Etirran Palace, three hours before the death of Shien-khail

  Two guards were pulling a groaning, severely wounded man towards the dark house in the distance. They stopped often, one of them opening gates as they went, murmuring words in an uncouth tongue none around them could understand, save for their own leaders, and each other. After passing the gate at the top of the hill, the guards stopped for a moment. A man in black clothing moved aside, to let them pass. In his scarred hand was a book with a dark green cover, which had been burned slightly.

  The scholar began murmuring to himself as he went back to his tome. The man being carried through the badly damaged streets was a stonemason who lived in a dusty village, on the outskirts of the capital. Deran had heard rumors the palace was full of important people, despite the age of despair that had overcome his city. Other prisoners, mostly thieves, had been telling him about a king who'd come to visit the palace.

  The stonemason raised his head at the sound of voices. His guards guided him along, ignoring them, but Deran could understand their words – he'd been injured badly – his back had been slashed deep by an animal claw of some kind. Deran was cold, and wet, and knew there was blood all over him. His hands and his left arm were red from it, and there was a deep cut that was still causing him pain.

  There were many others in ragged clothing on either side, being attended to by other guardsmen in their black armor; some had weapons the mason had never seen the likes of before. Deran knew they were rumored to be part of the capital's most elite forces. Others were only trainees of some kind, exhausted from the day's work, and were sitting in the grassy yard. They had no weapons, but for whatever reason, some of them had bound hands in shackles or iron-cord.

  Deran saw many others in the yard, a few corpses in dull grey iron armor, and there was even a shackled, bearded old man, in blue armor. The two guards ceased their movement for a second. The prisoner they were dragging turned his head, and muttered something, when he saw the soldier in blue armor; it was badly damaged. The soldier heard him, but said nothing, he was staring down at a corpse by his feet. There was blue armor on the dead body also, and numerous bolts had pierced it. The guards began pulling the wounded stonemason towards a door at the other end of the yard. It was broken, and there was blood on the grass around it, but the guards went in hauling the wounded man between them. The hallway beyond the threshold was dark; the violet carpet along the stone floor masked their steps. Deran noticed the black trimming on the carpet's edge – it was in the colors of the Etir family's banner – and he tried to avoid looking into the rooms on either side of the hall. One was not a room at all, but a staircase, leading down to a pitch-black chasm beneath the palace he'd visited only once. He was never allowed to go anywhere but the mine.

  Several guards passed, going back towards the entrance Deran had been dragged through. Eventually, his captors took him up a series of polished stairways he was sure had been repaired with material Deran had probably prepared himself. The palace was always in need of repairs. At last, after what seemed like an hour, tromping past more halls lined with armor on stands and hanging banners on dirty stone bricks, the guards took him into a chamber at the top of the palace; it was probably a private residence. There were many pillars in the room at set intervals, and high arches, and lanterns everywhere on tables.

  He was in a library of sorts, maybe. There were not many people in the room. The guards dragged Deran along, towards the center of the room. A woman moved out of the way, a young woman with red hair and a fearful expression on her face. She exited the room after a man yelled out to her. Deran could not see him clearly, but he was on a chair at the other end of the library.

  “Thank you, Lanith. You can go. We need no more of your antics. Take the rest of the pages with you. A shame you did not find the entire book, yes?”

  The woman called Lanith glanced back at Deran for a second before descending the stairs the guards had come through.

  The guards shoved Deran forward, and he dropped to his hands and knees like an animal. One of them lashed his back and he let out an echoing scream. More blows came, and he screamed twice more, but Deran was resilient. He wondered what he'd done.

  Deran looked to either side, as he thrashed on the floor. There were scrolls, and books and many maps strewn about the floor. There was a marble pillar on either side of him, and ahead was a high platform with a chair upon it, and beyond, a doorway to a terrace overlooking the capital far below. A red glow was beyond the doorway. The city was on fire.

  Before Deran on the chair was a man, wearing a blood-red coat with a sable trim. There were many glyphs upon the cloth of the surcoat he wore. The prisoner looked on: upon the man’s head was a dented crown of steel with bronze bands holding it together, and there were three shards of meteoric iron driven into the crown, at points where gems would have been set, for the crown’s gold settings were still upon it. The prisoner had heard rumors of a tyrant out west, who dwelled in a desolate place known for the ruins of glass and steel outside his onyx castle. Yet here was such a man, in the King Etir’s bedchamber. He wore many rings, and bore a dark vambrace on his left wrist, which had been scorched by fire, and scars lined his bare torso where the marks of weapons had been made long before. The prisoner’s breathing was the only loud sound besides the crackling inferno outside of the captured palace.

  Deran tried to stand, but the guard behind him whipped him again and he dropped to his knees once more.

  “Ah. A foreign ruler, in Lord Etir's old bedchamber?”

  Deran's captor did not speak at first, but the man's right hand tightened its grip on the arm of the seat. Deran could see his scarred face in the light of the metal lamps on the top of the steps. The hollow cheeks and the sickening pallor of his skin was ghastly. Deran could smell something like a stench of vomit, and sweat, maybe of something rotting. The man leaned forward and Deran shuddered.

  “You look like the corpse of some long-forgotten, heathen king. Why – why am I here?”

  The man tittered drunkenly, and rose. He limped over and slowly descended the stairs. Deran could see his crown had been repaired or reshaped many times.

  “What is it you seek, more than anything else, stonemason? I can grant you whatever you desire, if you tell me all I need to know. I shall release you, afterwards.”

  “Release me?” asked Deran. He brought his arm up and wiped his bearded face with his tunic sleeve. “Release me! Odd offer. I will not attempt to make deals with you – I know the costs. I am not young. I fought against many like you.”

  “I assure you, you haven't. I need to know the plans of my enemies. You can tell me what they are planning, and I will. . .reward you for it.”

  Deran shook his head. “What makes you think a quarry worker knows about military plans? True, I was a soldier once – I tried to fight off your thralls. They slew innocents, defiled the vulnerable youths of my village – male and female alike – and they laughed as they burned our priests alive. I saw one of your men with our lore book, outside. What have I done, for you to think I can aid you!”

  The king shook his head. “If my forces had committed such acts, I would know it.”

  “You wear a crown, but you are no true King. I did not see you fight alongside your 'warriors', pup. There are not many years on you yet – you look so young, despite your condition.”

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  “I am not a King, he says of me. I―.”

  The king's words were nearly drowned out by Deran's laughter. The stonemason spoke again, as loudly as he could. “No, no, not a king. A murderous, insolent little brigand, perhaps. Is one not to prove himself valiant first? Is he not to show mercy, and earn the respect he demands? What of honor? Defiler. You are in the place of your betters.”

  The king paced back and forth in front of his prisoner. “Mercy. Certainly, I can show mercy. You must desire something else, though, surely. I have shown all these proofs – though not to any men so wretched as you. You were born into a life of servitude, elder? Yes?”

  Deran stared into the distance. He said nothing to his captors.

  “I, also, have been a servant. A lowly worker, seeking only his next meal.” The king spoke softly, coming closer to Deran. He stroked the deep cut on the stonemason's face, and it healed immediately. Deran's eyes went wide, but before he could answer, the enemy leader struck him with the back of his hand, and the prisoner collapsed in pain once more.

  “What did you say? Mercy? Yes, tell me, where was mercy when I was forced to work in the mines? Or when I was beaten until I agreed to take part in the westward marches against the elder king's enemy? Where was mercy when the worthless and selfish healers rejected my dearest Annara, in her greatest need!”

  Deran's eyes narrowed, as he looked about him. The king was pacing back and forth again, moving through the shadowy room ranting. Deran touched a hand to his sweaty, bloody face. Still, he did not speak, and only listened to the ragged man, the walking corpse, the so-called king.

  “You don't know? Of course not. Your own ruler lied all his days. He kept it secret. See, they refused to heal a child – only because her kinsman signed a decree, and they did not agree with it. I was enslaved – imprisoned at first, by the people you very nearly worship, for trying to heal her myself!”

  The prisoner's head drooped. He used his bound hands to steady himself, but kept silent. The king went back toward the terrace, trembling. “I – I settled those matters on my own. What I did next is widely known, and I do not regret my actions. Young? No, master, I am not young. You see me through an illusion caused by a terrible fog. Only my spell masters are able to push it back from this chamber, but you might've inhaled spores as you were dragged up here.”

  Deran shook his head. “I still do not understand what you want. Why attack us?”

  “Come now. I know it – I know the life of thankless work. Do I know of mercy? We both know what the lack of it feels like, elder. Tell me where they took the legendary tome – the book with prophecies written in it! Judge me not for what I started out as. We may all be called evil by those without understanding.”

  The king turned away from the prisoner and went back to look out of the terrace doors. His red cloak swayed on the wind. Despite his words about spellcasters and their barriers, fog came in through the opening in the wall and billowed around him as though drawn to the king and his grim visage.

  “I have ascended through all my pain, and misery. All the losses have led me here. Here I am, and all my failings have led me to a throne. Do you not agree? All of us want something. For thralls, like us, to come to know a life of royalty?

  “Well it would be near to becoming a god by comparison, I would say. Do you not think so?”

  Deran snarled. “None have a right to rule. Our kings paid the price. They became tyrants with the arts your people claim to possess. They destroyed many places. Have you seen the ash lands out west! I worked there in the fouled air – even my sons had tales to tell: of the harvested oils casters hired them to take from the tree-husks. The fog might have poisoned us, and for what? Forbidden knowledge you have no authority to use? You might have been the cause of it. Who can say? The book was sealed away so very long ago – in the land I speak of. Go and get it, if you think you can survive there, foolish lich.”

  The enemy king walked back down to stand by one of the pillars. “No, I am not a sorcerer. You can call me King Rennan. For I am a King, elder. A man of the royal line from Eidarnain, west of the deadlands. . .but still, a man. Yes, that was my name, once. But I do remember almost dying in battle. A spellcaster once came to me. Never mind. I am alive and well. I am not some evil sorcerer. But I say this: I shall release all of my prisoners if you tell me who recovered it. The tombs were broken into – the tombs containing the treasured L'iiyrohai.”

  “Rennan? But he existed centuries ago. And I sense despair in you, also. You cannot be him. I know the tales about Rennan.”

  The king tittered again, and backed away. He nodded and Deran's eyes opened wide. It was a signal. The guards lashed the stonemason until he was too badly beaten to move. Yet he still spoke brazenly, unafraid of the enemy.

  “Ah. Well. Yes, you are. . .afraid. Liar. I have seen how you treat prisoners.”

  “If my heralds let our forces commit such crimes, I would know it. We are all bound up together. What is this force which revolts against me? I was assailed first. I only sought the tome. It was hidden, yes, hidden at the behest of the hill king. Your fathers helped conceal it when they were young, do not deny it. Where is it? Your line is not from commoner stock. I recognize the seal on your belt buckle.”

  Deran nearly rose in spite of his wounds, his limbs shaking from the effort, but he fell prostrate again. “What! Are you not afraid, child? But I can tell. The expression on your face, your desperation – I would gladly die before betraying my people. Were I able, I would run a blade through you, before my death, and burn your precious 'throne', wherever it is, if it isn't a mere delusion – you will meet your end. The L'iiyrohai is is gone. Let it stay lost. You cannot find it.”

  “You seek a quick death?” said Rennan, over the stonemason's hoarse laughter. “Very well – the lord of Eidarnain can grant it. So be it. 'What is it you desire', I asked of you. Very well. Even attempts to relate to your plight were not enough to sway you.”

  Rennan ceased his pacing. He went over to a corpse in flowing robes on the floor, by another old seat. It was an ornate wooden chair, a tattered one, left abandoned in the corner of the room. Deran could not see what it was, but Rennan picked something up and walked back to him. He grabbed the prisoner himself, and pulled him over to the terrace steps, and dragged the screaming prisoner up them. “I could have broken your mind and forced you to answer. I did not. The Master would have seen my deceit. He is always watching. . .and listening when I sleep, or whenever I attempt to see the thoughts of others.”

  Rennan held something aloft; Deran could barely see it through his blurry vision. At first he pointed toward the skyline. “It will be worse, if I do not find what I seek.”

  Rennan bent at the waist so he and his prisoner were at eye level. Rennan gave his prisoner a wide smile, and made a disgusted grunt. He plunged the blade of an ornate dagger into Deran's neck, pure malice on his face as he forced it around the man's throat, and he tossed the dagger over his shoulder nonchalantly afterward. The heirloom weapon clattered across the floor tiles, dripping blood. Rennan left the back of the room and went to his guards, tittering again as he glimpsed the body of the council chief lying dead nearby.

  “Burn the palace,” he said to his guards. “Join me at the boats when you can. The L'iiyrohai was not here, not even in the archives, and there was nothing to learn about it here – not even a duplicate. Exactly as the Master foretold. I should have listened to his counsel. My failure has set us back. Go on.

  “Rivelas! Stop lurking in the dark and approach me, you devious little fiend.”

  The priest did, coming only to the doorway of the room, leaning against a pillar after giving a slight bow. His movement was more of a spasm, than anything.

  “Find Master Araiga. He is skulking about somewhere in this accursed city. Send him to recruit the spellcaster you told me about. I know he is out there, somewhere. I want him dead, or at my side. I want the scepter he bears. I need the dagger it conceals. Make him give you the spell to release it from the scepter.”

  “Yes, Lord Rennan. Our scouts will arrive in Muirasann within the coming year. I shall wait for you there.”

  “And order Hollan to go north with them!”

  Rivelas nodded and left the room by a hidden door.

  Also in the room, behind a shelf, hidden in shadows and a concealment spell, was Lanith Aliin. She ran from the archive room with tears on her face, and went into the northern grounds of the palace where there was a stable. There were several horses inside, and a figure in a blue cloak, with a white mask on his face. Lanith approached the man, knelt, and spoke of everything she had heard.

  The man in the blue cloak took his time thinking. He removed his mask for a moment, and spit something out of his mouth before covering his face again. “Go, then, and find him. Now. Before it is too late. My people have done their part – we cannot touch the King yet, he is too strong. I will go to the arena and wait a while. You know what to do.”

  “Stay hidden, Master.”

  The Blue Specter said nothing in response to her words. He only picked up his wooden, bladed staff. The man vanished even as she looked on, and Lanith gasped. She got onto a horse, and fled into the night.

  Series Preface

  space ranger sorry, "Relic Hunter", actually DO? What was in the mysterious note that our handsome protagonist Shiden received from his mum at the end of Chapter 2? Why did Cinar Raiya attack our heroes in the first place? Who is the mysterious fire wielder that burned down Hiro's epic starter base? Who was creepily watching the gallant Captain Aurien from the woods around his daughter's house? Where would the civilians of Etirran even go for safety during an attack? Why was the capital so full of smug, black-armored, elitist jerks?! - and what the h*ck are Runners, anyway? Find out next time on...okay, we won't do that reference. I just wanted to avoid spoiling anything, this is only the first volume. You're gonna stick around, right?

  Volume 1's 20 Chapter Limited Edition on Ko-Fi - 300 epub copies

  Volume 1's 17-chapter Standard Edition