Exalted Fanfic

[Blitz]

Here is something I started last year when White Wolf was publishing books in an unlimitaed series for their exalted books. Unfortunately asfter they said they would be interested in considering something I wrote in the genre, they decided that they weren't going to continue the series. It's unfinished, an untitled, but I like to keep banging away at it slowly. Here's the Prologue, and I'll start posting some of the chapters as I go.

Prologue

He pulled his hood further over his head to better hide his pale alabaster scalp from the magical beacons that streaked through the swamp, desperate to find him. They were inconsequential, no more than annoyances. He was more concerned with what they might bring. The Umbra of Festering Corruption was a potent assassin, and an equally effective thief, but if he were challenged by some of the beings that sought him out, he would only have a fighting chance of survival. The Umbra didn’t like leaving things to chance. He preferred precision actions that were final and ultimate. It was why he was always successful.

As if in exhibition of his success, he glanced down at the long cylinder that rested easily in one of his gloved hands. Even with his clothing, he could feel the faint warmth the artifact radiated on his cold flesh. It thrummed silently with power and it made him smile, or rather the thought of smiling crossed his mind. His face remained frozen where the iron mask was bolted into his jaw and cheeks. He wore it with a sickening pride that showed in his pale blue eyes. It was a mark of his station and his loyalty, it was the shroud that segmented him from the rest of Creation and placed him in the ownership of something darker. Or rather someone.

Otherwise he was dressed as most assassins. He wore simple black and gray clothing that helped hide his figure in the inkiness of the night. His tunic was made of stiff studded leather that could absorb most attacks, with iron bracers on his shins and wrists. His cleanly shaven head was in stark relief to the mask, and was only visible when his hood slipped back on his head. He was a wraith, a specter, and a malevolent one at that. But he was very good at his duty, and the proof rested under his arm.
He lunged through a tangle of moss-covered vines, twisting unnaturally through the vegetation. The quiet slap of his feet in the morass kicked the odor of decay into the air. He turned back briefly, trying to catch a glance of any of the forms that scoured the swamp for him. But the green-yellow glow of the beacons shifted the shadows to rapidly for the Umbra to make out anything for certain. A shape in one moment took on the appearance of a massive multi-armed warrior, then diminished into a tangled tree. Grunting in disgust, he darted forward again, slipping through a tangle of exposed roots from one of the bog trees with casual ease. Too much time spent trying to pick out his pursuit would only put him in greater danger of discovery.

One of the beacons streaked closer and the Umbra froze, his hand inches away from the soulsteel scimitar that was fastened to his back. His eyes tracked the light as it banked under a mangrove. For a moment the light was blocked by a pair of cypress and the Umbra darted into a stand of twisted reeds for cover. The rattle of the damned plants caught the beacon’s attention. It turned a slow arc above the fetid green water, seeking the origin of the noise.

The Umbra’s eyes traced the glowing orb. It looked like a yellow iris with a pale green pupil that stared blankly at everything as it passed. Beneath the shrouded moon far above, the beacon was cold and methodical, much like the thief it sought. But it was a different coldness. The Umbra was wrapped in the cold embrace of death. The embrace of something that life had abandoned. The beacon was wrapped in Essence that was never alive. It was simple, yet expertly designed for its task. The magic used to create it was unyielding and sharp as the blade of the Umbra’s sword.

The Umbra was still too close to the hidden city to risk being caught by the lidless eye’s gaze. Instead he focused on his own Essence, wrapping his black anima around him like a cloak. Slowly a hollow circle appeared on his forehead, seeping a hint of inky blood. His body shifted into a gray miasma and the reed stalks moved into the gaps that his once form displaced. A slow step back moved him inside the trunk of a tree that seemed to shuddered with his presence. He was toxic to the living thing and it tried to expel him. He felt a pressure to push him out of the trunk. It was comical that the cypress tree was so revolted by his presence that he almost laughed out loud. Instead he stood his ground, unmoved in the tree and he felt it die around him.

The beacon slipped past his hiding place, unaware of his presence. He waited several moments before two men puffed behind the light. They were mortal, and not to be feared by one such as him. He was far greater than these two guards that tracked after the orb. Perhaps he wasn’t being taken seriously. That bode well for him escaping with his prize.

They slowed in the same places the beacon had, examining the locations it had marked with its earlier passing. Their voices where hushed, but clear as he watched them from inside his sanctuary.

“What did it take,” a squat man grunted as he slowly parted the reeds with the edge of a long halberd.

His companion shrugged, “I don’t know, but they’re treating it like it was something important. They’ve emptied the barracks, and sent for reinforcements. Most have already moved to the outskirts of the bog to keep the thief contained. He or whatever it is won’t get away. As soon as the ‘cavalry’ arrives, then I pity the twit that thought he could get away.”

The shorter man wearily rubbed a small gemstone that was nestled on his forehead, “Good, cause my legs are getting sore. How the hell are we supposed to find anything in this marsh? There is no sense to any of it!”

The other man didn’t respond to the complaint and after a moment both grunted in disgust at not finding anything before running off in the direction the beacon had gone.
The swamp grew quieter and the Umbra shifted out of the tree’s heart. He glanced to note the movements of the other beacons, pinpointing where the other search parties were, then darted off in a new direction that was free of the hovering lights. He moved with a grace that was inhuman, flipping over logs, bouncing off trees as easily as a mortal man could take a step. When his feet slapped the water, the slosh and patter were swallowed up by his Essence. Only the silence of the grave accompanied him as he bolted through the mire.

A large swamp viper rose up ahead of him, startled by the movement. The serpent struck at him, venom-laced fangs glinted merrily in the filtered moonlight. The Umbra easily ducked beneath the viper’s head, catching its neck with his free hand. With a fluid wrench that the snake’s body couldn’t match, he tore the neck of the creature like he was snapping a twig. The body thrashed once in the brush then collapsed into the shallow water. He continued his pace, leering haughtily at the glazed expression of the serpent before tossing its disembodied head into a bush. His eyes darted around him, making certain the brief encounter had not been heard. Another few hundred yards and he would be free of the swamp, and any chance of capture.

He slowed as he neared what could only be described as the edge of the mire. Thirty yards away the last of the thick vegetation blended into a dense grassland. Once he was in the head tall plain, he would vanish like the wind. A pair of guards stood silently fifty yards away, watching for any sign in the swamp. Chances were that he could slip a hand’s distance from them, and they would still be oblivious to his presence. But he hadn’t become the man he was by taking chances. Slowly, the soulsteel blade of his scimitar slipped out of its sheath with an inaudible hiss. The black blade absorbed the light like velvet, dully shining a darker shade against the midnight sky.

Like a plague he slipped closer to them. Moving when he needed to move, freezing when he risked being seen by the pathetic mortals. They were the fodder, but he couldn’t afford letting them alert the others, even this far away from their pathetic city. It would be more effective if they thought him still trapped in the filthy mire. Before the two soldiers knew what had happened, he had already decapitated one, before slicing the second neatly across the chest, silencing her screams before they came to her lips. He knelt slowly to the pools of blood that spread across the soggy soil. He let his hand trail absently through the fluid before bringing it to his face and inhaling the smell.

“Mortals are such fools,” his muffled voice sneered as he wiped the blood onto his mask. It was his lust, his dogma, the dying blood of his victims was his greatest reward and tribute to his Deathlord. He chuckled at their lack of preparation, then swiftly darted out of the swamp into the plain. He abandoned stealth for speed, running at a pace that could match a horse’s gallop. His light feet pounded the earth, never missing a step. Within minutes he was gone, and his pursuers were none the wiser. His prize tucked neatly under one arm, he set his sights on a destination far in the distance.

[Blitz]

Chapter 1

A flock of scarlet birds flushed wild in the distance, their irate cries resonating in Carter’s ears like the tolling of a bell. He knew they were coming. He had known the minute their chariots burst into the towering trees of the Ashwood, and even before that. From the day he heard the calling of the Unconquered Sun, he knew that they would be here. It was expected, the life of Anathema. The Wyld Hunt would come, and now they were close.

Carter Pritcher squeezed his hazel eyes shut, willing the day to be nothing but a dream. Not that it would change anything. The Hunt would come, that was a given. Better now when he was ready, than sudden in the night. When his eyes snapped open he was still sitting against the large oak that he had been camped next to for the last three weeks. The earthy aroma of the forest still played on the breeze, and the growing sense of danger still pulled at the hairs on the nape of his neck. Carter knew they were still coming, and delaying the inevitable would be pointless. He breathed in a ragged sigh, and offered a silent prayer to the Unconquered Sun for protection and honor. He glanced into the sky, watching the sun’s rays flick through the canopy overhead and hoped that it was a good sign.

He stood, feeling the forest breeze play through his auburn hair. The warm morning breathed life into him, calming his nerves, and easing his decision not to flee. He had known from the beginning that he would have to face the Hunt here, in his forest. The Ashwoods had been his home for most of his life. A small section of lush green forest on the eastern side of the Hundred Kingdoms, the Ashwoods had fed him, clothed him, and nurtured him. Even before his wife had died of small pox, the forest had given him the herbs to ease her suffering and help her find peace. With the Terrestrials coming, Carter couldn’t imagine any other place he would rather be than in the forest. He was bound and determined to face them on ground that he was intimately familiar with. And if he fell in the battle, he couldn’t think of a place that he would rather his body find rest while his returned to the Sun’s embrace to be later reborn in another. He sighed, taking one more moment to soak in the cool air and with a renewed spirit he picked up his bow and spear and moved swiftly, deep into the glade.

His breaths were calm and easy as he ran at the wind’s pace. There was no fatigue or tension in the run. Calmness enveloped him like a blanket. His hand rubbed the soft leather of his bow’s grip. It was worn and fit his hand like that of a lover, it was his most prized possession. The bow was made by his grandfather, and passed through his father to him. Its curves were strong and expertly crafted by a man that knew bows. The pale birch wood was graceful and smooth, with extended lines that gave the bow a presence longer than its length. It was shorter than most longbows, though Carter had shot it with accuracy for almost two hundred yards. That was before he became Exalted. Now, he had no idea of how far he could fire the bow, the gentle draw and release of the weapon felt like an extension of himself. Like an artist playing an instrument, he could let fly an arrow that sang-song through the air inevitably striking its target. He had yet to miss at any distance. It was as if the twin golden hawk-heads on the tips of the bow could guide the arrows to their resting place. Simply and easily.

When his dash slowed, he walked steadily into an open glade, an honorable place to hold a battle. The sun blazed around him, shining its approval. It was how Carter thought a fight was supposed to be. The idea of ambushing another, even one clamoring for his own death, without giving them an opportunity to defend themselves didn’t sit well with him. Not that he had ever been in an actual battle. He was a hunter by trade, or had been until the Unconquered Sun had revealed to Carter his true purpose. Now he was the hunted, and it came with a mixture of emotions. When the Unconquered Sun had chosen him, Carter knew that his life of relative ease was coming to an end. He was no longer a simple hunter, using his skills to eek out a meager, but comfortable life. Now he was an outcast, labeled Anathema. The Solars were cast as evil spirits tainted by an uncontrollable thirst for power and destruction by the Scarlet Dynasty. When the Wyld Hunts came, the Solars had two choices. Fight or flee into hiding.

Neither option was Carter’s first choice. He had been in fights before, but they ranged from a schoolyard scuffle, to one unfortunate barroom brawl that had spilled onto the streets of his village, Perot’s End. But nothing in this life could have prepared him suitably for the call of the Unconquered Sun. Yet he stood calmly in the glade waiting for the Hunt to arrive, all because of the voice that had spoken to him. A summoning from the greatest god in the heavens. A call that originated in an earlier age, and a far distant lifetime. Carter had no intension of backing down from what he knew was right, or laying down to accept the Dragon-Blood’s brand of justice, or their fanaticism to the teachings of the Immaculate Order. Nor would he run, trying desperately to escape the Hunt. Carter was resolute, he would stand and fight, his life or death in the hands of the Unconquered Sun.

Anathema. He could hear it on every one of the Huntsman’s breaths as they closed the gap on the glade. He was a demon, a child of evil in there eyes. A blight that needed to be expelled from the world of the living. In the First Age the Solars had ruled Creation creating a vast empire of peace and harmony. They had rid the world of countless evils, ushering in the panacea, a cleansed world. But a curse was offered up by the defeated legions, cursing the Solars. Corrupted by the nigh unlimited powers gifted to them by the Unconquered Sun, the Celestial Exalts transformed into tyrants and sycophants. Then the Unconquered Sun turned away from his disobedient flock, and the Solars’ Dragon-Blooded soldiers rose up and destroyed their Solar rulers and many of the Lunar Exalts at their sides. The First Age crumbled further with the spread of the Great Contagion and the invasion of the Fair Folk.

Only the rise of the Scarlet Empress had brought Creation back from the brink and ushered in the Second Age and with it the Dynasty of Dragon-bloods. The Terrestrials’ empire had risen and many said it rivaled that of the age before, though few truly agreed with the claims. But now things were changing.

Rumors that the Scarlet Empress had vanished circulated the world, and the Dragon-blooded were retreating to protect their families’ holdings on the Blessed Isle. The Scavenger Lands were turning their backs on the Empire, all but openly challenging any interference. Even in the Hundred Kingdoms, few of the sovereignties still paid the taxes that were at one time mandated to them. Even the Wyld Hunts had been fewer and further between. With many of their number called on to quash squabbling insurrections closer to home, few of the awesome Terrestrial Exalts and their blazing chariots tore across the landscape. Without their movements the lesser nations grew obstinate against the unwanted taxes, and talk of the waning glory of the Blessed Isle was more and more common place.

Carter had hoped that the Wyld Hunt wouldn’t come for him. That he would go unnoticed or unheeded. That the Immaculate Order would not see his Exaltion in the stars. That the Unconquered Sun would save him from this grizzly duty. But it was not to be. Carter would have to face his persecutors, and they would have to face his ‘demon nature.’

The sun warmed his skin and Carter let his anima flare lightly around him. Golden energy swirled around his body as though he were alit with a flame that couldn’t consume him. He buried the tip of his spear into the soil where it would be easy to reclaim when he needed it and eyed the glade around him. His mind flowed with the eventualities of the battle. What would happen and where, had all been carefully scripted in his mind’s eye. Carter had always had a gift for planning, whether it was a hunt or when he helped build a friend’s home. He had a knack for the strategies for both the mundane and the integral. He only hoped that it transferred to the battle arena as well.

A low rumble of hoof beats approached the far side of the glade and Carter could pick out five chariots in the shadows of the trees. Each was pulled by a pair of massive stallions that glowed with the Essence exuded by their riders. The chariots banked quickly, barreling directly at where Carter stood. His eyes darted from person to person, quickly noting their weapons and their apparent natures as they charged forward.

Slowly he pulled one arrow out of the quiver that rested on his hip. The arrow’s shaft was painted black with pitch so that it would be harder to see. He notched the arrow and pulled it smoothly back to his cheek. He could feel where the arrow was going to rest, it was only a question of selecting the target.

The first two chariots burst into the sunlight and the arrow streaked from Carter’s fingers. It shot past the front line of chariots, before it slammed into the neck of the final Huntsman, unaware that he was the target of the initial attack.

Carter turned slightly, another of the black arrows sailing from his bow like a wasp towards the next target at the back of the charging column. The Fire-Aspect warrior was more prepared and pulled his shield up to deflect the first two arrows. The third found its mark beneath the man’s crimson helmet, into his open eye. He screamed in agony, falling backwards to the earth.

Carter fired another arrow at the third Terrestrial, winging the Earth-Aspect woman in the arm, forcing her to reign in her horses. Another arrow leapt to his fingers and he hesitated for a moment, before turning sideways and firing it at a tree.

The arrow split a rope, cutting the restraints on a massive log that crashed down behind the first two chariots. In the same instant the falling log ripped another timber up from the ground where Carter had buried it. The two chariots didn’t have any opportunity to slow. The first horses slammed into the solid barricade, throwing the rider ungainly into the air. The second pair leapt over the log and the chariot’s wheels splintered spilling its passenger across the ground.

Tossing his bow out of harm’s way, Carter swung spear up in his hand. The weapon’s deadly steel point glinted in the sunlight. His anima flared like a miniature explosion around him and he leapt into the air. The first rider tumbled like a piece of debris, unable to right himself. The man’s longsword beat at the air ineffectively. The blade of the spear slipped unhindered under the man’s ribs, spilling blood into the air. The rider cried out in pain, but death came quickly. The Huntsman’s body went limp. Carter twisted the spear free before the falling body could pull it from his hands and landed heavily, his jaw set with resolution.

He turned quickly. His brow furrowed to see the Water-Aspect warrior already on his feet. Carter shifted the spear tip ahead of him. The Huntsman whirled a three-sectioned staff around him with chilling precision. Carter risked a glance to his right to see the woman he had injured leaping angrily over the logs, a pair of shortswords held in her hands.

“Anathema!” the Huntsman snapped, the air around him chilled with energy, his face was screwed tightly with anger. “You shall pay for the lives you have taken here! Your demon masters will enjoy your company this evening!”

“I think you should re-evaluate the situation,” Carter glowered. The warrior was dressed in an ornate breastplate with a light set of greaves protecting his legs. The woman had joined them over the log, and weakly held the swords out ahead of her. Clearly Carter’s arrow had struck hard in the woman’s bicep and she was having trouble keeping her grip on the shortsword in her right hand. “By my count, I have already dispatched three of your number, and injured a fourth. Do you think you can still take me? I give you the option of an honorable retreat. Go back to your families and count your blessing that you didn’t die today.”

“Bah! I’ve killed worse than you, and survived. I’ll gut you like a fish and drag your body behind my chariot like a trophy,” the man grunted.

Carter shook his head. The other man was larger, and probably more adept with his weapon. But Carter felt the Terrestrial’s weapon choice would work towards his advantage. Carter’s leather jerkin would weather a brunt assault far better than it could that of a jade blade. He glanced back at the second member of the Hunt, her jade weapons swirled with tan energy. The woman glared angrily back at him, but held her tongue. Both Terrestrials were calm despite their situation. Carter’s heart was pounding in his chest like a drum. He had hoped he could incapacitate more before it came to closer quarters fighting, but there was little he could do about it now.

“If you won’t accept my offer, then we had better get on with this.”

“Yes, let’s.”

Carter darted forward, golden energy flaring around him, giving weight to the power of his thrust. The Huntsman danced back, his staff whipped around. The two weapons bounced off each other and Carter twisted with the spear. It snapped around catching the woman off guard, biting hard into her breastplate and breaking the shaft of the arrow that jutted out of her arm. Carter shifted around, dragging the tail of the spear behind him. The end of the spear caught the woman’s feet tripping her. She landed hard, giving Carter a chance to focus on the other warrior.

Carter jerked sideways, narrowly avoiding one end of the staff as it sizzled past his face and sliced across his chest. Jagged barbs of ice appeared on the edges of the weapon. The staff ripped through his thick leather jerkin like it was parchment. Carter grunted in pain as blood seeped down his chest, pushing his spear up to block the down stroke of the staff’s other side. The spear’s shaft splintered with the impact and Carter narrowly avoided loosing part of his cheek as the staff’s end whipped across. Carter spun backwards, narrowly avoiding another of the flying strikes that darted at him like a nettle of stinging scorpions.

The Dragon-blood pressed the assault, and Carter was forced to backpedal further. His broken spear provided some small protection from the staff’s bombardment, but it was taking more out of him than he could afford. Carter needed to change the momentum quickly, or the Huntsman would grind him into the dirt.

Carter parried one of the staff ends with the blade of the spear, and twisted around. Throwing the broken back of the spear shaft in a powerful underhanded arc, the Huntsman twisted around to knock the blunt shaft away with his foot. Carter had already swung down with the spear blade, missing the other man by a few inches. The Dragon-blood saw the three arrows that Carter flicked at him well before they were close enough to be a real threat, but the feinted tip of the spear was the real danger and the Huntsman lunged into it with all of his force.

Carter closed his eyes as the man grunted in shock, the spear jammed into the man’s stomach. The Huntsman staggered back off the spear blade, and glared at Carter with a fierce vengeance before he collapsed to the ground. Carter clenched his eyes shut for a moment, willing the scene into some macabre nightmare. Something that he could awaken from. He had never been responsible for another person’s death before, yet he knew it wouldn’t be the last blood on his hands. Even with the heat of the battle, and the threat against his own life, he felt a weight on his chest. The Terrestrials were just the soldiers, the warriors on the front line doing their duty. It was an honorable life, one that Carter respected. But he felt each of their deaths as a burden, and longed for the battle to be over.

As if he needed a reminder that it wasn’t, the final member of the Hunt charged at Carter from behind. He quickly sidestepped the attack, leveling a heavy blow into the woman’s breastplate that knocked her back several feet. He turned, his anima flaring brighter, the golden energy swaying around him like the shifting leaves on a tree. The center of his forehead blazed brightly with the icon of the sun, as rays spilled out from the relief in a blinding fashion. The woman, however, stood her ground, despite her right arm hanging painfully at her side. One of the jade shortswords was held out protectively ahead of her, while the second pulled down her injured arm like a lead weight. She was shorter than the rest of the Hunt, with rust colored armor. Her dark brunette hair was short, and pulled into a ponytail beneath a thick leather headband. An earthen anima rolled around her like a sandstorm. Her green eyes burned with an equal defiance.

“Go home,” Carter admonished her. “I have no quarrel with your empire or you. Another person doesn’t have to die today under a banner of blindness. Go back to your family and find happiness there.”

“Don’t try to use your words to try to sway me, monster,” she grunted. “You’re a demon and in the name of the Hunt, I will kill you or die trying!”

Carter shook his head, “Even a soldier needs to be able question what their general says. To see an error before it wastes lives. Your people did it once, do it again! I don’t want to kill you.”

“Well that makes one of us.” She rushed forward, the sword singing as it tore through the air. Carter stepped back, the broken spear tip darting forward. The jade on metal echoed with a singsong tang. Lunging forward, she hefted the sword in her right arm up, trying to catch Carter off guard. He was more attentive than she gave him credit, and instead of being caught by the second sword, Carter caught her hand with his own.

He twisted quickly and she winced in pain. The already weak hand dropped the sword. Her free hand swung around to cleave through Carter’s neck. Carter blocked the swing with the shaft of the broken spear. Then countered with his own lunge that barreled his shoulder into the woman’s chest.

She staggered back but pressed the attack again. This time chopping low as if Carter were one of the massive trees in the Ashwood. He leapt over the blow, swinging across his body with his own weapon. The woman was too slow to react and the spear tip slashed deep into her thigh. Carter could see her grit with pain and stumble backwards into a half crouch. She glared at him with a fire that seemed out of place on the Earth-blood’s face.

Carter heaved a sigh, giving the woman a chance to recover. Wisely she stayed her ground, not wanting to test her injured leg in another charge. He could see in her eyes that she wouldn’t quit. How could she hate him so much? He was just a name to her. Anathema. Could that word inspire so much loathing in this woman that she would forfeit her life in a losing battle against one? His only option was to finish the contest.

He tossed the spear up to an overhanded grip, the woman’s eyes glared in rage. “So that’s it! Just kill me where I stand. And tell your demon masters of the glory you earned slaughtering the righteous!”

“You have no idea what righteous means,” Carter responded. His voice was calm, and low. He watched her eyes, looking for any sign of surrender in the fierce stare. His anima flared stronger around him and a flicker of fear slipped in her gaze. It was enough.

Carter whirled sideways, launching the broken spear at a nearby tree. His aim was true, and the blade of the spear snapped a rope before lodging in a tree trunk. The Dragon-blood tensed, but her injured leg prevented her from moving quickly enough. A buried roped snapped up, a foot ahead of where Carter stood, and swept across the glade at a frightening speed. The line caught the woman squarely in the breastplate, pulling her off her feet and throwing her body against the trunk of a massive tree with a bone-jarring thud. Her head bounced viciously against the rough bark.

Carter walked towards her slowly, picking up her second sword where it had fallen from her hand when the rope caught her. The woman slid down to the base of the tree, and struggled to keep conscious. With blinking eyes she tried to focus on Carter’s frame. Her eyes dully fixed on her jade sword in her hand.

“So thi.. this is how you want to kill me,” she gasped trying to keep the air in her lungs. “Broken and be.. beaten so you can gloat.”

“What’s your name?”

“Go to hell.”

Carter crouched beside her, the sword balanced on his thighs. “What’s your name, girl?”

She spat at him, “Why, so you can call me back from the Underworld?”

Carter wiped the bloody saliva off his cheek, “Are you afraid to tell me?”

She glared back at him, her eyes slowly being drawn into the darkness of unconsciousness. “Halhana,” she growled defiantly.

“Good, Halhana” Carter straightened, “now remember this. I will not be hunted. When you return to your masters, you will tell them that an ‘Anathema,’” the word tasted like bile on his lips, “spared your life today.”

The words registered slowly on the woman’s face, and she started to protest. But the draw of unconsciousness would no longer be ignored. Without another word Halhana’s eyes lulled shut, and Carter stood above her.

[Blitz]

Chapter 2

A vast army stretched out around him, like a waiting tide that bristled with pikes and ornate armor. Behind him paced the massive forms of the Warstriders, each footfall of the massive mechanical constructs booming like thunder over the din of the soldier’s creaking armor and the barking commands that were relayed across the field. The great war stallion beneath him pawed anxiously at the stony ground. It shook its head with an irate snort, indicating it wasn’t fond of the anticipation. It longed to charge into battle, to be one with the spirit of conflict. He offered a low word, calming the creature, telling it that the wait would only be for a few more moments. It eased under his gentle touch and trotted forward onto a small rise giving him a better view of the battlefield. He sat back on his saddle, his golden armor shifting comfortably around him. A golden powerbow rested in its place just above his sword strapped to his saddle. He gripped a magnificent orichalcum spear, leaning the long shaft on the shoulder of his armor . It was his lance, his javelin, his pike. It was his standard. Its long blade pierced the sky with its golden-colored gleam. It was a weapon to be feared, and his enemies were forced to oblige that terror.

Across a long desolate plain stood the Yozis. An army of demons of unspeakable power and founts of chaos, and the challenged rulers of Creation. They howled foul insults against the upstart army that stood stoically before them, swarming and clawing to be the first in line in the charge into battle. Their bodies were a mass of twisted and monstrous forms, some shockingly human, others indescribable. Each one a testament of fury and each with a soul as barren as the landscape. He watched them, cataloged them in his mind. His eyes picked out the generals, the greatest and strongest of their number. They were his focus. The Terrestrials could take the rest. Without the heads of the writhing serpent, the body would thrash, but ultimately die.

He turned quickly to the others that stood astride their horses. Like him their foreheads glowed steadily with the power of the Unconquered Sun. The sign of the Dawn glowed on each and he called them comrades, allies, and friends. They were the warriors to the glory of the greatest god. On the battlefield, they were without equals. They didn’t care that the other castes lead the people, or directed the fates of magic. This was their realm, and they sought to prove their might.

Commands spilled from his lips, directions to breech the throngs and destroy the Yozi army. They listened, even as he couldn’t remember what was being said. A flank, a feigned retreat, a pointed offense. He knew it was a complex strategy, but the others nodded in agreement and turned to join the soldiers on the front lines. He was a general, a leader, a foundation among the mass of Dragon-blooded soldiers. He turned back to the howling foe and roared in challenge. Golden light transcended around him like a banner, a testament of the power of the Unconquered Sun. With a surge more golden auras roared to life across the battlefield, followed quickly by the rest of the soldiers bathed in the strength of the elements. The army swirled like an ocean of choppy waves, churning and spilling with righteous energy and wrath.

Across the field the demons roared in frenzy at the sight and the impending battle. The wait was more than many of the berserk abominations could stand and in a slavering rush, half of the Yozi army rushed forward, oblivious to the cries of their commanders to stop. He nodded to himself, the scenario all but inevitable in his mind. With a bellow he gave the command to charge and the wall of warriors rushed forward to challenge the throng of demons and their kin. His eyes pierced the chaos, selecting one of the central Yozi generals, trying to direct the enemy army.

Without the head...

He quickly tossed the spear into a throwing grip and kicked his stallion forward. The mighty beast whinnied with excitement and pounded into a gallop, leaping off the small bluff. He breathed easily, the lingering dust in the air and scent of the battle were intoxicating. It would be easy to be swept away by the flush of emotions, but he had to keep his head.

His eyes locked on the general, the target and with a grunt he threw the spear forward. It arced like a bolt of flaxen lightning, colliding with the demon with an echoing boom that tore a giant crater where the pariah to the will of the Unconquered Sun had stood a moment before. The bodies of several more of the demons cart wheeled through the air, blown away from the strength of the attack.

Without a moment of hesitation, the powerbow leapt to his grasp. Golden lit arrows streaked forward to destroy his enemies. The war stallion quickly closed the gap and he called his spear back to his hand. The golden lance spun through the air, tearing through unfortunate demons that got in its way before it found its resting pace in his outstretched palm.

His shifted the spear ahead of him like a lance and drove the stallion into a sprint with his heels. The horse willingly complied and sailed past the soldiers to take its place at the front of the column between two other Solars. He gave them quick glances, nodding in agreement. Their horses charging forward, the point of the spearhead. The deadly apex of the breach.

Golden energy swirled around them in a wild torrent. With the first disheveled line of demons slavering for their first taste of blood, the three warriors’ animas flared even brighter like miniature novas. The demons shrieks of terror and anticipation were swallowed up by the charge. Bursting like balloons under the power of the Sun’s strength, their twisted bodies were crushed under the onslaught. The wall of Terrestrials pounded into the mass of demonic figures. The clang of weapons peeling against weapon, armor, and bone exploded into a deafening roar.

He continued his charge, his eyes searching for the shapes he had memorized.

Without the head...

A gray-skinned demon rushed at him. It six heads howling in anger. Four arms bound with bandages that spouted blades tore at the air as it bellowed its challenge. His lance caught the being in the chest, barreling through it like an overripe fruit. More demons swarmed around him. His spear spun like a whirlwind, its blade slicing through armor, flesh, bone, and whatever else made up the Yozis’ bodies. He unsheathed his sword, hacking down the infernal creatures as they tried desperately to unseat him. His stallion kicked and bucked, it hooves bludgeoning anything in it path into the dust.

He caught a glimpse of one of his targets ahead and he kicked the stallion back into a headlong charge. A Yozi twice the height of a man stood two hundred yards ahead of him, screaming orders to the troops of demons. Ixtusaplihg, despite her massive height, was stunningly beautiful. Her face was pristine and her naked blue-skinned torso was so shocking that many of the weaker willed Terrestrials fell quiet with the sight of her, only to be devoured by the demons that boiled around them. She wore a scalemail skirt that covered most of her legs that resembled those of a heron’s covered in black fur. But it was the throng of fifty whipping arms of long serpent tails that struck out at the Dragon-blood army, tearing through them like gnats.

He bellowed his challenge and Ixtusaplihg turned to face him. He was unblanched by her appearance and stormed towards her. The twisting arms shot forward, covering the distance easily in a writhe of snakelike flesh. His sword beat back the onslaught, his spear tip flashed as it neared the demon’s body.

The coils of arms engulfed him, shrouding him from the light of day. Only the flare of his anima lit the tunnel towards the Yozi’s heart. But soon even that was darkened to his eyes and he cast about for the direction the demon had fled.

Quickly he realized that his sword was absent from his hand. His horse too had vanished. Even his powerbow was absent. Only his spear remained in his hands. His eyes picking out the walls of a room around him. It was his retreat, the one he had built hidden away from the cities, in the wilderness where he was always the most comfortable. Even in the darkness of night, he could see the glint of wealth that flashed back at him in reflection of his golden glow.

His sharp eyes scanned the darkness. They were not visible yet, but he could hear them coming. The pounding of boots against the marble floor, the pant of breaths. They were getting closer.

How dare they, he thought, they were nothing. Stock animals that were to be led to the slaughter. Yet they choose to challenge him, here in his home. They would regret that choice.

A moment later the flash of energy illuminated the darkness. Terrestrial Exalts slowly entered the large chamber. Their eyes watched him, while others scanned for the defenses they knew would protect him. They were wary of this one, of this Anathema. He was most dangerous when cornered, and they knew to expect anything. His mind was too sharp, too well conceived to be taken lightly, but he had to be quelled.

He roared in challenge, daring them to approach. The taunt only slowed their progress, made them more suspicious. He was mad, but as dangerous as a caged beast. He couldn’t quite hear what they said, but he knew what was on their lips.

Without the head...

Carter’s eyes blinked open, quickly focusing on the forest around him. The dreams that could only be described as memories came at their own will. Occasionally they manifested at night in his sleep, other times they interrupted him in mid-stride. He rubbed his eyes and re-examined the glade. The bodies of the four dead Huntsmen had been buried with the honor that they deserved, and he pondered at the synchronicity of the waking dream and his battle with the Hunt that morning. His eyes shifted from grave to grave, each marked by the warriors’ weapons. Each of the weapons were worth a fortune in the life of a hunter, but he had no will to collect the value of any of the artifacts. The warriors deserved to be memorialized, not for what they stood for, but rather what they were. They were keepers of the peace. As antiquated as their ideals made them, they still deserved their honor as protectors doing their duty. He breathed a low sigh, feeling the weight of the lives he had taken. His eyes shifted to the woman bound and unconscious at the base of the tree where she had collapsed.

Her dark hair spilled around her head like a halo, her breaths were steadily deeper. The concussion from her head bouncing against the tree would only keep her asleep for another few hours, and he needed to be away from the Ashwoods before she regained consciousness. He wondered briefly if the dreams were a warning from his past, trying to urge him to deal with the woman in a harsher method for a perceived slight, but he quickly dismissed the idea. In his brief glimpses of a previous lifetime, he could tell that there had been a change in him toward the end of that other life. He felt the pangs of erratic anger, and irrationality. He had begun to get a glimpse of why the Dragon-bloods had risen against their Solar rulers and deposed them.

Carter glanced down at Halhana. Her arm and leg were bandaged as best he could with a poultice made from herbs found in the forest to keep away infection and quicken the healing process. He had placed the jade swords out of reach of the bound woman, but he would have to untie her before he left, and the swords were hers as much as the other weapons belonged to the rest of the Hunt. A small fire crackled warmly next to her to ward off any of the wild animals of the forest. If she were alert, he doubted even the bears that occasionally traversed the woods would stand a chance against the Terrestrial Exalt, but incapacitated and alone, any small pack of wolves could be a danger. The fire would keep them at a distance and keep her safe until she awoke.

He found it ironic that he was so concerned with the woman’s life, especially since a few hours prior she had been bound and determined to end his. But there was too much that could be gained, that the risks were easily outweighed. He would never be one to discount the difference one person could make. Sparing one life could have dramatic affects on the appearance of what the Solar Exalts were, despite their past. Carter understood why he was feared. The power granted him by the Unconquered Sun was well beyond his comprehension. With each passing day he felt as though his strength were oddly returning to him, and each day that might frightened him. He could only imagine what the rest of Creation thought. If one person’s opinion could be shaken, especially a member of a Wyld Hunt, then perhaps there was hope for him one day being accepted as something other than Anathema.

He glanced back at the glade, checking that there was nothing left to be done. He had disarmed the rest of his defenses, and scattered the chariot horses in every direction to make tracking him virtually impossible. Even the most experienced hunter would be awash in the chaos of tracks that led in every direction. He would follow none of them. He had already planned his departure from the Ashwoods, long before the Hunt arrived. A stone ravine, a quarter of a mile, northeast of the glade would hide his tracks out of the forest. He would be traveling barefoot, which should mask any permanent trail and the forest would cover the rest in a few days. Once he reached the canyon, he could don his boots, and make the rest of the trip quickly to the edge of the forest. Outside of the wood he already had staged supplies and a small filly that would take him wherever he needed to go. Not that he had any idea of where that would be. The most important thing was to get away from his life and disappear from sight, at least for the time being.

He knelt over Halhana, checking briefly to make sure she didn’t show signs of a fever, the telltale warning of an infection. Her head was cool, and her breaths were full and easy. He pulled a curved skinning knife from his belt and quickly cut the ropes that tied her hands and feet. He watched her face, examining her alabaster skin for any sign of alertness. But nothing registered, and he felt confident she was still wrapped in the blanket of unconsciousness. He stood quickly and started walking towards his egress, pulling his boots off before he stepped out of the glade.

[Blitz]

Chapter 3

The steel ring of his footsteps echoed in the granite halls of the Citadel Du Klimaná. Evening settled nicely in the city and the castle torches had already been lit in anticipation of the night. The halls were decorated with aging tapestries that depicted the scenes of ancient or mythic battles, adding an agelessness to the keep. Things were quieter in the upper floors of the Citadel, it was part of the castle’s appeal. Despite the noise and bustle that occurred in the throne room and courtyards, the upper reaches of the impressive keep were always quiet as a tomb.

He preferred it that way. Enjoyed the silence. It was ironic that, in his position, he would rather be alone than deal with the corpulence and degradation that was noble life. But he had a duty to perform, and what better place than in the backwater kingdom of Juodónma? One of the southern-most countries of the area known as the Hundred Kingdoms, the nobles of Juodónma thought of themselves as elites, and tried to act the part. It was one of the few kingdoms that still paid taxes to the Blessed Isle and the Scarlet Empress’ reign. They casually ignored the rumors that the Empress had vanished, and that the Dynasty’s taxes were ignored by their neighboring kingdoms. To the nobles of Juodónma, it was all about their station in life. They were greater than their neighbors because they were far more civilized, more polished, more fit to rule the masses. It was all very laughable.

Juodónma itself was a relatively wealthy kingdom, though its small size did nothing to promote it above a footnote in the catalogs of the Empire. A country bound on all sides by a mixture of dense forest and impressive mountains, Juodónma was rich in natural resources. The majority of its population earned a small, but comfortable living either in the impressive metal or jade mines, or as loggers in the forests. The farmland in the center of the country was small, but large enough to feed the population with a little help from some of Juodónma’s neighbors. The result padded the aristocracy’s pockets quite well, and they seemed to think it was their duty to spend the wealth abundantly on themselves.

In the six months he had been working his way up through the ranks of nobility, the only thing he had seen the lords and ladies of the Juodónma capable of, was throwing lavish parties to acknowledge themselves in front of their peers. They were a joke and if any member of the Realm actually chose to visit the kingdom, they would probably fall off their horses in laughter at the pathetic show. Everything was about the gentry’s station in life, and as far away as they were from the Empire, that station mattered very little to the rest of Creation. Yet, they would get together several times a week so they could primp and preen in front of each other trying to reach the next level of acceptance. It made him nauseous.

He snorted as he turned a corner, heading in the direction of his room. If he had to poise like a peacock for another moment, he would end up killing someone. And that wouldn’t do for an ambassador, though he longed to slaughter many of the nobles like stockyard pigs.

He traced his fingers across his temples and back through his short platinum hair. His eyes remained shut, unneeded during the mundane walk back to his chambers. The gentle tapping of his feet helped him ease the sense of reality back into his mind, separating it from the inane happenings below. He breathed in the air that was flavored with dust that accompanied all castles of any real age. Another month and his obligations in the daft backwater kingdom would be complete, and he would be able to continue to the next step.

One more month, he thought, then I’ll be gone and with any luck the fools will be nothing more than worm food. A smile crept across his face, barely shifting his long mustache that trailed to his chin. His hand reached out for the door to his room, his sanctuary apart from Juodónma high society when a voice tore through his attempt at retreat.

“Sir Proselyte! Sir Proselyte,” came the nasal whine from further down the corridor. The Proselyte of the Enduring Darkness cut off a vicious retort to the person that called after him, sighed then turned around just as a short fat man scampered around the corner. The man was oily and squat as a toad, with thinning black hair and weasel-like eyes that scrutinized everything that was placed before his rotund face. He wore a gaudy tunic and tight breeches that did little to compliment his physique, while hundreds of ribbons and medals flapped on his chest like feathers of some garish bird.

“Good evening General Yusis,” the Proselyte smiled with practiced ease while the fat man waddled up to him clearly out of breath.

Yusis poised himself as if the run hadn’t winded him. Yet, his chest heaved like a bellows, puffing the general’s foul breath in great snorts and gasps making the air unpalatable to breathe. The disgust that was running rampant in the Proselyte’s mind was hidden by the mask of amiableness that glowed on his face. “I’m.. sorry. I.. wasn’t prepared to.. um, keep up such a.. brisk pace. You are a difficult man to catch.. Sir Proselyte,” the general huffed, a beleaguered smile on his face.

Not too difficult as to still let myself get caught, he reflected to himself. His smile was the perfect ruse, “Did you need to speak to me about something, General?”

“No, or rather, I believe you didn’t hear the invitation to this evening’s celebration over the upcoming campaign,” the general smiled. “I didn’t want you to be left out of the festivities.”

“Oh, I am grateful for your kindness, General. I had missed the announcement.”

“Really? You had not yet left the throne room when her Majesty made the proclamation,” Yusis smiled with a flash of curiosity.

“Hmm? My mind must have been ensconced on other things. With the campaign progressing and the first attack only two days away, I must have just been too preoccupied by my own thoughts,” the Proselyte smiled. “I thank you for consideration. I will take a moment to freshen up and return for the feast on the hour.”

The general nodded, accepting the excuse, “That’s what I figured, I just would hate for you to miss it. I plan on telling the story of how I single-handedly routed a fang of Dragon-bloods during my youth. It is an enthralling tale, I assure you!”

“I’m certain it is, General,” the Proselyte smiled, “I shall be certain to hurry so as not to miss it.”

“Very good,” the toad mouth licked its lips in excitement, as if the Proselyte had dangled a fly in front of its wide maw. “I will see you shortly.” The general turned on his heels and waddled away. The Proselyte glared at the man’s bloated back, longing to tear through Yusis’ bulbous body. The image of gutting the general like a fish just to see the shock on his porcine face transformed the Proselyte’s smile into one of genuine humor. Someday soon he would kill the fat man in a long excruciating death that would last as long as one of the windbag’s stories, none of which were true.

The Proselyte knew the ‘good general’ had been promoted up the ranks because he was the Queen’s cousin. He also knew that Yusis had never actually seen combat. The Proselyte knew a lot of things. He was privy to the information that Yusis had been appointed as one of Klimaná’s guard captains when he was very young by the Queen, and had ridden his cousin’s tails up to the position he held now as Second General over the Juodónma Army. Unfortunately, as much as the Proselyte loathed the posturing fool, he also knew he needed him. Yusis and the First General Tsisan were necessary to his plans. So he would have to stomach the odious braggart for a little while longer.

He groaned under his breath after the general’s footsteps vanished from earshot. He had truly hoped that his absence wouldn’t have been missed for the evening’s mockery of what nobility should be. But he would have to bear through the engagement as best he could. What he had hoped would be a quiet night of meditation would now be another test of his patience.

He turned slowly back to the door and opened it with a resigned sigh. The room was reasonably small, at least for one inside the palace. It was comfortable, and had a balcony that overlooked the city of Klimaná around the Citadel. The Proselyte couldn’t have cared less. He had asked for the room because it was further away from the rest of the castle. He enjoyed his privacy, enjoyed his silence. The bedchamber was his only respite, and it was the best he could hope to get for his purposes of relative seclusion.

The sunset glimmered through the gossamer curtains that shrouded the windows and balcony allowing the red haze of dusk to settle in the room. It was more than enough ambient light for the Proselyte to ignore the candles on the ornate dresser, and he closed his eyes wishing for the darkest part of night. The room was decorated so as to give no glimpse of what the Proselyte’s personal motives were. It was commonplace for the nobles to bribe the castle’s chambermaids for any dirt they could find on anyone of note in the Citadel. The Proselyte made certain there was nothing in the room that could be used against him.

He casually draped his indigo cape over the back of a chair. His tunic beneath was well made, but unassuming. The silver florets on the hem and cuffs were tasteful and contrasted with the midnight blue of the material quite well. He slowly pulled the shirt over his head to reveal the skin underneath as a patchwork of thousands of scars. Every inch of the Proselyte’s skin was covered with the evidence of a tortured past. Only his head, neck, hands and wrists were free of the disfiguring marks. They were his own badges of honor, and he wore them with the same pride Yusis held for his ribbons and medals. The only difference was that the Proselyte had earned each and every mar on his pale skin.

He hummed a haunting tune that filled the empty space in the room. He watched himself briefly in the mirror, examining his physique. Underneath the scars, his body was agile and strong as a jungle cat. His smile was genuine, clearly pleased with what he saw, but it was short lived. He hadn’t retreated to his room to admire himself, rather he needed to recover much of his spent energy and sanity from dealing with the Juodónman retinue. And with Yusis’ invitation, the Proselyte would have to be quick about his meditation.

He sighed, pulling his boots off he sat on the bed, rubbing his weary feet and the scarred skin on top. He stretched then pulled his legs up, so he could sit cross-legged facing the balcony. The sun had dropped below the horizon, and the ambient light in the room dimmed. His eyes stared straight forward at the twilight behind the sheer curtain. Slowly a strange aura began to emanate from his body, like the fingers of mist swirling around a frigid pool of black water. The haze coiled around him, close and subtle, a gentle reminder of the power that was contained in the vessel that looked so human. But he was more, much more.

A low moan rose through the room. It was quiet, but it was a definite presence. The Proselyte couldn’t help the grin that played on his lips at the familiar sound, his eyes unflinching in the growing darkness. Several faint auras began to emerge from the walls, as if summoned by the wafting wisps that lurked around his body and the eerie humming. The air began to take shape in the forms of spirits that shifted uneasily in his presence. They were hideous, a mixture of corrupted human essence, and dark desires that made them long to devour flesh with their slavering mouths. They were hungry ghosts, powerful and deadly to mortals. They were relentless in their pursuits for flesh, their faint intellects focused on devouring the bodies of the living in a desperate hope to reclaim their lost vitality.

There were five of them, and they hovered near him, never daring to approach. They yearned to taste him, but feared him in a far greater respect. The trails of anima that lingered around him, stole towards the ghosts, wrapping around them with a gentle caress. The spirits shivered with the essence that drifted from the Proselyte’s body. It was intoxicating, and the hungry ghosts began to sway to the haunting hum that continued to lift from the man’s lips. They were entranced by him, drawn to him. And he would have it no other way. The restless specters were his to command, his to draw on. They were the first signs of proof that things were going as planned.

He lingered longer than he should have, lavishing the company of the dead. They were far more pleasurable than the blustering fools below. They didn’t spout idiotic ideas of the world, or care what anyone else thought. They were the perfect companions, guards, and mercenaries, tied exclusively to his will. And they were only the beginning.

He let out a pained sigh. He had dawdled long enough. The ghosts might have been better company, but for the moment he still needed the living imbeciles that would no doubt be curious where he was. With an impatient wave, the ghosts vanished obediently. Only the fading echo of a mournful moan remained as the Proselyte selected a white shirt, and a black dress coat embossed with an intricate green design. He tied a silver cloak with a high collar around his shoulders before stepping into a pair of obsidian leather boots. He glanced back through the apartment, ensuring there was no lingering trace of either the ghosts, or anything else that might give any of the Juodónman aristocrats an edge when dealing with him. Satisfied that the room was as plain as ever, he turned and rejoined the world of the living.

The walk back to the great hall quickly began to sour the Proselyte’s mood. By the time he stepped onto the veranda overlooking the lavish ballroom, he was ready to burn someone alive. The large room itself was a marvel of architecture. Based on many of the First Age ruins that littered the mountain forests hidden in the country’s landscape, the great hall was build in an ornate style that seemed to have transcended the years. Tall, curved pillars of the dark granite supported a domed ceiling with intricate artistry along the inside. The mural was a montage to the glory of the Scarlet Empress that exhibited the Empress defeating throngs of Fair Folk and Solar Exalts alike. It made the Proselyte ill.

But as nauseating as the scene atop the long room was, the scene below was even more gaudy and disgusting. The aristocracy of the Juodónman people was on the whole a pallid and disproportionate bunch. The result of hundreds of years of inbreeding had taken its toll on the nobility. Everyone was related in some way to someone else or several someones, and the result left the ruling class of the country, pale-skinned and dumpy. Few of the men had their own hair after the age of twenty, and fewer of the women were remotely attractive.

Worse still were the outlandish costumes that each of the nobles wore at every opportunity. The goal seemed to be to wear the brightest, largest outfit imaginable. As a result, most of the women wore gowns so large that it made it impossible for them to sit, or even walk through a doorway face forward. To better accommodate the dress choice, chairs had been abandoned in the lavish hall for sloping pedestals that the woman could lean against without dumping themselves head over heels in an attempt to recline. Likewise the men wore boots and collared shirts that extended well away from their bodies like ornate antenna. Coupled with long capes that drug across the floor, the scene was a wash of bright colors amid a sea of protests when another noble stepped on, or was poked in the eye with another lord or lady’s garb.

The Proselyte sneered to himself, noting that this ball had taken on a militaristic twist. The men were all wearing long ornate swords that would have been worthless in actual battle, while the women’s hair was twisted into the shape of swords or shields. One particularly daring woman’s tresses sported a pair of golden daggers that would undoubtedly stab someone before the night was over.

Seated at the far end of the room, with a gown so large that it engulfed the pedestal she rested against, was Queen Isbiatá. The ruling entity of Juodónma, the Proselyte knew the Queen was both cunning and shrewd. She was the fifth wife of the old king, and had married him when he was in his late sixties, after the previous spouses had been document.createCommentd, one-by-one for not providing the king an heir. No doubt the monarch’s blue blood had thinned too much to provide seed for such a union, but Isbiatá was smart enough to have a child despite her husband’s short comings. The Proselyte had learned that all five of her children were the offspring of secret affairs with local peasants. All of the lowborn fathers had vanished from sight shortly after conception. It was the best hidden secret in the kingdom, and the Proselyte had only discovered the information in a commune with the corpse of the Queen’s midwifes that had met with an ‘unfortunate’ accident after the birth of the youngest, Princess Fúisyiá.

He actually admired the woman. In the thirty years she had been queen, she kept hold of the sway of her court with the skill of an expert tailor, placing each word, each stitch in its place to ensure her position on top of the silk. Her decrees keep the rest of the foolish nobles clamoring for her good graces, and she moved them as she saw fit. It had taken the Proselyte of Enduring Darkness four months of careful manipulation and ear-bending to be placed in the Queen’s favor, and another two months to see his plans become the will of the matriarch. It was a slow process, but the Proselyte’s goals were finally coming to pass. In the past months, he had been able to use his dark knowledge to glean untidy secrets of many of the aristocracy to place him next to the Queen, and had left the court either seeking his approval, his downfall, or terrified of what he might say. With the number of secrets wrapped around the Juodónma high society, everyone had something to lose. Coupled with the disapproval of things like assassination among the nobles, many of the ruling class feared being discovered and losing their own lives for past indiscretions. The Proselyte had used the information he could obtain by asking the deceased directly much to his advantage. His resulting catapult to the pinnacle of the country’s hierarchy made him a subject of vast speculation and trepidation.

He nodded graciously at the attendees that waved, each no doubt having an agenda or suggestion they wanted voiced to the Queen. They were, as a whole, to be indulged with the acknowledgement of their idea. He would then present it to Queen Isbiatá as a suggestion from the courtier. They would laugh about the ridiculousness of the assumption, and ignore it. It worked well for his goals, portraying the other nobles in a light of idiocy. Even ideas that were halfway intelligent were posed in a light of its innate flaws. He never took responsibility for the suggestions himself, less he get caught in a lie. It was important to only deceive when the truth would be next to impossible to discover, and he was very adept at knowing when those instances would occur.

[Blitz]

“Are you waiting for an invitation, or just overlooking your competition?” came a low voice from behind.

A confident smile slipped easily over the Proselyte’s lips, “Thetlus, I hadn’t expected to see you here this evening.” He turned slowly to face the only man in Klimaná that the Proselyte actually thought was dangerous.

Thetlus’ face remained as stony as ever, his dark blue eyes never wavering from the Proselyte’s. The other man was dressed in a simple white and blue robe and pants that gave him the appearance of a monk. His clear skin was tinged with blue, making it clear that the man was a Dragon-Blood. His short black hair crowned a face that was strong and sharp like a hawk, though his eyes were usually bowed in quiet reflection. The only other dressing the man ever wore was a large chain of jade beads around his neck.

For each rumor that circulated around the Proselyte, five were muttered about the Terrestrial Exalt that chose to call Juodónma home for almost a year. Most said he was a member of the Immaculate Order, sent to the kingdom for its value to the Scarlet Empire. Others said he was a member of the Scarlet Empress’ own court. Even the Proselyte had not discovered the real truth of Thetlus’ extended visit so far from the Blessed Isle, but he had discovered that the man was a member of the Tepet House and was once a member of the Immaculate Order. However the Order no longer considered the Air-Aspect monk a member of its flock. Unfortunately, the Proselyte had discovered little else beyond that, except that the man was his only real opposition in the court.

Thetlus glanced past the ambassador, hiding his distain for the decadence that festered in the ballroom. “I thought to pay a visit to the kitchens to take a piece of the meal to my room before retiring. To be honest, I thought you would abstain from this night’s frivolities as well.”

“General Yusis extended me a personal invitation that I couldn’t pass up. It’s a pity he didn’t extend one to you as well, or perhaps you are not as well received as I am.”

Thetlus shrugged, his face still impassive, “I don’t care where the court’s favor lands. I am not here to be self-serving.”

“Why are you here, my good monk?” the Proselyte pressed.

“To observe,” the monk said, not allowing the other man to dig any further. “Why are you truly here, ‘good’ Proselyte?”

The Proselyte smiled, “I have made my intensions clear from the forthright. I seek to see a consolidation of power in the Hundred Kingdoms. Juodónma is a power most capable of uniting the banners of many less favorable kingdoms under one ruling government that is favored by the Empire.”

“But why send you and not a member of the Order, or of the Dynasty itself?”

“We have spared like this before,” the Proselyte reminded him. “The presence of another Dragon-Blood in this court would arouse suspicion with the neighboring kingdoms. My place here was carefully selected so as not to arise suspicion. Or have you forgotten our earlier conversations?”

“No. I was just curious if you had.” Thetlus turned and walked down the stairway. He was stopped by the ambling form of Yusis who offered a quick greeting, then an offhanded invitation of how he defeated five of Thetlus’ counter-parts. The monk offered a contrite admonishment about the blade of lies being double-edged, or some other such nonsense, then continued on his way. Yusis for his part looked thoroughly offended and checked to see who had noticed the glib retort. Content that the monk’s words were for him alone, he smiled and marched up to where the Proselyte stood.

“I swear, it will be a glorious day when that man falls out of favor with the Queen and leaves our land for good,” Yusis observed.

The Proselyte nodded, watching the monk retreat into the kitchen. He couldn’t help agreeing whole-heartily with the general’s assessment. Thetlus was the biggest thorn in his side, and held quite a bit of sway with the Queen. What was worse was that the monk refused to see the Proselyte as anything short of a danger to the kingdom. Fortunately, the Proselyte was better prepared and had provided a seamless veil that would withstand even the harshest scrutiny. His contacts on the Blessed Isle and Imperial City were prepared for any questions posed by the pathetic attempts of the Juodónman nobles, and even an ex-Immaculate. Everything would be in place, and the air of secrecy regarding his visit would help avoid scrutiny outside of his web under the Empire’s nose.

But with the steadily growing support of the aristocracy, the Proselyte had managed to unseat Thetlus as the Queen’s favored advisor, and had placed his own plans into action. Once his goals were met, he would like to see Thetlus’ corpse lying beside the corpulent Yusis, but it would have to wait. The Dragon-Blood was not to be taken lightly, and if the Proselyte acted to harshly, his carefully laid plans could be compromised. He could be patient. He was very good at being patient.

He turned back to face Yusis who was shifting the ridiculous sword sheathed at his waist, as so the weapon would stop dragging on the floor. It would have been humorous to see the bloated insect juggle the weapon, if not for the fact that the Proselyte loathed him so entirely. He half hoped the general would slice his wrists open on the sword’s blade, but decided it was too peaceful. The man should suffer.

“If you’ll excuse me General, but I must announce myself to her Highness before the feast starts. I will find you in the dining hall?” the Proselyte bowed slightly.

“Yes, of course,” Yusis smiled. “You should count yourself lucky. I rarely tell others of my illustrious past.”

Probably for fear of have to answer questions about it later, the Proselyte decided, no doubt having that many inconceivable lies bound up in one little brain makes it hard to remember such things. But he decided to let sleeping dogs lie. As obnoxious as the general was, he still fit the Proselyte’s goals. The combination of pride and idiocy was perfect for the Proselyte to point the dull-witted Yusis in any direction he pleased. One day soon, the general would atone for the Proselyte’s valuable hours wasted. But it didn’t put the ambassador in a better mood.

He quickly stole down the stairway and approached the throng of people waiting to announce themselves before the Queen. As soon as he neared, many of the nobles quickly turned to speak with him. Every person that approached him had a hushed suggestion that was vital that it be presented before the Queen, or sought to bend his ear about another courtier. Many more had offerings of jade or gold for a favor, or an implied physical act in exchange for a chance to move above their competition. The Proselyte graciously listened then pardoned himself from any of the lewd or unscrupulous suggestions, all the while wanting to slaughter the lot of them. He was beginning to loose his composure, and accidentally backed into a young woman, sending her sprawling to the floor.

“My deepest apologies Lady Ríshjo,” the Proselyte said quickly as he stooped to help the woman back to her feet before she could be suitably embarrassed by the mountain of a dress that opened like a bell to expose her lacy petticoat. “I had not seen you there.”

The lady stood shakily, desperately trying to smooth her gown and dignity. Not that anyone truly cared. She was one of two hundred of the courts unacknowledged members, too quiet to make any name for herself, and too unconnected for anyone to be interested in her. She was a wisp of a woman, pale and skinny as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks. He red dress seemed to list to one side after her unfortunate spill, and her thin black hair was now in the shape of a leaning sword. The Proselyte figured she was about to cry, and no one would care. She was faceless in the crowd, and there was nothing she could do to ever be more than a wall flower.

A chill ran up the Proselyte’s spine, and he licked his lips in a sudden rush of anticipation. He lean close to her, “My sweet Ríshjo, you must give me an opportunity to make up for my slight after the evening’s festivities. Perhaps in the garden behind the western wall… far away from prying eyes?”

He leaned back to see the young woman’s face flush with excitement. She stammered a short ‘yes,’ and quickly turned to prepare for a night she was certain she would never forget. The Proselyte was certain as well that the night would be memorable for them both, and he could only hope that the evening would progress quickly. He knew there was a risk involved in the venture, but it only added to his excitement. While he wouldn’t be able to bath in the blue blood of the whole Juodónman hierarchy, perhaps the screams of one innocent noblesse would satiate him for a time.