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The swamp between Trinsic and Britain is a dark and forboding place. Swarming with ratmen, lizardmen, alligators and snakes that can swallow men whole, it is home only to a few hermits, those who wish to hide, and the suicidal.
Around a small section of high ground, black as if struck by lightning repeatedly, stand a dozen Black Guards. Cice stands slightly apart from them, close to the blasted ground. A slightly shorter man, thin where Cice is broad and with dark hair where Cice is blond. A slightly stooped posture makes him seem even shorter. A brace of throwing knives is secured to his chest. His clothing is all black, his boots are black, his gloves are black. A grey cape hung around his shoulders doesn't add much color.
The Guards are in a ring, facing outwards, save for Cice and his companion. Lizardmen and other denizens of the swamp seem attracted to the gathering of humans. The few mages with them manage to kill most of the creatures as they appear. Those that get through must be dispatched at close quarters.
Without warning a pillar of blue fire lances out of the dawn sky and strikes the blasted grounds. The suns light is dimmed and the swamp is covered in an eerie green glow cast by a floating ball of green light taller than Cice and broader than an ogre beer belly.
A form congeals in the middle of the ball, with sound like tearing leather the ball pulls apart into two smaller balls. In between them is a figure who seems surprisingly average for his flashy entrance.
of only average height, perhaps a little below, and strong in a whipcord fashion rather than sporting a warriors' muscles, the man would blend into a crowd if not for the undeniable aura of power that sweeps out from him, turning the heads of Guards involved in killing denizens of the jungle.
"The locals are un-needed." The Guards vanish, literally. Of them no trace remains. No evidence remains of where their feet sank into the swamp. Only Cice and his companion remain. The lizardmen, now with a clear advantage, rush foward.
"Animals. For all their posturing, these things are beasts of the field." A second figure stands on the blasted ground, looking just like the first. Then there's two more, four now, then eight. In all there are now twenty one men looking like the man on the blasted ground. They fan out in a circle, cutting the lizardmen down so fast that their hands seem to never move, and no weapons are in evidence. The remaining man, the first, addresses Cice and Grog.
"Your tour of duty is done here, Cice. I've summoned you to take you home. All others from the expedition are already back in the palace." A slow grin spreads across Cice's face at the man's words.
"And what of my brother?" Cice's expression sobers.
"He is free to join us, but I think he has other ideas." The odd man tosses a necklace to Cice's companion. He nimbly catches it and turns it over for examination. The necklace is gold, with a small gem in it. The necklace itself is so thin it seems more like a golden thread than adornment. "Smash the gem and you'll return home. Say your good byes. We must leave soon, Cice, you're expected."
Cice sighed and turned to his companion. "Well Jul'ian. I guess this is good bye for now. Why aren't you coming with us?"
Cice's companion, his brother, Jul'ian, stood up straight and shrugged. "I want my own land. My own followers, other outcasts like myself. I worked for the expedition for nearly as many years as you. I'm gonna have the island of Bucaneer's Den for my pension. Land in a crystal shard inside the emperor's palace is still land, brother. I'll come home some day." Jul'ian's voice was smooth, a beautiful tenor.
The two men briefly embraced, brothers seperated, yet again, by circumstance.
"Would you two keep the WarLord of Domaig waiting? Get a move on, Cice, I will set your tail on fire if necessary." Cice grunted an incomprehensible reply and strode onto the blasted land. As his foot touched down, he faded into nothingness.
Only Jul'ian, the WarLord of Domaig, and twenty some other...Jul'ian wasn't sure exactly what they were. Twenty some other WarLords, he guessed.
"I'll send you home. To Wilder. Make your plans there. I'll provide further transportation wherever you need to go." The excess WarLords began vanishing. Jul'ian's vision swam and he found himself on the sandy shore of Wilder. The sun was setting.
"How? It was only dawn!" Jul'ian wiped grime off his boots. "Never understand that guy.." He mumbled as he picked bits of slime from his boot laces.
The next night
Willow Steele, former Nath Guard, sat in his villa and ate his simple dinner. Without Cice, he considered himself in retirement. The Guards simply wouldn't be the same without the commander.
An authoritative knock on the door nearly made Willow drop his fork. Only a few people knew he lived here. And none of them had any reason to be coming ot his door after nightfall.
With some trepidation Willow stood, strapped on his longsword, and went to the door. He opened the door to see his porch, empty. Now quite puzzled, and a little worried, he opened the door further and stepped onto the porch. His eyes were unable to penetrate very far into the night's gloom. Then something brushed against his cheek.
Thinking it to be some small bug, he idly brushed at it, and his hand encounted the end of a rope. Willow gave the rope a short tug, it was anchored firmly, probably to his balcony.
Turning to re-enter his house, he came face to face with a grinning man.
"Gahk!" Willow exclaimed in surprise and stumbled backwards. "Grog! What on earth are you doing here?!" Recognizing the man as the Black Guards' former chief rogue, Willow became angry.
"Finding you. Cice is gone." The smile left Grog's face.
"I know that. Was that all you came for?" willow briefly considered running the rogue through to forestall whatever tricks he had planned, then decided against it.
Grog removed his black gloves as Willow pushed past him and strode back into his own living room. Willow threw his sword down by the coat rack, where Grog had already hung his grey cloak.
"No. That's not all. As you can see, I haven't left."
"Pity." Willow stuffed another bite of food into his mouth. "What happened? WarLord decide you're too annoying to keep around?"
"Don't press your luck, Willow. I'm here to carve out a holding for myself. I require your service to do such."
"No kiddin'? Wilder not good enough for ya?" Willow wiped a dribble of soup off his chin. "What area are you plannin' to infest, uh, I mean, claim."
Grog narrowed his eyes at the former Nath Guard. "Bucaneer's Den."
Socrates looks out the window of his villa, the soft glow from the valorite lamp shines across his weathered face. "Yukon this is interesting indeed. Our spies have reports that there are clusters forming throughout Felucca. There is the Dungeon Protection Society claiming ownership of the dungeons, then of course the ZOG Empire in Despise Valley and King David in PAS Valley. Now it seems Golgotha is coming to life once again and I also hear stirrings of Oasis making a slight comeback. Now there is the fella Grog and the Saurien Gathering making plans to overtake Buccaneers Den. Why Yukon, that is the resting place of many of our realm's most hated and feared villians! What brash advances!!"
Yukon, obviously irritated with the old mans ramblings and interruptions, snaps back "Old man, I've no time for these tales. Many of the rumblings and reports you get from your spies are nothing but wives tales and wishful thinking. I have much work to do. Keeping you happy is not the easiest job a man could have you know." With impatience Yukon turns back to his forge and stikes a mighty blow on the newly forged blade. "Dammit, now look what you've made me do!", he bellows as he bends the fine edge into a misshappen lump of metal.
Socrates mumbles to himself, "We shall see about these tales, you cad, we shall see...."
The wind whistles through Delekhan's camouflage cloak, he crouches down hunting a great hart. A crack comes from the background, Delekhan soon jumps from his position and looks behind him to figure out what being scared away his prize.
"Moraeulf!, why in the world you here?" he moves over to his son who he hasn't seen in merely a year. "I come baring news of Grog, Cice's Brother." Moraeulf staggers over with a parchment half way bent. Delekhan unfold's it hesitantly, then reads with a slight squint.
"Ahh, the Saurien Gathering, sounds interesting." he gives a sharp grin and jumps on his newly acquired horse. "I'm leaving for Buccaneer's Den." and with a stroke of the the mighty steed's reigns he gallops in the distance.
Warriors are are common around the moongate of Bucaneer's Den. Thieves are even more common. Raziel Avenal falls into the former catagory. The young girl sneaking up on him is one of the latter.
The warrior appears blissfully ignorant of the small thief, wrapped up as he is in watching two bands of factioneers, one from the Council of Mages, the other representing Minax, battle it out. The girl reaches his coin pouch, tied to his belt, and quietly slips her fingers in.
In the space of a heart beat her hand is siezed in Raziel's much bigger hand, an unbreakable grasp keeping her from bolting.
"On this island," Raziel's voice is deadly calm, and his eyes never leave the fighting factioneers, "there are two kinds of thieves. Those who serve him," Raziel waves towards a man in black sitting on a horse a dozen paces away, "and those who are dead. It's up to you which category you fall into." His grasp tightens and the girl cries out in pain as bones in her right hand snap like twigs under a horse's hooves.
Without another thought, Raziel releases the girl, who falls to the ground, unconscious. He rides his horse over the slumped form, barely avoiding stepping on her, and stops beside the man in black, who is wagering on which band of faction fighters will triumph.
"M'Lord." His single word greeting carries with it no detectable emotion. "I must thank you for inviting me into this organization. I find my duties most fulfilling."
The other man smiles partially. "I am glad you are satisfied, Raziel. The life of a Praetorian Guard with my brother's forces never quite fit you, did it?"
"No, M'Lord. I am still loyal to your brother. But he never made the best use of my talents."
"My brother considered you insane. Was he correct?" The man turns his quiet gaze on Raziel.
"That would depend on what...kind, of crazy he thought me to be."
Raziel's eyes spy a thief with short-cropped hair, dyed grey, dodging between horses of the factioneers tto swipe a spare sword hanging from the belt of one of the Minaxians. As the man rushes away from the battle, Raziel spurs his mount forth in quick pursuit, screaming at the top of his lungs and sounding quite totally insane.
The rogue was fast, but not fast enough, his grab was seen, and his victim was quick on his heels. Just before the warrior's blade cut into the fleeing rogue, a stinging pain lanced across the skin on hte back of the warrior's neck. He stumbled and the rogue kept running.
Rising to his knees, the warrior felt the back of his neck, his hand came away with the smallest touch of blood on them.
He turned to face a warrior holding a kryss. The man looked a little fuzzy. Sounds weren't quite right, either.
"I was thinking I'd never be able to try the new stuff out. Tell me if it hurts much, would ya?" As the sentence ended, fire erupted in the warrior's mind, it rippled from the base of his skull to the front of his eyes and quickly spread to the rest of his body. His sword was thrown from spasming fingers and his knees buckled, throwing him back to the ground.
"I'll take that as a 'yes'." The pain slowly faded, and so did everything else.
Other Stories
The Order of, um, hehe, the Holy Blade.
