Cenam led them before the crack of dawn. He followed the trail through the day as they tracked under the summer heat, while Sethlzaar brought down any prey that crossed their path, from the hares burrowing into the dirt to the birds soaring the skies a little too low.
They filled their canteens anytime they came across puddles, which proved rare. The trail turned at intervals, heading east, then north. Soon they lost track of where they had begun following it.
The thumping sound of arrows as they found the target boards brought a sense of satisfaction to Sethlzaar. He found he preferred it to the sound that came with it piercing flesh. The darkness of the bow hall around him was disturbed by the soft glow from the lantern a few paces behind him. Tonight, his brothers walked the night with him. A walk that found them here."How do you do that, brother?" Takaris asked him.
Father Ordan came at the fourth hour with a cassock for each of them. He met them awake, and waiting, fully clothed with veils strapped in place.Only Sethlzaar carried a bow."Get to it," he told them. "Best get you lot out of my hair."
Sethlzaar sat in the bow hall with Emeril, knowing he would have to take Wraith for one last walk beyond the mist later in the evening. Emeril loosened arrows at her target, each one hitting its intended mark, but Sethlzaar knew she took no satisfaction from it. Less she didn't, and more she couldn't."Does it get lonely?" he asked.
Even in the northern lands, near the ice peaked mountains, the sun was hot from its peak in the sky as Valerik walked. He had left Rive tied to a tree in the forest a few miles back; some villages considered the horse an abomination, and the one he was heading for was one of them.It had been years since he last visited the village, perhaps a decade had gone by. He doubted Arfina would be happy to see him. Fortunately, she wasn't the reason he was going there. She hadn't been the reason the last time either, and it had played a part in dulling her mood, or spurrin
There was one thing Sethlzaar was certain of: his continued dislike of alcohol. In the seminary he had drunk it because his brothers did. Tonight he endured its bitterness for a different reason.Narvi had him gathering knowledge on a touched the seminary claimed was in their vicinity. He had been seated two hours now, clad in simple clothing that, at most, would identify him as a mercenary. With the absence of his veils and his bow, he could easily be mistaken for a simple citizen of the kingdom.
Narvi gave them his unwavering attention as Takaris rehashed the tale of his experience at one of the famed taverns near the first tower of the realm.One year, Sethlzaar thought. The mandatory pastoral year required of all priests in their first year of priesthood, regardless of their class.The shock had been palpable on all their faces when they had been told where they would be posted. For the past year they had lived on the outskirts of the realm in the west tower, near the outskirts of the Arlyn forest, combating the Merdendi savages, curtailing their growing horde; preventing a war. Six
Battle is nothing like the glories boys fantasize as they grow. There is no glory to it, just blood, and gore, and screams, and pain. The king rewards men who return from it, and shrouds them in false glory. This glory sends boys of all ages into a wanderlust for it. This glory is as real as it is tangible.Sethlzaar spun on his foot, his veils outstretched. He cut down two Merdendis closing in on him. Their blood splashed, staining his cloak. He ignored it, and pushed forward, cutting down foes, evading thrusting blades and swinging clubs and dire maces under the heat of the sun.
Sethlzaar studied the cassock on his bed. He had a decision to make. Wear the black cotton shirt and leather trouser he always wore beneath his cloak or honor the Lord Commander's dinner with his cassock.It is not a dinner deserving of any honor,he told himself.He returned the cassock to the wardrobe present at the corner of his room and shrugged into a leather trouser and strapped on his boots. He covered his torso in a grey cotton shirt, concealing the few scars on his bo
Darkness has never truly been a thing of worry here. Basically, it’s most often dark here. Most of us don’t like it, but time is enough to make anyone adapt to it. Still, it’s not like we have much of an option. Wether it’s dark or bright or generally colorless, it wouldn’t matter, this is the life we live. We would claim we didn’t choose it, that it chose us. But I’ll be honest, we chose it as much as it chose us. Every action we ever took has led us here; at least all the actions I ever took led me here.
Maekil snapped his finger in recognition. “Yes,” he almost exclaimed. “The Shadow Child of the Conisoir. Even the Lords employ it to scare their children from bad deeds.” He placed a finger to his bottom lip in puzzlement. “Although, yours is different. Why is that?”“Because it is the true tale.”“And you believe this
Red wine twirled within a transparent cup made of glass and fashioned for the simple and unnecessary sake of aesthetics. By Truth, Maekil never could understand the desire to be pleasing to the eye. Perhaps it was because all his life he had been nothing but pleasing to the eye, perhaps it was not. He dropped the cup without taking a sip.He would only taste of the wine when the night was over and the morning greeted him with the light of the sun. Normally this wasn’t the case: not in his manor.
Valerik came awake screaming and gasping. His cassock was soaked in sweat and a terror grasped at his heart as he cried into arms that held him with so much untainted love. But somethings were greater than others and he knew that no love or hate or indifference could triumph over the terror that held him.“What’s wrong, father?” a voice asked.He knew who
Valerik opened his eyes from his slumber, instinct propelled to reach across him to ensure he bow still lay where he’d left it last night when he’d bedded down for the night. The bow was the livelihood of his people. A man with no knowledge of where his bow lay at all times was a failure of a man. Assured it was where he’d left it, he rose from the ground to a sitting position and watched the man who sat on the log on the other side of a fire that was nothing but ash. No doubt it had fizzled out sometime during the night, considering no one had paid it any attention.
Sethlzaar blinked the darkness away, but he might as well have waved away the air. Unable to see, he sat up with ease. The floor was covered in grass and served as a soft bed to his rump, so much so that he hesitated to rise to his feet. But he did.Around him was overshadowed in a familiar darkness, and when he took a step forward he frowned at the sight before him.A rub
They couldn’t afford to let the fight drag on. But if there were no wisps, how could he change its course? If Berlak evaded him at every turn, how could they turn the tide? The answer came to him as quickly as the question. There’s more you can do in the dark.Stepping forward, he moved his hand in as he spun from the cover of Cenam’s back to oppose Berlak. The god turned away from his attack easily, striking a closed fist against the flat of Cenam’s veil.
Sethlzaar saw the moment the fight was decided. The climax to the torrential build up. Cenam swung the veil in his left hand. A downward stroke designed to take his enemy’s head. Berlak reacted as fast as the stroke itself, his longsword striking the veil from Cenam’s grip, taking away the priest’s advantage. But Sethlzaar had seen such decisions before. Cenam had intended it. The strike, although intended to take the man’s head, had never truly been expected to. Not a feint. A sacrifice.Cenam’s second ve
The war raged on within the city walls, though the carnage was not as depressing within as it was without. Sethlzaar carried himself in a full sprint, his previously perceived fatigue ebbing away at the touch of darkness as he followed where Cenam led. Bratvi kept pace beside him and paid no obvious attention to his broken wrist. One thing was certain; even if the Most Reverend could fight, it would be impossible to use both veils.There was no doubt that those who had given the once mythical city of Arlyn its reigning title had never stepped foot within its walls. Still, there wa