An arrow crossing a phoenix feather.

The Phoenix Archer – Orion’s Legacy – Chapter 1

Chapter I – Havicore’s Phoenix

“There are at least five sites that we know of. We’re kidding ourselves if we think we’ve got most of this world mapped and documented as well as we think.”
– Aeker Murdoch, Master of Crows to the Archery Guild briefing the Maytoni Summiteers and Outriders on the Ashlands

Night was fading, turning indigo, only the most determined stars remaining. The ocean glimmered the dawn tones, its own darker colours rolling. Whilst bare, only to the ignorant would the beauty of this scene be lost, Alejandro Zaragosa thought.

               “Just what’s out here that’s better than lying next to me?”

               Ksenia Kiamount.

He half smirked, the left side of his face paralysed, smeared with glassy burn scars. His black hair was still short, though his face bare for a change.

               “Nothing, of course,” Alejandro replied coyly, holding the smirk. He was aware of how slurred his speech sounded, along with the hammer strike intonation behind each word. He looked into Ksenia’s gemstone brown eyes, set under whip-thin black brows. She had even wrapped her glossy black hair up into a nest. Her face fell back to its softness, a small chin, narrow jaw, and ever so slightly piggy nose. Still as beautiful as when he had first met her twenty-five years ago.

“Correct answer,” she hissed, stabbing a finger into the lightning-pattern scars on the left side of his bare chest. She stood, wrapped in a cloak, arms braced around herself.

Alejandro leaned against the rail. “I was hoping to see a blue whale.” The journey to The Sigel had been uneventful, and as they entered a shipping lane to the Poet’s Sea, Alejandro was feeling disappointed.

By contrast, their journey out of The Mane was tense. In the past two months the countless islands making up Fohalin proper had been gutted through recession. Once opulent, built on trade from ships, the nation was withering, in the clutches of a colossal typhon. After vessels went missing, most traders decided it wasn’t worth the losses, and finally the Fohalin government could no longer pretend the beast didn’t exist.

Orion Aldenberg was dead; however, the longer-term effects of his plan were crushing the livelihoods of Fohalinites. Poverty rife, scores of islands obliterated.

Journeying aboard the Black Alice they had taken a far more northernly route, outside of the typhon’s territory. Even so, Alejandro kept vigil. Somewhere down the line, he knew he would have to deal with it. Yet, during the journey to the port he was still feeling the echoes of his wounds.

Ksenia leaned into his frame for warmth. “That’s the ocean for you,” she replied. “Likes to keep its beauty to itself.”

Of course, he had yet to share with her that he was whale spotting because of the cold sweat he’d awakened in. The nightmare had plagued him for eight years now, and not even lying next to Ksenia could tame the tribulations imbedded in his mind.

“Where’s Blair?” Alejandro continued, placing an arm about her shoulders. Blair Ruthvane, the last of the infamous Ruthvane dynasty, a two-centuries old vampire, had upon hearing of Alejandro’s wounds, rushed back to them.

“Asleep, like normal…” Ksenia stopped. Blair was not ‘normal’. “He’s trying to get himself used to sleeping at night again.”

Alejandro had to admit the old explorer had made learned company during the bed-ridden weeks. Blair’s stories and knowledge made him feel gleefully energetic. So much of what Blair knew, his first-hand experience of events before Alejandro’s time and beyond, was largely new to him.

“I can’t wait for our Maytoni friends to meet him,” Ksenia chuckled. “They don’t believe in vampires.”

Whilst the lengthy journey across the open ocean had been still, the Poet’s Sea did not disappoint.

               Wide shipping lanes cut between the few tiny islands off the south of Reywher into the Poet’s Sea proper. Black headed, white bodied tern griffins dived from cliffs, streaks of grey like gleaming lightening against their unrestrained speed. They would explode out of the water with huge boulder tuna in their talons. Fleets of fisherman’s hydra ran in the currents produced by the ship. Only the size of dogs, these bright orange, and blue serpents where harmless despite their draconic features.

               Gulls in their thousands graced the sky further along as they came to closer to the coast of Oakthei, and the corner of Xellcarr. Once they made it to the river which fed into the north of the Sigel, griffin species became more prominent. Arch griffins, with their dusk-blue, gleaming white feathers and stone-grey feline bodies, in particular.

               Whilst Alejandro had been invited to meet with the Summiteers, they were not traveling to Maytoni, but to Xela, a protectorate.

After another day of sailing, they finally arrived inside Xela’s port city. The major river ran through the whole country, straight, west to east, cutting the northern two thirds off from the south. Whilst four fifths of the country’s population lived in the more hospitable southern region, Alejandro was heading into the north.

               Their final half day of journeying had prepared them for the overbearing heat, the brilliance of the sun. Alejandro was already sweating beneath his blue silk tunic, embossed with burning orange vine patterns, from which sprouted amber feathers, and brown leather breeches. He kept his deep orange leviathan leather face wrap down, to avoid suffocation. Ksenia was wearing a dress comprised entirely of red and blue griffin feathers, which kept her limbs free to breath. Yet even she looked close to passing out.

They each carried bags, holding various supplies, but more importantly, their bows and arrows. After past events, Alejandro had decided that where he goes, his phoenix arrows go too.

               “I hope this is a trap,” Ksenia sighed, rubbing the lower part of her sweat-slickened face. They walked off the boarding ramp to a stone jetty. Ship hands in their dozens surrounded them, carrying cargo. “It’ll give me an excuse to jump into the river.”

               “Sorry to disappoint you, Ms Kiamount,” a voice added over the din of dock workers. As if from nowhere a tall man with dark brown skin stood before them. Next to him was a woman. “Captain Maldwyn Maddox.” He extended a hand to both of them.

               The captain was at least six feet, bald with a close-cut beard hiding jowls. His eyes were a faded brown over a flat noise. He had to be pushing fifty.

               “Greetings, captain,” Alejandro took the hand. The Maytoni were famously amiable, for a religious theocracy. Even in the wake of the War of the Feathers, Maytoni still retained its peaceable reputation.

               The woman spoke, “I’m lieutenant Tara Powell, Summiteer Intelligence. It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Especially you Ms Kiamount. My military career began in the navy, escorting Sigel ships to The Mane…” There was a wicked grin, like a challenge. Alejandro turned to Ksenia, hoping for something… Extravagant.

               “You want to claim a bounty, get in line,” Ksenia returned coolly to Alejandro’s disappointment.

               Tara only laughed. “We never encountered the Daemon Flamingo. Besides, that’s the past. If life in special forces has taught me anything, it’s that today’s allies are tomorrow’s enemies, and tomorrow’s allies are today’s enemies.” She was lithe, five-seven in height. Her bright features matched her humour and sprightliness well. Blonde hair was tied into braids and knots, with blonde eyebrows overshadowed by her dark cobalt eyes. A swath of freckles covered her face. She couldn’t have been older than forty.

               Both Summiteers were in nondescript attire, which didn’t surprise Alejandro. Though they no doubt had uniforms for various types of operations, it was more than likely, their present attire was preferred.

               “Ignore the lieutenant, Ksenia, she’s deeply insecure because most people are put off by her intellect,” Maldwyn added. Whilst Alejandro had not allowed any misgivings to take root in his mind since receiving the invitation, Ksenia had been suspicious.

               “Good captain, good lady lieutenant,” Blair announced himself wistfully, clambering down the boarding ramp. His arms were outstretched, and he moved in as if he already knew the pair. He shook both hands, and seemed to have forgotten that he was wearing a wooden mask like a plague victim. “The late Blair Ruthvane.” He cocked his head. “A woman officer? You know that’s what I like about the Maytoni. You give the other gender a go…”

               “Blair,” Ksenia snapped.

               Blair wore a white silk shirt, over which was an emerald vest. Black leather breeches were tucked into mink fur lined boots. White gloves covered both hands, embossed with black swirls. Despite the formal attire, his clothes looked as if they were at the limits of their ware. At his side was the Ruthvane rapier.

               Alejandro added with a sigh, “We’re not sure how to explain him.”

               “Don’t fret, I don’t know how to explain myself to people either.”

               “Well, isn’t this something?” Tara muttered, leaning in to inspect the mask, as if Blair was a relic. “Vampirism?”

               “Indeed.”

               “Well, vampires aren’t real,” Tara began, matter-of-factly. “But we can call you that if you wish.”

               Blair barked in good-natured laughter. “Lady lieutenant you are standing before the undead.” He passed his hands over his body for emphasis.

               “All resurrection is an act of the Gods. You may think that you died and came back, but what you are suffering from is a magical disease of sorts,” Tara continued. Her clinical, matter-of-fact tone likely gave people the wrong impression, Alejandro thought, of a know-it-all. Though incorrect here, he figured she was often right and better informed than everyone.

               “Excuse me, Tara,” Maldwyn broke in. “But I think we should get moving.”

               “Yes, I’m eager to know why I was invited,” Alejandro added, though he was really eager to get into the plains of Xela and see the scorched beauty of the arid landscape.

               “I’d have thought Evander would be meeting us,” Ksenia added, bringing up the younger Summiteer they had encountered, back in what seemed decades ago.

               Maldwyn and Tara shared a quick glance. “Evey’s been reassigned. We’re too few and moved frequently.” Maldwyn wasn’t lying, Alejandro thought, but he was holding something back.

A large, plain carriage was waiting, with four indifferent looking camels tried to it. On top was another Summiteer, an Ork.

               “Kellen Tanner, Field Sergeant,” Tara added, waving up to the Ork.

               Kellen was at least six feet, with forest green skin smouldering into dark red against matching gold eyes. Feathered brown hair was swept back over his head.

               “That boy’s an Ork,” Blair began, and Alejandro braced himself. “Odd to see them outside of a segregated regiment.”

               “Blair!” Ksenia snapped.

               Blair collapsed into the quilted seating. He pulled his mask away, with a sigh of relief, revealing his pale skin and auburn hair.

               “Sorry, about him,” Ksenia added.

               Maldwyn waved it off. “We’re diverse. It’s something I’m very proud of. Equality is the foundation of our religion. The Gods sent our first Seer on the exodus to diversify the nation.”

               Alejandro held back a comment about how diverse Maytoni could be if they had to hold to the same gods. He didn’t like cynicism; it often left a sour taste in his mouth. Besides, he respected the Maytoni too much; they didn’t push their religion on others, and unconditionally brought aid to poorer nations, not just on The Sigel, but beyond – after the reclamation of Senphire’s bow the Maytoni had been sending generous donations to Ksenia’s family’s sanctuary.

               “Forgive Tara, too, Blair. I wasn’t exaggerating her intellect. She’s used to being right nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand. Tara’s our expert in magical and anti-magical theory,” Maldwyn explained.

               “No worries,” Ksenia added. “We see him as a mentally damaged cannibal too.”

               From a space under one of the seats, Maldwyn pulled something loose. Alejandro felt Ksenia tense. However, it was nothing… Well, not nothing…

               “For coming across, and for Senphire’s bow.” Maldwyn handed a bottle of red wine to Alejandro.

               “It was I who gave permission for you to have it, but whatever…” Ksenia muttered under her breath, loud enough for Alejandro to hear.

               “It’s an Ihcarb eighty-two. My wife’s family has been running a vineyard in the mid-north for eleven generations. Evey mentioned you were a connoisseur.”

               “This alone justifies the journey,” Alejandro stammered excitedly, beaming a large half-smile.

               Ksenia took the bottle from him and wrenched the cork out with her teeth. Alejandro gave Maldwyn an apologetic look. “She used to be a pirate, you know.”

As they travelled, brutally dry terrain went by, with an ocean of shimmers veiling every sight. However, in the distance were small black dots: plains gargoyles. Alejandro had never been in Xela before and had never seen this species. Despite the distance he was thrilled, and despite the danger, he was hoping to get just a bit closer.

               “How much of a problem are they?” Ksenia asked, leaning across Alejandro to look.

               “None at all. The Xelanites don’t go near them. The Flint Castle,” the words brought a frostiness to Alejandro’s spine, “Don’t bother with them. But that’s largely because the Xelanites flay their members.” Maldwyn replied.

               Soon enough, they reached the Gargoylian Fastness, where the Maytoni hid their secrets. Angular walls faced them, a hundred feet tall with columns of razor-sharp fins. The walls terminated into a vast mesa, a colossus of rufus red, half a mile in radius, which housed the bulk of this facility. Built into the front of the mount was an inverted rhombus, a flat base of gleaming white stone tapering downward. At each side where round pillars with silver gargoyle reliefs painted upon them.

               In the centre of the defensive wall, a tall stone door opened inwards to reveal three portcullises, each rising only after the previous one was lowered again. The carriage rumbled through. Outside Alejandro could see many structures with conical, seashell shaped towers atop them.

               Catching him looking, Maldwyn spoke. “There’s tension, you should know, between us and the Outriders.” Alejandro looked back to the Summiteer, curious. Maldwyn’s face blended shame and anger. “You’ve heard of the War of the Feathers?”

               “Everyone has,” Ksenia answered, Blair nodding. “Maytoni scrapping with its northern neighbour, Xallcarr. Unprecedented.”

               “Unprecedented, unnecessary. Short lived as it was, thank the Gods, the Outriders disgraced themselves. The so-called prince took off under the guise of rushing to Xela’s aid – as if the Xellcarrians would invade; they’re grievances were with us. Anyway, the prince ordered them to follow, and blindly, they did.”

               Maytoni was founded on the ideal of equality, thus the notion of monarchies or social elite was practically heresy. Yet as the Church and the Pastorals could not cover the whole country, many people sought to establish ruling families to help keep the people covered and supported.

               “Xellcarrians still worshiping griffins, then? Rather backward, in this day and age but there’s worse things to bow down to, most of them sentient.” Blair sighed.

               “That was an icy kind of cynicism,” Ksenia jested.

“Anyway,” Maldwyn continued. “Things boil over when we come into contact with Outriders. The security here is exclusively Outrider, but I’ve a team present.”

               “All for me?” Alejandro smirked, hoping to alleviate things.

               “Ha! Not quite. It required an escort.”

               “It?”

               “You’ll see.”

The Summiteer’s den was a large, blissfully cool hall, with a pair of stone tables and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Various trunks where strewn around, with arrows of many types and more bows than there were people to use them, on the tables. Maldwyn began to introduce the few people present.

               “Senior Sergeant Esther Jabrion.” Dark brown hair smouldered into jet-black against pale skin and blue eyes. Her mousey manner told Alejandro that she wasn’t used to being pointed out and preferred to keep a lower profile. She looked to be in her mid-thirties.

“I hope you brought your arrows… I’d love to look them over,” she said softly.

“Corporal Fiadh Ruskin, who has been with us a month.” The new recruit looked no older than twenty-four. She had jet-black hair, tied up, and olive-tanned skin with brown almond eyes. Her nose was small and her cheek bones low which gave a slight bulge to the sides of her mouth. “The youngest to pass selection.”

There was an ironic snort from Kellen behind them. Knowing sniggers fluttered from the group. “Kellen had been, until only recently, the youngest to pass selection,” Fiadh added.

“Finally, you know this fella, I’m sure,” Maldwyn continued, pointing out a young man, and the only non-Summiteer. “Aeker Murdock.”

Alejandro had never formally met his contact in the Archery Guild, so it was a delightful surprise to see him. His dark eyes glowed, and matched his dark, ruddy skin. A hard, thin nose and sharp corners to his thin lips contrasted with his sorrowful eyes. Aeker was dressed in a black silk tunic, smouldering against a pink cravat, with stone-grey breeches.

“Well, damn it to the hydra’s fury,” Aeker laughed, extending a hand. “The Phoenix Archer. I thought you wouldn’t come. I was readying myself for disappointment.” Alejandro took the calloused hand, giving a half-smile.

“Typical islander, no optimism,” Fiadh quipped. “Pay up, Murdock.” Aeker sighed and pulled a few coins from his coat pocket, handing them over.

The humour was warm, organic, and loose. Alejandro liked it. It contrasted with his grave imaginings of cold-blooded death squads – though, fundamentally, they were still that.

“Thank you for the introductions,” Alejandro said, leaning on one of the stone tables. “I’m looking forward to hitting the archery range with you all later. But I’m possessed by curiousness to know why I’m here.”

Interrupting them, storming in, came Ebrill Glace; the Pastoral who had accompanied Evander during their meeting.

“Captain!” She hissed, and Alejandro caught the officer flinching. Even the others seemed to recoil as if a serpent had just uncoiled from the doorway. “I know you’re upset by past-actions of the Outriders, but you cannot, and I say this with wrathful determination, cannot keep attacking them every time you see one!”

The Maytoni priest was almost a foot smaller than Maldwyn but had the tenacity of a honey badger – which Alejandro had once witnessed tear the testicles off a lion. Her eyes glared bright azure, matching smooth rufus hair tied up by paintbrushes.

“Pastoral Glace, I have orders,” Maldwyn began as if berated by a schoolmaster.

“Don’t justify your childishness with military formality, captain. Whatever your orders, I’m rescinding them. You lot are to behave whilst we’re guests here!” She continued to glare up at him.

Pastorals, whilst civilians, were believed to have been handpicked by the gods, and thus anything they say or did was sacrosanct. In theory a pastoral could out rank just about any military figure.

“Of course, pastoral Glace,” Maldwyn replied in an assuaged tone, bringing his hands up and looking as if he really hoped she would clear his personal space. His eyes moved past her. “Our guests have arrived,” he said, clearly hopeful in turning the conversation away from himself.

Ebrill whirled on the spot, her eyes widening. The thunderous scowl was tossed away, replaced by a gloriously bright smile. “Alejandro! Ksenia!” She threw her arms out and embraced them, with crushing, hugs. Blair bowed to her, taking one hand as if greeting a dignitary.

“The infamous Ruthvane. Well, when I heard you had turned your back to your family’s wicked legacy I was thrilled – cannibal or no,” she said.

“Well… Thank you. It is lovely to meet a Maytoni pastoral. I’ve been about a long time, and of all the mystics, I think your institution is the most pleasant.”

Like a professional, Ebrill spoke on, beyond the mystic generalisation. “It must be odd, seeing the extensions of your name continue to grow as you live on in… Not exile, I suppose, but anonymity.”

“I keep away from the estates. Though I did recently return, under stealth to reclaim a few heirlooms – was caught by a maid, and she fled shrieking. Any alarm at being rediscovered was doused, as they now think that the old Ruthvane estate is haunted.”

“Pastoral Glace, now that we’ve done the introductions, I was going to debrief Alejandro,” Maldwyn jutted in, carefully.

“Oh, just go back to calling me Ebrill, I’m not angry at you anymore,” she replied.

Alejandro heard audible sighs of relief from the Summiteers and held back a giggle. And though he didn’t know any of them well enough, he still felt there was a void in the room… Where Evander should have been. He made a note to delicately broach the subject with Ebrill later. Unless Ksenia rambled into it first.

Aeker and Esther were lifting quivers and bows and pushing stuff away to clear a spot on a table. As Aeker began looking about in an obsidian case, Esther spoke. “How many people in the world, Alejandro can turn phoenix feathers into flights for arrows?” She was direct, but clearly wasn’t used to speaking to a group given her low tone.

“Statistically a few, at least,” he answered. Not the first time he pondered the troubling notion.

“Perhaps, but don’t be modest. If anyone could do it, I think the world would look very different,” Esther continued. “But, obviously long ago, pre-Wrathfire maybe, or during that cataclysmic event, people found a way to do it.”

“Of course. It’s from their records, I learnt my craft. Are you digging for information, Esther?” He wasn’t too sure but didn’t think she was – unless her mousiness was an act, one to cripple any thespian with envy.

“Whilst there are stories,” Esther continued. “None with any physical evidence to support them, of phoenix arrows and talk of bygone explorers claiming to have seen them in cultures lost to the Wrathfire, you are the first person we know of to actually make any since the end of the Wrathfire, four thousand years ago. I’m not asking for that information. Like you I think the fewer people who know, the better.”

“How did you become a Summiteer with that noble spirit?” Tara rolled her eyes sarcastically.

“But we have another issue…” Esther turned to Aeker who stood behind her with a bundle of recognisable leviathan leather. Alejandro’s throat tightened. He was hoping against hope that in that bundle was not…

Aeker rolled the bundle out, and from it came three phoenix fletched arrows. However, whilst two where the vivid orange Alejandro knew, one held a subdued heat. The flights where black, simmering into navy blue and did not hold the lightening like pattern of softer shades.

“Where did you get these?” Alejandro tried his best not to glare at the group but was overcome with tension.  

We didn’t find them,” Maldwyn answered. “Foolhardy explorers did.”

He should have known. “It’s no secret many ill-informed, or just plain stupid twats go into the Ashlands looking for… Well, phoenix feathers, among other lost treasures, really.”

“Unfortunately, so,” Aeker added. “These were recovered from dead – very dead – people, who had made out, but succumbed to their… Injuries I guess you’d call them. That insidious, invisible sickness which follows the beasts and leaves only a sludge behind to challenge the techniques for bodily identification.”

“The Bessian Kingdom suffered in the Wrathfire,” Maldwyn explained. “Half their land was, destroyed, and since, the nation has held a superstitious fear towards phoenixes. When they find remains at the border, they like to get rid of them as quickly as possible. When they found these on the dead, they panicked. Our embassy found out, and we said we’d take care of the dead. Of course, they were happy to oblige.”

“Embassy?” Ksenia sounded dubious. “Spies.”

Tara answered, “What else are we paying them for?”

“But, if they are thousands of years old, how do they look so pristine.” Ksenia was right. The wood was immaculate and the feathers neat as if only cut.

“We believe the properties of longevity from the phoenix’s feathers leech into the arrow,” Tara answered. “The wood won’t rot and the piles, obsidian here, don’t degrade either.”

“The fact that there could be phoenix arrows out there isn’t new to us. It’s been four thousand years, and these are what has been recovered on The Sigel since. Aeker, what’s the average life expectancy of anyone going into any Ashlands?”

“A day,” he answered with certainty.

“We know these two, Alejandro,” Tara said, gesturing to the two arrows with blaze-bright flights. “Stories, myths, and well, you, have educated us and confirmed many theories about them. But this one… We have no idea.”

“You seriously have no idea what it might do?” Blair asked.

“It could be no different to the others, but I wouldn’t bet my reputation on it.”

Alejandro extended a hand and Tara passed him the arrow. He scrutinized the flights, staring into something so beyond his own self it made him feel dizzy. Dread infused with awe, leaked into his soul.

“Aeker, you’ve seen a phoenix?” He asked, not taking his gaze off the colours, as they danced along their borders melting into each other, receding, coming back again like a slow tide.

“Yeah, an orange-fire…” he answered.

There were six known species: yellow-fire, orange-fire, red-fire, blue-fire, white-fire, black-fire. Then there where the species hanging on the verges of myth.

“If we identify this species, we can narrow down the theories of what it could do. Aeker, do you have any literature on the lesser-known phoenix myths?”

“Yes, but it’s mostly nonsense.”

“Well, then. It’s Havicore,” Alejandro said matter-of-factly, as if the answer was obvious. Admittedly he felt a buzz at knowing something they didn’t.

“The naturalist dynasty?” Blair spoke softly. “You know I met Havicore the forth, once. Lovely man for a…”

“I don’t’ know what you’re about to say, Blair, but just stop there,” Ksenia interrupted.

Whilst the Ruthvanes were renowned for exploration, the Havicores were known for species discovery. It was believed that between eight generations, they discovered over a thousand species the world over.

“No Havicore ever wrote about a phoenix species,” Aeker said, now unsure of his own words as he looked on curiously.

“Not so, I’m afraid,” Alejandro continued. “Havicore the third, he was the only one to venture into an Ashlands – the one in The Maw. Most people thought it was a stunt, that he just took up residence in a nearby chateau. He wrote a treatise, but it was thrown into the annals of cryptozoology. This hit his ego so badly he developed a drinking habit, leading to his premature death.”

Aeker had that simmering childlike excitement softening his hard face and removing some of the perpetual sadness from his eyes. Though Alejandro was surprised the man hadn’t heard of this. Then again, Alejandro had only found the treatise by accident in a long dead library in one of the prematurely night covered Crown states.

“The earlier Havicores were notoriously elitest,” Blair added. “To have his work relegated to superstition would have been reputationally damning.”

“Do you have the treatise with you?” Aeker added.

“No. But it describes a phoenix with tones of navy blue, writhing and fighting with darkness. The beast was said to be forty yards long, and eighty wide, with wings extended.” It was like spoon feeding something sweet to an infant, as Aeker took in the words, eyes wide and grinning.

“This is something! Havicore’s phoenix, and a new species confirmed!” He almost slammed his fists down on the table in excitement. He and Esther exchanged shoulder thumps, giddily.

“Vindication for the man – though I doubt it will change anyone’s opinions about his infidelities,” Blair sighed.

“Legend,” Kellen snickered, fist bumping with Tara.

“So, what’s this get us?” Maldwyn jumped in.

The start of a reckoning?

               For Aldwin Mason it was beginning to feel like it, now they stood two hundred yards outside of the Gargoylian Fastness. Five hundred Outriders defended it. The Maytoni honour guard.

After so much planning they were about to strike a grievous wound. Soft targets weren’t sporting. It sent a message but was cowardly. Aldwin was a duellist, a master swordsman. He wanted to humble the arrogance of other warriors.

Aldwin was tanned, with grey eyes and a tight mouth. His hair was short, faded brown and had a bare face, with a faint chin scar received duelling. First blood was a novel way to fight, and better for noble fighters like himself. It gave him the opportunity to best worthy warriors again.

Now he was obligated to wear armour. But he preferred breeches, a tunic and nothing else. Either you were good, or you were dead. Armour gave false confidence. The armour was a composite, unknown to him, coloured purple, with bronze and silver stripes across it all. The helm was breathable, and his vision was just a good as if he wasn’t wearing it. What was unsettling about it, came from the name: wraith-armour. The suit was infused with a grim magic, binding the spirit of a long dead ancestor who could help defend the wearer in battle. This was obvious from the ghastly grey-black ethereal swirls and cloudiness which, from an artistic point of view, graced the surface of the otherwise bland armour.

“I hope they don’t run to the protection of the walls,” Wyot Glazier sighed, wandering over. Aldwin turned to his paramour, smiled, then recalled he was wearing a grilled faceplate. Wyot clasped his shoulder firmly. His armour was identical, but behind the helm was a stern complexion, softened by thoughtful orange eyes, hot as the sparks which flew from his flintlock. Thin, dark grey brows sat above them, and full lips completed his hansom face.

Both men where thirty-nine, ready to get this crusade they had been born into finished so they could settle down together.

“Still think you can slay more Outriders, with that,” Aldwin jested, nodding to the lengthy flintlock.

“You look glorious with your blade, Aldwin.” Wyot playfully thumped Aldwin. “But save it for humbling other duellists. These wretches don’t have the honour deserving of your talents. This is war fighting; ugly.”

“And what have we been doing in the past? Striking civilian targets. Can’t get much uglier than that. At least these, quasi-knights represent Maytoni prowess.”

Wyot hefted his weapon. Subdued blue tones made up the metal components, the cocking mechanism shaped like a raptor’s talon. Crystalised embossing of a phoenix was displayed on either side of it, the stock carved from orange wood, sculpted into a feathered wing.

“I think The Headsman wants the archer, so be careful.”

“He wants what the archer has, he made no specific declaration about slaying him.”

There were only thirty of them, taken from their base and sent into the north of The Sigel via the disconcertingly inane means of portal magic. They needed what was in the Fastness. Phoenix fletched arrows recovered by Maytoni spies, and those in the possession of The Phoenix Archer.

Their conversation was interrupted by pounding hooves. Aldwin saw a rider, a pall of dust concealing the horse’s legs, as if it was riding on a dirty storm cloud. The immense gait of The Headsman stirred. With every stride echoed the weight of his colossal ancestors. The blade of his brutal executioner’s sword was held over his right shoulder. A fluted hilt was mantled by a guard hewn from the fangs of his gigantic ancestors. Over the blade swam abyssal magic as it sought to pull in any ill-will directed at the holder.

His own armour was a black, trimmed in smouldering amber and accents. The facial bones of a true giant’s skull had been fixed to his armour’s torso. Greyish, faded, canine teeth were fixed to the pauldrons, rife with chips filled in with gold.

“Try to be gracious,” Aldwin jested. He had known The Headsman since they were boys, from the kind brute to the cataclysm he’d become.

A smirk no doubt behind the faceplate, The Headsman replied, “Do you think they know it’s me?”

The rider halted. He wore the granite grey, scaled armour, amethyst-coloured pauldrons and a matching helmet trimmed in gold with a feathered crown.

“Headsman,” the rider called, his tone neutral. The Headsman remained silent. “I am Kiro Fejes, Master of the Outriders. Surrender. We’re five hundred. I don’t care what magic you wield, that,” he pointed with his bow at the walls, “is built to withstand.”

A crack broke over the scene and the Outrider’s head evaporated into red mist, pulped with metal fragments. The body remained on the horse for a moment, before sliding to one side and falling off. The Headsman slapped the horse on the rump, sending it away.

Wyot began reloading.

“Bring The Heretic!” The Headsman roared. Upon the walls the Outriders were shouting, making ready. “Show them the horror of their so-called gods,” The Headsman ordered.

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