character that some of you - those who are familiar with my oldest stuff - are already somewhat acquainted with, although under a different name. But for now, I will leave it at that. The faiths of Latheria is something for future chapters to cover, and the Dead Gods is but one of them.

Cripp's relation with the stranger is something that will be covered in future chapters. Without spoiling too much, that story isn't entirely played out yet.

[Synchronized]

Wow, this was...so good, but so confusing at the same time.

There are some things I don't understand but I'm going to wait until the story progresses before I ask, see if I can challenge myself to figure them out.

It should be interesting because this isn't based of some kind of Anime/movie so it's going to be a fun story to follow and really try and get into. Looking forward to seeing where you go with it.

I mean, it's you, so it's obviously good, but how good it will be I can't determine from just the first chapter.

[?someone?]

Saber did a better review than I could, and I like how he mentioned that people can die; I like that a lot.
It was an "everybody's dead, Dave" moment, but it wasn't comedic.

...I'll stop the comments now.

[Umbra]

Alright, the ball is officially rolling. Chapter One, titled "Misthill" is currently available in the first post of this thread, and I assure you that more of them are soon to come.

[Bahamut - Envoy of the End]

First comment on the chapter. Why does no-one read your stuff? It's briliantly written, it's different, it's not ridiculously long in chapter length like mine is getting. I don't understand.

*remembers most people prefer to comment on bad stuff than good* Oh yeah, now I remember.

Anyway, chapter. The 'wait a minute....' moment when Hark was introduced was just brilliant I thought, enjoyed that. Think the characters introduced were all very good, I love how casual the two kids were about their... um... disfigurement.

Two critisisms are 1) there was so many character names, titles, places, etc mentioned it was hard to keep up. Yes it builds a world and they were done nicely in a way that you didn't go into masses of detail, just mentioned relevant or not so relevant things in passing like the river or the duke... but it was a bit much.

Second, and more importantly, was um... not much happened. Yes Hark was a bombshell, but nothing really grabbed my the proverbials and got me excited about the next chapter. Compared to say... the Dark Doorway... which had house explosions and decaying bodies (I forget exactly what was chapter 1 and what was in 2), this was rather tame in the absense of a big meat hook in someone's neck. Kace's preferably.

[Umbra]

I'm glad you liked it.

Hark is probably one of my favorite characters I've ever designed. There's definitely more in store for him, so stay tuned for that.

I agree with you; there are a lot of names right now, and while it is mostly for world-building, I can see that it can easily get overwhelming to a reader. I'll try my best to keep that in mind for future chapters.

Originally, I had intended for this chapter to go on a little bit longer. I was going to end it at san Perdon and Kace meeting Lord Darle, but I was already getting close to four pages and didn't want to drag it on for too long. That's why the ending was a bit abrupt; I couldn't really think of an exciting note to end it on. Something did pop up in my mind just now, but that would probably end up being foreshadowing for something that won't come into play for a long time.

If longer chapters aren't a problem, I could easily keep going for more.

Also, the Dark Doorway didn't have a whole lot going for it during the first chapter either. I do believe I got about three chapters in before the alien-demons and exploding heads and bodies and whatnot came into play. Meat hooks can be arranged, but it won't be pretty.

You don't like Kace, I take it?

[Bahamut - Envoy of the End]

[quote name='Umbra' timestamp='1352858495' post='6068862']
I'm glad you liked it.

Hark is probably one of my favorite characters I've ever designed. There's definitely more in store for him, so stay tuned for that.

I agree with you; there are a lot of names right now, and while it is mostly for world-building, I can see that it can easily get overwhelming to a reader. I'll try my best to keep that in mind for future chapters.

Originally, I had intended for this chapter to go on a little bit longer. I was going to end it at san Perdon and Kace meeting Lord Darle, but I was already getting close to four pages and didn't want to drag it on for too long. That's why the ending was a bit abrupt; I couldn't really think of an exciting note to end it on. Something did pop up in my mind just now, but that would probably end up being foreshadowing for something that won't come into play for a long time.

If longer chapters aren't a problem, I could easily keep going for more.

Also, the Dark Doorway didn't have a whole lot going for it during the first chapter either. I do believe I got about three chapters in before the alien-demons and exploding heads and bodies and whatnot came into play. Meat hooks can be arranged, but it won't be pretty.

You don't like Kace, I take it?
[/quote]

I will.

No problem. Most of it wasn't a problem and I enjoyed the casual way it was done, it just got a bit much in terms of titles and who served who.

Four pages? What else have you got to deal with for such a short commitment? College? Friends?

I jest.

Meathooks are what I want sir.

Not really, it just seemed reasonably witty. Although I have automatically judged him to I suspect be a bit of a prick. But good stories need hatable pricks.

[Synchronized]

Absolutely fantastic dialogue. So, so good. Like I said it just draws you into the story completely and I actually picture your story as I'm reading it. That's skill, my good friend.

As for Kace, I don't like him. That could change very well, but he strikes me as arrogant just by the descriptions and I have trouble seeing him as a character I can get behind right now.

If I did have any complaint, I suppose, it would be that there's no clear-cut protagonist just yet, as in I'm not sure who I should be 'rooting' for, so-to-speak. That's just a small thing though and seeing as I'm 40+ episodes in without a protagonist myself I can't really complain.