Dissension, p.7
Scourge of the Five Kingdoms, page 7
“You are selling your talents short. Even when you and your father butted heads, he spoke highly of your potential for wordsmithing, and I fully agree with him,” Kax said earnestly.
Kir’Lor knew that Grang wordsmithing had been around well before they were enslaved by the Ramons. The Grang had no written language and relied on wordsmiths to recount history. Once they were enslaved, they kept their colorful wordsmithing traditions and culture secret because they feared the Ramons would, as they had with so much of Grang culture, attempt to eradicate it.
“I think this tale could find its way to the Red Troupe,” Kax said without irony in his voice.
Kir’Lor did not know if he should laugh or not at the older Grang’s comments. The Red Troupe were renowned wordsmiths that even performed for foreign dignitaries. The troupe’s mastery and artistry were so extraordinary that the thought of them telling a tale about Kir’Lor was as ridiculous as the thought of a bounder flying. The troupe had told tales about his family several times. The two tales that often came to his mind were Ang’Lor and the Grang war and the tale of his uncle Za’Lor’s duel versus Krin the Red.
“I don’t think wordsmiths would be interested in a tale of a warlord who lost control of his fist, and the only way he could reclaim it was by killing his own soldiers,” Kir’Lor said truthfully.
“Do I need to remind you of the tale of Shullax the Shunned?” Kax asked incredulously.
Kir’Lor shrugged his shoulders as if he did not know who Kax was referring to, and Kax snorted loudly.
“Shullax the Shunned was the youngest warlord to control a fist. Because of this, many warlords doubted the young whelp’s abilities,” Kax said in the deep, rich tone he often used when wordsmithing.
Kir’Lor almost laughed, Shullax the Shunned was a tale he made Kax tell him countless times when he was a whelp. It was a story of an unlikable, surly young warlord who fought off a mutiny in his Fist while carrying out missions, saving countless Grang lives during the Grang Wars.
“Ok, ok, you got me. I will tell my tale. Kir’Lor finally relented.
“Good. I will call on you later this month with Dragon’s Breath in hand. Do not think I will forget, Jax said with a smile, reeling his bounder around and heading back to the first.
Kir’Lor watched his mentor fall back to issue orders to the Fist and tried to think of ways to avoid wordsmithing for the former warlord. He sighed mentally and knew that Kax would not give up even if he found a way to get out of it tonight, so it would be best to get it over with as soon as he could. Kax’s persistence was very valuable, but at times like this, it was also very annoying.
5
ARCANUS
Haz-Ar stood up on his long legs and ran his fingers through his silver hair. “Before we start rummaging through my dirty laundry, allow me to have some refreshments served,” Haz-Ar said. He made his way to the door and pulled a thick cord dangling from the ceiling. He looked back at Arcanus and smiled. “My butler will bring something for us shortly.” He made his way back to the reading table and sat back down.
“I remember being an apprentice a little over ten years ago,” Haz-Ar said, a touch of nostalgia in his voice. “Archmage Marlee is a great man of great power. More importantly, though, he is fair.”
“I have heard of Archmage Marlee Slands. He is considered one of the finest Arazn military tacticians of this age,” Arcanus said.
Haz-Ar nodded at his words.
“Just so, young Arcanus. But where he truly has few rivals is in his command of aeromancy. He could smite entire companies by himself,” Haz-Ar said with admiration in his voice.
“The Grang learned that the hard way according to everything I have heard about him,” Arcanus interjected. Haz-Ar gave him a flat look but then nodded in agreement with the assessment.
“However, I didn’t want to talk about how many Grang the Archmage killed. Rather, the effect his tutelage had on me. Even though I walked a path he would disagree with,” Haz-Ar said.
Arcanus wondered if that last part was more for Haz-Ar than for him. Arcanus shifted in his seat and hoped the wine arrived soon. His father had told him about Haz-Ar and some of his accomplishments, but he failed to mention that he was so sentimental. As if his silent pleas for wine had summoned it, there were three sharp raps at the door.
“Enter,” Haz-Ar said, and the bald, wizened butler entered the room. He carried a tray with a slender bottle of wine, two Xandran-styled wine flutes, and a plate of various cheeses.
“Master Darkmare, I took the liberty of serving Xandran wine,” the butler said primly.
Arcanus sat through the facade that Haz-Ar’s butler would take the liberty of doing anything without Haz-Ar’s consent. For all the talk from his father about the Darkmare family being from common stock and that they were a little rougher around the edges than Arcanus was accustomed to, Haz-Ar danced the dance of nobles as well as anyone.
“That will do perfectly,” Haz-Ar said, stepping up to the table and positioning his body so that he could have both Arcanus and the wine pouring butler into his line of sight. Arcanus knew a bit about Xandran wine and took a long, hard look at the bottle but came up blank. Haz-Ar noticed Arcanus’s expression and casually added, “This bottle is from the first year of the Mad Sultan’s reign.”
This both impressed and disturbed Arcanus. Even his lord father would have balked at the price of a bottle, or anything for that matter, from the Mad Sultan’s reign. Arcanus had always been a poor study. It was, in fact, one of the main reasons the finer concepts of magik always seemed just beyond his grasp. He did, however, have a head for history. The bloody, war-torn past, in particular, fascinated Arcanus. The Mad Sultan era was a short and especially bloody chapter in the history of Xandra. Although the official records of Xandran history glossed over many of the facts, Arcanus, thanks to the education and access afforded by the Dragonsbane name, had been taught the truth.
The Mad Sultan was both the most potent magikian Xandra had seen in tens of generations and one of the most skilled sword duelists in the known world. In addition to those physical gifts, he was intelligent, compassionate, empathetic, and extremely politically savvy. It was an alluring, nigh irresistible mix of traits that inspired great hope and expectation. Many believed the Mad Sultan to be a leader of destiny, a leader who would usher in a utopian age of peace and prosperity.
Those first years were indeed peaceful and prosperous. However, things quickly took a bloody turn for the worse. Some short time after assuming power, the Mad Sultan started a cult within the Pan-theocracy sect. The cult worshiped Giltine, the Xandran Goddess of Death. When the public revelation of the Mad Sultan’s death cult came, it was already too late. The massive, once hidden cult seamlessly pivoted out of the shadows into the light. The Mad Sultan, with the aid of his fellow cultists, systematically removed and murdered his political enemies and naysayers, all the while bolstering the strength of the cult by sacrificing fallen enemies in various death rituals.
That superficial summary was a version of the truth, but it was more of a rough synopsis of the fascinating time. Arcanus knew of things below the surface — things buried for good reasons. History portrayed the Mad Sultan as a paranoid madman who believed he could communicate with the God of Death. He was indeed paranoid and quite mad, but Arcanus figured the Mad Sultan was about as paranoid and mad as any other monarch. No, the key details histories shied away from revolving around the Mad Sultan’s skill in necromancy and summoning. Necromancy was illegal in the Xandra, its practice a capital offense. Summoning, while not illegal, was strongly frowned upon and heavily regulated. The Mad Sultan secured his reign with a small, loyal core of influential followers seeded throughout Xandra. He promised them riches and power, but, most importantly, he promised them immortality. He did not need to pander to the masses because he did not need them. He had the ultimate fighting force: an army of undead.
The Mad Sultan’s power and his cult grew to epic proportions, forcing the Xandran lower court to turn to their Arzan neighbors for assistance. Xandran and Arzan combined forces for an all-out assault on the Sultan Palace. The massive conflict left the palace a smoldering pile of rubble, the Mad Sultan’s corpse nowhere to be found.
“I must admit, I have never had any wine from the Mad Sultan’s era,” Arcanus said, trying not to sound overly impressed by the bottle of wine sitting between them.
A master of controlling the dance floor does not need words. He sends his message via clothes, food, drinks, gifts, and so on. It was up to the receiver to interpret what the message was. Arcanus had to admit he had no idea what the message was, and that was uncomfortable.
“So, where were we?” Haz-Ar asked. He plucked a slice of cheese from the platter and plopped it into his mouth. “Ah, that’s right. Before I started babbling, you wanted to know how I was able to stay away from the pitfalls of poverty.”
Arcanus nodded slowly and then looked at the flute of wine. He decided that he may as well take this chance to try this wine from the Mad Sultan Era. He brought the flute to his nose. He swirled the flute, inhaling deeply.
“My uncle and I had an understanding,” Haz-Ar said, a little bitterly. “We were blood relatives, so it was his duty to honor my father’s wishes and memory by making sure that my tuition was paid for. Outside of that, he only showed interest in me if he thought that doing so could turn a profit.”
Arcanus’s eyes bulged at the taste of the wine. He noticed a sly expression on Haz-Ar’s face, but he did not care. The wine was delicious. Here was a thing truly befitting a man of Arcanus’s breeding and station. Arcanus nodded and took another drink.
“After the Academy, most pupils go on to find decent to great jobs doing enchantments, alchemy, teaching, or some other menial magikal job,” Haz-Ar continued. “But, as shocking as this might sound, the demand for the son of one of the most nefarious magikians of this era wasn’t very high.” Haz-Ar sighed and shook his head. Haz-Ar reached for his flute and took a long swallow. “I became somewhat of a rogue,” he said, without an ounce of shame. “Unfortunately, or perhaps, fortunately, depending on your point of view, the money wasn’t enough. Nor was it steady enough for me to return to practicing wizardry. I wasn’t ready to choose between keeping my alchemical bench stocked and eating.”
“So you were a thief?” Arcanus asked before realizing that the question might offend.
If the question offended Haz-Ar, he did not show it. “I suppose, yeah, I was a thief! And a decent one at that,” Haz-Ar chuckled. “However, I evolved from a common thief into what these days most people would have called me a treasure hunter. Which, of course, just means that I wait until my targets have been dead for centuries before I take what was theirs.”
Haz-Ar made a gesture with his hand, and Arcanus nodded to invite another flute of wine. Haz-Ar then filled the two flutes and plopped another slice of cheese into his mouth.
“Shortly after I found a small measure of success as a rogue mage, my uncle decided that I may be of some use to him after all,” Haz-Ar said, grinning ruefully. “You could say I owe my sudden career change to my uncle.”
“My father speaks fondly of your uncle,” Arcanus said tactfully. It wasn’t untruthful. Arcanus’s father often praised Da-Naly Darkmare’s ability to make ducats. But, he also often called him as trustworthy as a rabid wolf.
“I would speak fondly of a man if he was able to make my family name prominent again,” Haz-Ar said bluntly.
The comment stung Arcanus’s pride like a slap to the face. He noticed that his hands were balled into fists, and he was all but quivering. He quickly tried to calm his nerves.
“Relax, Arcanus. We are just speaking on facts. I’m not trying to insult you or make light of your situation. Our families have both overcome various mistakes and unique obstacles.”
Haz-Ar stopped talking and raised his flute. He raised his eyebrows at Arcanus, who decided it would be best to follow suit. Haz-Ar smiled and refilled both flutes. Arcanus wondered if Haz-Ar was ever going to tell his story. He was genuinely curious how he went from a common thief to a respected and even feared individual.
“I suppose you are waiting for me to answer your question,” Haz-Ar said, eerily answering Arcanus’ thoughts perfectly.
“I was looking forward to it.”
“I suppose I could recant my tale. In fact, you will be the first person to ever hear it in its entirety,” Haz-Ar said.
“Thank you,” Arcanus said awkwardly, not knowing what else to say.
“Very well,” Haz-Ar hesitated as if he had already regretted agreeing to tell his tale. He took another long drink of wine before he started.
“I arrived at the manse of my uncle, who lived on the west side of the windship docks in Arzal….”
6
HAZ-AR
My uncle, Da-Naly Darkmare, lived in an area of Arzal that was generally considered low class except for the few merchant barons who dwelt there. Da-Naly was one such person. His manse was a walled fortress rather than a luxury dwelling. The ramparts and guards armed with alchemical-tipped crossbows were, I must admit, a nice touch.
I remember thinking that my uncle was in no way a people person as I made my way through the gates and into the main garden. I hadn't been there since my time at the Academy. Da-Naly made it quite clear that paying my tuition upheld his agreement with my father and that I was not welcome unless invited.
When I arrived at the main garden, I was surprised to see my uncle waiting for me. The family resemblance was very strong between us. We were both tall, but Da-Naly was maybe a quarter of a hand taller than me. I had silver hair, and my uncle had stark white hair that he wore in braids that hung down past the base of his neck. Both of us have the same dark hue.
"Uncle, I am happy to see you in fine health," I said as humbly as I could manage, considering our strained relationship.
"Cut the crap, boy," Da-Naly sneered. "We both know you wouldn't lose a wink of sleep over my death."
"You wound me with such accusations!" I exclaimed. I had learned that my uncle dealt with scorn and hatred much better than with niceties, so, of course, I was much more polite when I was in his presence.
Da-Naly murmured something and then looked me in the eye. He said, "Your petty thievery is starting to become bad for my business."
I knew that he knew, and I figured that the reason he called me to his manse was to order me to stop. I did not want to give anything away, so I kept my face impassive.
"I want you to stop this tomfoolery."
I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and said, "I never wanted to start making a living that way, but alas, a man must eat."
"Stop with the theatrics, boy!" Da-Naly snapped. "I am well aware of your situation, and I wouldn't ask my blood to stop earning money unless I could offer them something better."
Help from my uncle? Now there was something that took me aback. I did not expect a job offer from my uncle. It turns out that one of my uncle's colleagues had told him about some First Age Nawahl ruins on the outskirts of the Lichwood, and they required a mage with skills similar to my own to complete their tomb-raiding party.
"No snide japes now, boy?" My uncle asked with a childish pleasure to his voice. "Be ready to ride on the morrow and bring clothing and gear suitable for outdoor travel."
The next day, the twin suns were at high noon, and there was a slight breeze that would have made the cart ride pleasant if not for my uncle frittering next to me.
"Ok, boy," Da-Naly spat. "These people are the real deal. Heavy hitters."
I'd seen my uncle working when I was a boy, and I couldn't remember the last time I saw him this nervous about a meeting.
"Are you listening to me, boy?" my uncle snapped. "These people aren't like the gutter scum you are used to dealing with. There is a Grang who hails by the name of Krin the Red." Da-Naly looked at me intensely and said, "Krin is in a realm different from anything you can imagine. This is the type of Grang who changes the outcome of nations." My uncle was a hard man to impress and an even harder man to get a compliment from, so his praise of Krin took me by surprise.
We were headed north to the farmlands of the Arzan and Xandran borders. We were supposed to meet our Xandran contact there. Our contact was a fixer who had his fingers in many pies. He was heavily invested in the success of Krin the Red for some unknown reason.
Up until this point, I had never left the outskirts of the city. The pure beauty of the flat plains shocked me. Buildings over two stories were a rare sight in that part of the Five Kingdoms. People went days without seeing another person, and patrols were about as rare as two-story buildings. I had little doubt that the area would be the perfect place to stash an outlaw.
We passed several farms and ranches, and I couldn't help but wonder what life would have been like if I had been born a farmer. I remember quickly coming to my senses and thinking that life would be boring as hell.
Finally, we came to a quaint little farm that, at first glance, was similar to the others we had passed. I knew next to nothing about farming, and my uncle wasn't the most pleasant of travel companions, so I had nothing but time to observe. I noticed that this farm had half of the normal crops and a scant handful of livestock grazing. The barn and stables were shut tight at midday. This, to my limited knowledge of farming, seemed suspiciously abnormal.
Abruptly, Da-Naly leaned in close. "Remember what I said, boy! Do not make enemies here," he whispered harshly.
I realized that it was his skin that he was worried about and filed the information away.
"This is your chance to become something more than a petty burglar if you play the right part in this," Da-Naly said. To this day, that is one of the nicest things my uncle has ever said to me.
"Did you say Krin the Red?" Arcanus sputtered.
