The Sorcerer, The General, The Savage
Jan 11, 2015 0:36:01 GMT -6
Post by Selibas on Jan 11, 2015 0:36:01 GMT -6
About three months ago I submitted the following story to Tor publishing, and a little bit ago, they sent me an email saying it wasn't quite right for them (sounds a lot like my ex-wife amirite?) so while I was disappointed, it meant I could show the story to other people, so I wanted to share it with you guys. I think you'll pick up on the homages to Conan, The Hobbit, and The Princess Bride (but I mean c'mon it was me, what did you expect?). So please enjoy, The Sorcerer, The General, The Savage. (Feedback appreciated.)
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Santina spoke the words as they were listed to her. "I Santina of Greymoore swear that I and all of my line shall use the power of the Coven of the Bull to defeat Bellerophon the sorcerer. Not till the sun rises in west and sets in the east, and the sky turns to ash shall my blood abandon this quest." At that moment, the high priest of the coven handed her an ornate knife. Santina took the blade and cut it across her left palm, drawing a gush of blood. She held her bleeding hand over a garnet bowl, and let it fall. As the blood hit the garnet, smoke burst from it, and rose in thin tendrils reaching the ceiling.
Decades passed and generations flew by. In all this time, Bellerophon didn't age a day. He was one of the few Magi with the ability to do more than tap into the arcane. He was a magi who could rip apart the veins of the arcane with his teeth, and feel the essence of magic drip down his throat. Physically he looked thirty-four, but by the time the debt to the Coven of the Bull was paid, he was at least five centuries old. In the early years of his life, he was ambitious, and conquered all that he came upon, with a raised army of the dead. People flocked to him, like moths to a flame. Someone with such great power gave them opportunity, and cowering behind him kept them safe from his wrath. Over the last century or so, he has lost his ambition, becoming content to hold tournaments, hunt, joust, and partake in other sports.
In his stead he sends out one of his younger generals, Rutger the Broken to conquer the frontiers surrounding his empires. Rutger the Broken was famous for integrating conquered warriors and mercenaries into his ranks, and was seen as the most merciful man under the banner of the Sorcerer. After conquering the tribes of the Saracen Plains, Rutger returned home, towing with him horsemen, criminals, and mercenaries. A rumor reached the ears of Bellerophon, of a plot by Rutger to move on his throne. The sorcerer has become wary.
It was a sunny day in the Amon forests, and Bellerophon loved the sounds of the birds of spring, coming out to sing their song for the first time since the long winter. He scanned the grass in the clearing in front of where he and his party sat atop their horses. Then, he saw it, a hare, speeding out of its burrow and making a break for the opposite tree line. He raised his arm, and from it flew Lightfeather, the fastest hunting falcon from his tower. The bird hurled itself toward the game, and in a matter of moments, returned with the prize for its master.
The lords and ladies all clapped like the vapid sheep they were, vying for his approval. His servant Gunter kicked his horse forward to take the rabbit from his master, but the steps of his horse were overshadowed by the galloping roar of several horses coming from the east. It was Bellerophon’s royal messenger, a sweaty man who had grown fat as he aged. He said to his lord as the group reined their horses to a stop, “Lord Bellerophon, Young Rutger returns from the East, with a train of treasures and recruits.”
Bellerophon passed the dead hare to Gunter, then handed over Lightfeather. He pulled off his gloves and tossed them towards the nobles with him, one of them dropping to the ground, only to be picked up by a scrambling duke. He looked at the messenger and spoke, without raising his voice, “He is to await me in the throne room, and once I have bathed I will be prepared to meet him.” Without a word to any of the others, he kicked his horse into a full gallop, and rode back to his castle.
Rutger placed a hand over his eyes to shade his gaze from the sun as he peered at Taron castle. His Left Lieutenant Euluk stepped next to the Gaulus warhorse his general rode. “Rutger,” he said in the thick accent of his people, [/color]“We draw near to the tower. Do you want me to tell the other officers?”[/color] Rutger looked down at his second in command, but he didn’t have to look far. Euluk was a prince of the Garashi, seemingly giant men from the marshes off far to the west. He was considered short among his people, and he stood almost seven feet tall. He had been sent as a “ward” to Bellerophon, but truly he was a hostage, to keep the Garashi from threatening the power of the sorcerer's empire. A few years ago he had pledged himself to Rutger, and shown a mind for tactics, becoming Rutger’s right hand and confidant.
Rutger shook his head, “Not yet, there’s still more to do regrettably." He lifted three fingers calling for the march towards Taron castle. The horsemen of the Steppes brought up the rear, with the mercenaries preceding them. In between Rutger’s army and the new forces was a group of chained criminals, most of them slim, crooked men who had scraped by, or young frightened boys who looked as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks.
There was one hooded head above the rest, a head atop broad round shoulders. This was not the type of man you’d expect to find convicted of horse theft, he looked like he could take what he wanted with no resistance. But he marched along, shackled like all the rest around him. An old man with a nose like a beak looked up at him, “Do you think he’ll kill us?” The hooded man looked down to the old man. The old man was shocked to see that he did not possess the face of a brute, or a thief, he had the face that should have been woven into a tapestry of some tale of fighting a dragon.
The hooded man grinned and said, “Who? The wizard? I’m sure he’s not as bad as they say. Hell, he’ll probably pardon the lot of us.” The prisoners around the hooded man peered at him wearily. One, a pickpocket, piped up, “A madman who’s been alive for eternity? Letting a bunch of criminals walk?” Another voice, “Yeah, what’s he care about us?”
The hooded man chuckled and said, “Well an emperor could always use more slaves couldn’t he?” A new voice said, “Oh great, we’re all attached to a mad man.” The hooded man turned in the direction of the speaker. His face lost all of its kindness, as his wide jaw set itself to stone.
He spoke again, “Mad indeed I may be, but perhaps madness is just what it takes to slay the beast of Taron castle.” The old man with the beak nose said, “A beast? A sorcerer and a beast? Even a man your size couldn’t fight both surely.” The hooded man sighed, but his smile returned. “Nothing but a touch of poetry my friend.” They fell into the shadow of the massive watchtower of Taron castle, the hooded man looking up at the massive structure piercing the sky. “Nothing but a touch of poetry.”
In Taron castle, Bellerophon was being bathed by his servants. As a young man, he’d found this fairly entertaining, watching the women’s discomfort; but he had seen enough docile young women cower from him, and now he simply desired to be clean. He grabbed a brush from one of the women’s hands, and scrubbed his back, then quickly moving it all around his body, he leapt from the hot waters. Snapping his fingers, he was dry.
The women scurried to robe him, worried that they had displeased him, and that punishment would be severe. Honestly, he wouldn’t even remember their faces. He started the long walk to his throne room. The carpet was blue today, an odd choice, but he was always happy to see it change. That was one of the only reasons he kept half the dimwits around him, to change things, to keep things new. It got incessantly dull, watching the same sun rise and fall in the same sky. So he began the long walk down the corridor, adorned with new paintings, and a new carpet.
He had no need of guards, his spells being more protection than any steel could offer him. He waved his hand and the throne room doors opened. Rutger was not here yet. The bastard, probably hoped to have the sorcerer kept waiting. Bellerophon wished he could simply kill the insolent little whelp. He could do it, a flick of his wrist, and fire would erupt in the General’s veins. Bellerophon knew this would never be viable, the man was favored with the people, and he was an asset to his military, looking at strategy and war technology that could successfully defeat old techniques.
As Bellerophon walked into the throne room, he gazed up at the massive seat. It was solid gold, save for a single Steel Lance that almost hit the ceiling. The chair had been crafted by goldsmiths, so that he could sit on the most beautiful spot in the castle. The spear had been made by a smith some three-hundred years ago, for the king of the Prolane’s, the first people Bellerophon had ever conquered. The Prolane military had been based almost solely on heavy cavalry, the larger slower horses could not escape the walls of flame and destruction that the sorcerer had sent against them. There were standards along the wall of other nations he’d defeated. The Lancasters, the Penteons, the Espanians. Below those, and many other large flags, were barbarian clans and tribes he had stomped out in his time. Carstanian, Baldock, Greymoore, Setanta, just to name a few. Yes, this was truly the hall of a conqueror. Bellerophon sat on his throne, and had a thought. If Rutger tried to cause him discomfort, he would do the same to him. He called a servant to him, “Boy, get over here.” The man scurried to him and bowed. “Fetch General Rutger’s sister and bring her to the throne room.”
Rutger had reached the castle an hour before the previous scene. He had sent his main army to escort the prisoners to the dungeons, while a few of his less experienced officers helped his new troops set themselves up in tents outside the main city barracks. All of his closest officers surrounded him, and awaited the words of their young general, sensing the plot he and a few advisors had set aside.
They sat around a broad oak table in the lower floor of the barracks. As Rutger poured himself a goblet of wine, they peered at him eagerly, until he passed the skin on, and spoke, “Gentlemen, are any of you interested in breaking empires today?” All of the men save Euluk widened their eyes. Their hesitation lasted only a few moments before they all began to cheer and roar for Rutger. He waved a hand, and spoke once more, “Do not be so quick friends. I love each of you more dearly than my own brothers, and would not see you kill yourselves for any loyalty to me. If we fail, I will surely be tortured, and you will meet the same fate. Your families will be killed. If you have any lineage, it will be erased from history. I do not attempt to create a great song, or even to meet some warriors end. I simply hope to break the reign of an evil man who will sit on a throne until the sun sets in the East and the sky turns to ash. If we do not strike him down now, there is no telling how much more powerful he will become. I do not fight him for pride, or honor, or power, I fight him for peace. What say you now?”
Silence lay like a blanket over the room. Until Cassius, a man who would be King of Espania if the wizard hadn’t taken the land and people, rose and said, “I have followed you into many battles my friend, and not once have I been afraid when at your back. The history of my blood lies only on the tongues of old men back in a land that’s now only a province. As for torture, he has tortured me every day he’s allowed me to be alive; everyday, knowing that I live a shadow of the life I was meant to have, I have no fear of death, what can death take from me?” He raised his goblet and said, “I ride with you, Rutger.” At this, the other men raised their own goblets, and replied with a mix of “For you General,” and “For Rutger.” Rutger shook his head and said, “Then this is what we will do.”
“A cold wind blows, o’er the hill, and my life ends with foes left t’kill. The sun is set, the light has died. In the darkest hour, one man may ride. They shall fall, burning to hell. Or he will fail, this evil to quell.” The hooded man sung to himself in a cell. The protests of the other prisoners had awarded him with solitude, and the man seemed to enjoy it. The guards were giving him space, and he lay on a bench he'd shoved against the wall, singing to the black ceiling.
One of the other prisoners moaned. “Won’t you stop it? Its bad enough we have to die, we don’t need no mad man singing in the last few hours we ‘ave left.” The hooded man didn’t appear to move. “What’s your name?” The man hesitated for a moment before saying, “Dagon.” The Hooded Man sat up, and turned, allowing the prisoners in the cell across from him to see his face. He said, his voice calm, “You must be a sad man Dagon. I’ve never known a happy man who didn’t wish to die with a song in his heart.”
Dagon laughed and slapped a man beside him, “Shame isn’t it? Built like that and he’s a troubadour!” The other men barked out nervous laughter around him. The hooded man grinned, “I suppose you’re right, I know a lot of songs and tales. I should have been a warrior, maybe then I wouldn’t be locked in here. Oh well, it won’t be much longer before the Sorcerer gets killed by some hero and we get out.” The hooded man lay back down, and began to hum the same tune from before.
Rutger stalked into the throne room. Two minutes before, a messenger had burst into the barracks, saying that Bellerophon demanded his presence, and that Rutger’s younger sister was there with him. Bellerophon was pointing to the sigils on his wall, and asked the short girl by his side to identify the houses and countries. The girl was nine, and though she was very bright, had no hope to know all of them.
“...and that one?” The old sorcerer asked. The little girl said, “A Wolf, for the Savage Greymoore’s.” Bellerophon looked at the girl’s brother out of the corner of his eye, as he said with a voice dripping condescension, “Good, Talia, good. Now tell me, if your ancestors hadn’t been savages, and your uncle Bellerophon had let them keep their land, which of these sigils would be the one your brother carried?” The girl looked frightened as she saw her brother. Even she could feel the tension in the air.
“Enough,” Rutger said, his voice almost a whisper. It was enough for Bellerophon, a smile spread across his cold lips, and he said, "That is enough Talia, you did very well. You may return to your quarters now. I'll send up someone to read you a bedtime story." As Talia walked past Rutger, he gripped her tiny hand. She looked up at him for one frightened second before he smiled down to her and winked. He felt her calm, and she walked out of the throne room as a guard followed her.
He kept his voice stone as he spoke to the Sorcerer, “You sent for me?” The sorcerer’s mouth twisted into a demented smile. “Indeed I did, how went the campaign in the Saracens?” Rutger was the only man who Bellerophon had never been able to intimidate. He always kept eye contact, and no matter where Bellerophon stood, would not lower or raise his head. “The Plains are yours.” Bellerophon flopped down onto his throne and said, “Oh, fantastic, more grass. Do you know what I can’t stand Rutger? The confinement. Sitting here, waiting for whichever man is youngest at the time to stroll into my throne room, and explain how he conquered some far off nation. I struggle to not refer to you as eight other generals I once had, do you know that? You perplex me. You vex me Rutger. You alone have ever seen yourself as equal to me, and yet I put you in the league of men who did nothing more than what I told them, and do you know why?”
Rutger raised his left eyebrow, “Why?” Bellerophon smirked, “Because you’ll die like the rest of them.” He waved his hand, and suddenly his voice grew very angry. “Go, leave me to my thoughts. Whatever dull device you bring as tribute to me you may send to my chamber later. Now, leave me.” Bellerophon put his left hand against his temple. Rutger walked out of the throne room, and left the throne room, heading towards the courtyard to make preparations.
Bellerophon felt an eruption in his skull. For about a week, his mind had been clouded, and he had struggled any time he attempted to reach the arcane. Every few hours, he was overcome with the feeling of his brain being torn apart. None of his magic could quell the pain, his fingers only barely grazing the spectrum of magic. For three minutes he sat, attempting to knit barriers throughout the various vessels of his mind. As the pain slowly subsided, he took hold of a spell, and thrust his voice into the mind of one of his shamans. “Ferion!” He felt the shaman shutter, but he opened his mind to his lord and master. With the man’s mind unlocked to the sorcerer, Bellerophon projected his consciousness into the man’s surroundings, and the throne room slipped away, being replaced with the quarters of Ferion, his head shaman.
The room was adorned with a massive apothecary table, a small cot, shelves stuffed with books one opening away from crumbling, and several barrels that housed ingredients. Ferion looked at his lord, who suddenly appeared as a somehow misty version of himself. The shaman was a Shee, a small green creature who looked like a human in every way save his toes resembling roots. His small stature, skin color, and root structure were vestigial traits from when his people were living in the forest of the northern isles, existing as living plants, protecting the forest. Close to two centuries ago, Ferion wandered into the city of Heror-Dun days after Bellerophon had brought it into his empire. One of the enemy archers had infected Bellerophon with a poison none under the conqueror had seen nor heard of. At the time, the sorcerer knew no methods of healing, having concerned himself with only the destruction of his foes. This was how the small Shee came into the emperor’s employ. The shaman had the ability to craft almost any potion needed.
“Yes, oh venerable one?” The small shaman’s hands shook, but his voice had a hint of derision. The sorcerer’s forehead knit till his eyebrows almost touched. The shaman gulped, “Apologies my lord.”
“I am in need of a potion for my head once more Ferion. I will expect it in the morning.” The Shee nodded furiously, “Of course my lord, but don’t you think you should have a wizard with some degree in healing ability check to see if you have been cursed?” The sorcerer sighed and said, “Not any time soon, you-"
“Emperor Bellerophon!” The shaman’s chambers were snatched away, and both the Sorcerer and Shaman saw their surroundings as they truly were, the shaman alone at his apothecary table, and the sorcerer in his throne room, no longer alone. One of his oldest living generals, Holden the Broad. The man still had steel in his eyes, but that strength had long since left his body. He had conquered three tribes and one small city state in his time as Bellerophon’s head general, but had long since been pushed from the position by Rutger, and General Wallace between them. The man was balding, but the grey tufts of hair on the side of his head ran down into great mutton chops that framed his face, the only other hair a waxed mustache that still had many black hairs.
“What is it Holden? Shouldn't you be at the mines?” Holden came to a halt from his rushed stride a few yards before the throne. “I have placed Hollace in charge in my stead my lord.” Ah, the man’s son. “Hollace, the gambler?” Holden shook his head, “No sir that would be Hal, Hollace is the younger one, the one with three fingers on his left hand.” Bellerophon flicked his right hand in a dismissive motion, “Ah.”
“Right my lord,” Holden continued, “There is unrest with the slaves. Do you recall when we ousted the commune of savages from the northern hills five months ago?” The sorcerer nodded and the old man continued, “Well, their ‘druids’ the men with harrowed looks, have all refused to work. They are staying inside the slave quarters, and refuse to leave, when guards went to retrieve them, young men asked to take the punishment for the druids. The-” Bellerophon cut off the former general, “Young men have always tried to bear the burdens of their elders.” “Yes sir,” answered Holden, “but never men they’ve never spoken to. My lord, if ten young men had taken up for these so called druids, I would have thought nothing of it, but sir... Every slave in the mine has asked to be punished in place of these five savages.”
Bellerophon felt a wave of curiosity. Druids had been an important part of his own life, training to become one was how he’d first learned magic. Back when he was a boy in the western mountains, he’d been picked to learn the druid ways when he was only three, though in those days, they were referred to as storm callers. He leaned forward on his throne and asked, “What clan’s remnants were these storm callers from?”
Rutger descended into the dungeons. There was only one part of his plot he still needed to see through, and that was a diversion. His men had captured a famed assassin, Gris the Killer. Not the true Gris, but the current Killer. It was a title, passed from one killer to the man he saw fit once he decided to leave behind the life of an assassin. He had heard that this Killer was very young, and had not yet finished his training before the former met an untimely demise. No doubt how his men were able to catch him so easily. He had always detested assassins, which made it much easier to knowingly disrupt the line of a legacy.
He was guided by the guards to where a few men met the description his officers had given him. He walked to the center of the room, and felt the prisoner’s eyes on him. He shook a pair of keys in his hand, and spoke, “I would like to form a contract with Gris the Killer.” Slowly, all the men began to shout that they were he, grasping at a chance for freedom. A wave of quiet overtook all the room, as a cloud rolled from where it covered an early autumn moon, casting a bright beam of light onto the bars of a cell that made no noise. Two large arms slowly slipped through, and rested on a horizontal bar. The young general could make out the details in his face, despite the man keeping a hood over his head. Rutger looked skeptically at the large man, who was taller than most the other prisoners, far more broad, and had a full blonde beard, matching his long hair. He fit the description perfectly.
The man suddenly smiled, a grin that didn't truly fit the idea of an assassin Rutger had in his head, it was a grin that you would see on a child who knew some part of a situation that made it much more humorous to him than anyone else. He spoke, “I am the man some call Gris the Killer. I’d be happy to accept your contract, but there is the inconvenience of these bars. Being locked in one room is a complication when you’re supposed to be killing people.” Rutger walked toward the cell. As he stood just in reach of those massive hands, he asked, “Gris never breaks a contract correct?” The man grinned once more, and nodded. Rutger unlocked the door to the cell and the man slipped his arms from the bars and swung it open.
“The man,” spoke Rutger, “that I want killed is-” At the same time both men said, “Bellerophon the sorcerer.” Though Rutger did naught to hide his shock, the hooded man continued, “I will require some weaponry.” Rutger nodded, and motioned for the man to walk with him, “You may choose any you wish from, my armory, it’s filled with the weapons of all I’ve conquered. Now, in a few days, Bellerophon will leave for the mines to the east, a few of the prisoners have been promised their freedom for igniting a rebellion. I will need you to travel to the battlefield, and kill Bellerophon whilst his magic is sent towards those fighting.” What the general neglected to tell the man was that he was the distraction, and that while the Emperor dispatched the assassin, Rutger or one of his men would finish him off.
As the two walked out of the dungeon towards Rutger’s barracks, Gunter, Bellerophon’s servant, ran up to them and said, panting, “Rutger, our plans have gone awry.” Rutger stopped his march immediately, coldly he asked, “How?” "Bellerophon plans to ride out to the mines tomorrow morning.” Rutger’s eyes suddenly lost a bit of their fire. He quickly regained his composure, “Why?”
“Slaves already at the mines, they are seemingly revolting, the slaves in our plan are still in the dungeons here. Bellerophon plans to go investigate a group of Druids there, and he is taking his undead with him.” Rutger looked down at his feet as he thought for a moment. “Gunter, go tell Euluk to get the Saracens and Mercenaries ready to ride, it’s only three hours to the mine, and we should make it with time to prepare for the battle. Then tell Cassius to prepare my troops to seize the castle one hour after the bastard leaves tomorrow.” Rutger wanted to consolidate his power with the Saracens, it was the only way to truly manage the restructuring of the world after he killed a god the next day. As the servant turned to deliver Rutger’s messages, the young general called, “Gunter!” The man turned, and Rutger whispered, “Get my sister and head as far south as you can, if you hear we succeed, return. If not, never stop.” The man nodded.
Rutger watched him go, then began walking again, “Come assassin,” he muttered. There was an abandoned guard tower that held all the items Rutger had amassed while off fighting. Rutger watched as the powerful assassin picked through the Spears of Chiefs. The man seemed to have no interest in swords or axes, he went first to the bows hanging on the wall. He lifted one, the largest in the whole room. A longbow, made from the horns of a massive bull. Rutger had found it in a chest held by a commune he’d captured and taken to the mines five months ago. “There’s no use, my Garashi Lieutenant couldn’t bend that thing an inch.” Then almost on cue, to his sheer shock, the bow bent under the man’s hands. “I think I’ll manage,” the hooded man said cheerily. He also grabbed a leather quiver of black arrows.
Then, he once again walked past the weapons Rutger guessed would be most suited to an assassin, and this time, lifted yet another massive weapon from the wall. It was a two handed Warhammer, that had an inscription on one face of the head sized maul, and a carving of a wolf's head on the other side. The hooded man slung the bow over his shoulder, and holding the Warhammer in one hand turned to the general, “So, I suppose I should head for the mine as well?” He was still smiling.
Rutger shook his head as he led the man out. Euluk and Cassius came to stand beside him. Rutger spoke once more, “There is a cottage three miles before you will reach the mines if you head east. It is the home of a hermit who has no love of Bellerophon, wake yourself at dawn, then wait until you see the sorcerer pass. When he does, follow him. Strike when you see opportune. These men will see to it that you have a horse.” The General turned to his second in command, “Euluk, I will lead the men until we may ride loud and swift, I expect you will catch us. Cassius, it has been an honor to have you follow me.” Rutger turned and quickly strolled to where the Saracens waited.
It would be no trouble to get out without the sorcerer knowing, the men at the gate were aligned with the General, not the Sorcerer. Euluk and Cassius led the hooded man to the stables. As Euluk and Cassius bridled a large black horse for the man to ride, the young man saddled an even larger chestnut horse, and kicked it into a trot, leaving the stables, and eventually the castle behind him. Cassius and Euluk hurried to the door of the stable to watch him leave.
Cassius spoke, “He may be a savage, but it’s a shame he must die so young.” Euluk nodded, with his voice conveying no emotion he said, “He’s younger than Rutger, and we send him to his death like an old man.” Cassius turned to look at the Garashi, “You don’t sound perturbed by the fact.” Euluk stared after the Savage. “That was my horse.”
Ferion was incredibly nervous. The night before, Bellerophon had projected himself into the Shee’s mind once more, and told him to prepare to ride the next morning. So the Shee shaman had prepared the potion for his lord’s head, then made ready. Now he was one of fourteen living creatures riding for the mines. He rode with those creatures in front of four hundred soldiers, raised from the dead by Bellerophon. The sorcerer’s living soldiers were off holding conquered lands, and the emperor preferred to defend himself with the undead.
The other living things were of course, the Sorcerer and General Holden, ten living bodyguards bred from birth to protect the sorcerer, and Laurent, a young wizard who when it suited him, could be as vile as the emperor. He turned and looked at a cottage as they rode past it, wondering who would be foolish enough to make a life so close to the conqueror’s home. Bellerophon shoved himself suddenly into the Shee’s mind. “This is living isn’t it Ferion? Feeling the wind against your skin as you ride to kill?”
Ferion questioned the sorcerer. “My lord I thought you were simply going to investigate the Druids? Taking all these soldiers as protection.” He heard the Sorcerer cackle, “Please! You think I would allow, this insolence to exist at by own backdoor? No, we ride to kill Ferion and-”
Suddenly Ferion felt nothing but pain coming from the connection between himself and Bellerophon. It felt as if the shaman held a string tied around the neck of someone writhing in agony. He kicked his pony into a gallop, and handed the sorcerer the bottle which held his potion. The Shee was impressed, Bellerophon showed no signs of the pain he felt inside his mind. After drinking the potion, Ferion felt the string slowly steady itself. Bellerophon’s voice spoke again inside the shaman’s mind, “We’re almost there, that forest stretches from here to a little past the mine.”
Ferion grew even more nervous as the mountain that housed the mines came into view. Holden cried out, as a burning pile made with the corpses of his soldiers jutted from the landscape. As they drew even closer, Ferion saw a mass of armed men, many on horseback. They outnumbered Bellerophon’s force greatly. As the sorcerer brought his troops to a halt, he called out, “Are you prepared to be swept away? None of you can hope to stand against my magic. You will be crushed, as all who stand against my might. So, lay down your arms, and some of you may be spared.”
The crowd of slaves parted, and Ferion noted that many of the slaves wore distinctly Saracen garb, the other slaves wore the armor of the dead, and held their weapons in their hands. Then suddenly, they began to move aside. A man in Prolane armor came through the crowd. A familiar voice called out to the sorcerer. “Hello, Bellerophon.” It was Rutger, donning the armor of his ancestors.
Bellerophon erupted with laughter, and Ferion saw many of the slaves draw back in fear. “Rutger, I have longed for this day. How fitting, my first conquest attempts to be reborn. Come then boy, face the destiny of your ilk.” Bellerophon kicked his horse into a gallop, followed by the undead, Holden, Laurent, and the elite guard. Ferion stayed back, watching as the two forces charged each other. The shaman supposed the Druids mattered little now.
As luck would have it, the Druids were of a different opinion, as at just that very moment, five wiry old men stepped out of one of the slave houses next to the cave entrance. Bellerophon had not noticed. The forces clashed. Many slaves fell almost immediately. Laurent began chanting an incantation, and Ferion reached for the Sorcerer’s mind, seeing that it was still clouded. Still, the Sorcerer lifted his left arm, as he slashed down at a Saracen pike man with his broadsword. In that hand, a few sparks seemed to ignite in the air, as a small lightning bolt formed. It was one of the few spells the Sorcerer could manage with the cloud over him.
Suddenly however, a massive physical cloud appeared over the head of all in the battle, and a bolt of lightning struck, but stopped short inches above the head of one slave. Then the voice of one druid came over the sounds of battle. He spoke in an ancient tongue, unrecognizable to all but Bellerophon, and Ferion. “Ich garru shae Greymoore!” In the common tongue, “For the glory of Greymoore.” Then, Ferion felt it. The side of the arcane that both Laurent and Bellerophon used was cut away from them, warded off. Ferion watched as the Garashi who fought alongside Rutger tore Laurent’s horse down by the reins, and buried his axe head in the young wizard’s throat. Bellerophon wheeled about, and rode toward the shaman, followed by three of his personal guard. He grabbed the reins of Ferion’s horse, and pulled them toward the forest. The five galloped into the cover of trees.
Ferion realized what had happened, over the past few months, the Druids had slowly chipped away at Bellerophon’s defenses, until he was so weak, he couldn’t stand against all five of them. Now, the Sorcerer could seemingly not touch the arcane at all.
Rutger threw his spear, and watched as it took an elite guard off his horse, the man quickly dispatched by mercenaries and slaves. Three Saracens had overwhelmed another of the elite guards, but two had been killed, the other lost an arm. Euluk lost two fingers on his left hand, but he had ripped one’s arm out of socket, then cut off his leg, leaving him to surely be trampled. Rutger had to quickly bring his sword up to parry a sudden thrust. It was Holden. Rutger dodged another thrust, then a slash. He waited for an opening, and seeing it on a third thrust where the older general stepped too far, quickly ripped the man’s stomach open, and tore his blade out the side of the man’s torso. He quickly felt a blade slash his arm, as another elite guard barely missed him.
Rutger thrust, and the guard parried, quickly bringing his long sword onto Rutger’s left pauldron, Rutger only feeling a shock, but being otherwise unhurt. The man was much faster than Rutger, quickly slashing his side, leaving a large gash, and then stabbing Rutger in the thigh, luckily not going very deed. Rutger cried out in pain, and slashed at the man, who danced away, but was put on the ground by an arrow shot by some unseen ally of the general.
A few yards away from the General, a lithe mercenary with long hair and a scimitar danced in between two of the elite guards. He had been cut but once on the arm. One of the guards thrust at the man angrily, but after a quick sidestep of the mercenary mistakenly stabbed the other guard through the heart. Then the mercenary quickly slit the guard’s throat vertically, and twirled to fight another opponent.
Rutger saw as another guard was seemingly crushed under a wave of slaves, and another killed by three Saracen pike men and a slave with a mace. Rutger looked for Bellerophon, but saw no sign of him. ‘Damn it!’ he thought. The Savage had lied to him.
Bellerophon finally stopped as he could no longer hear the sounds of battle. Ferion saw true fear in the sorcerer’s eye, a god now living again as a mortal. The sorcerer grabbed the shaman by the collar. “Can you still touch your magic?” He somehow shouted in a whisper. “Yes.” replied the shaman. Bellerophon let him go, “Call Lightfeather to me.”
“What?” Asked the Shee. The guards turned their horses back toward the battle to fight any in pursuit. Bellerophon tried to sound angry, but he only seemed afraid, “He’s my familiar damn it, I can’t use magic now, but through him I can.” Ferion slowly cast a spell with a few waves of his hand. “He’s on the way.” The five continued traveling from the battle. After about five minutes, they came to a clearing. Bellerophon’s face had lost all color, and his hair was graying. Then Ferion pointed at the sky, “There!” The sorcerer turned, and saw his familiar soaring towards him.
“Thank the-” A shriek ripped the air, and Lightfeather fell from the sky, with a black arrow through his heart. “NO!” The Sorcerer shouted. Another black arrow shot from the trees to the west, ripping through one of the guard’s heads. The hooded man stepped into view at the edge of the clearing, and as one of the other guards kicked his horse for a charge, loosed another arrow, taking the man in the throat. The hooded man leant the bow against a tree trunk, then lifted the war hammer from a strap he placed on the back of his tunic.
The last guard spurred his horse into a charge now, drawing his sword. The hooded man held his hammer behind his back, and as the horse came towards him the hooded man grabbed the beast’s snout and threw the horse into a tree at the side of the clearing. He then turned, and the Shee and the Sorcerer saw the face of a man from one of the savage tribes.
“Run Shee.” The hooded man said, “You’re free to go.” Ferion stared in stunned silence for a moment, then started his pony at a walk, and picked up speed. Now it was only the Sorcerer and the Savage. “Get off your horse.” Bellerophon kicked his horse, and quickly pulled it to flee from the hooded man. He did not go far before the savage had grabbed his bow, and shot down the horse, taking it in the leg. “I didn’t want to kill her.” Bellerophon was trapped under his fallen horse, and still cut off from his magic.
“Do you know who I am? They call me Gris the killer, but I am not. I was taught by Gris the killer, but a fellow student of his is the new Gris. Taking the name momentarily was just a means to get me closer to you.” Bellerophon shouted, “Please!” “Quiet!” The hooded man had exchanged his weapons again, and now leaned against the tree. “Did you not think it odd, your men finding remnants of a clan that has not been in this part of the world since you nearly wiped them from existence? They knew who I was when I went to them, and they were willing to sacrifice themselves, to get me this close to you.”
Bellerophon started to laugh, “So you style yourself a hero. Well hero, I could set your blood to boil if you stop boring me, so please, go on about your title ‘Gris the Killer.’” The hooded man knew the Sorcerer was bluffing. “No, I told you, I’m not Gris the Killer.” The man slid the hood off his face. “I am Conall Greymoore.” Bellerophon’s eyes grew, “Greymoore?”
Conall lifted the hammer, and slowly advanced on the sorcerer. He began to sing. “A cold wind blows, o’er the hill."
Bellerophon pleaded, “Please, I can make you immortal!”
“And my life ends with foes left t’kill.” Conall took a slow practice swing with the hammer.
Bellerophon yelled, “I can make you a king! A hero of many great songs!”
“The sun is set, the light has died. In the darkest hour, one man may ride.” Conall was almost to the horse now.
“I can give you women, riches, my own arcane powers, just spare me!” The Sorcerer asked.
"They shall fall, burning to hell. Or he will fail, this evil to quell.” The Savage continued to sing as he lifted the hammer above his head leaning his weight down closer to the sorcerer. In a last effort, the sorcerer drew deep within himself a flare of magic. He grabbed the side of Conall’s neck as the man leaned down, and fire leapt from his hand onto the man’s skin. Conall howled in pain for a brief moment, grabbing the hand of the sorcerer fiercely. He tightened his grip, until the old man’s bones could be heard snapping against themselves. Again, he raised the hammer...
“No!” Shouted the sorcerer, moments before he died. Conall sighed, he was finally free. He turned from a rival who had wronged his ancestors and returned to his bow, and after finishing off the poor horse he’d shot in the leg, returned to the Chestnut horse, and slowly rode away from the battlefield. His neck was in a great pain, but release from destiny was euphoric enough to keep him from succumbing to his pain for a few hours. His demeanor over the past few days had been a facade to protect himself from his fear, a gait that portrayed the foray into the sorcerers land as a casual affair. As he rode away, the Savage felt the weight of his clan leave his shoulders, his life’s purpose complete.
Rutger called Euluk to the clearing he stood in after the battle. Euluk sprinted in, ready to kill any man or creature who sought to accost his commander. What he found instead, was the dead body of their enemy, but no head. What he had to guess for the head was that it was the pink sludge at the base of a massive crater left behind the body. It was impossible for a mortal man to create such destruction without magic, the hooded man could not have done this even with his massive hammer. Before Euluk could say anything, Rutger spoke, "Ready the troops for a march, we must return to Taron castle, there is an empire to divide."
In a small cottage, a Shee spoke with an old hermit. “You understand what this means don’t you?” The Shee asked. The hermit nodded.
“The aura of that boy, he was blessed by one of the gods, the bull god. He is surely the strongest human there will ever be.” The hermit nodded again.
“With the death of the Sorcerer, the world has lost a bridge between ourselves and the arcane, and lost a god. However, his death has resolved the destiny of that young man, he is now a practical demigod, with no purpose, no agenda.” The Shee sighed as the hermit simply smiled. “It certainly does feel like an entirely different world with no Sorcerer.”
--------------------------
Santina spoke the words as they were listed to her. "I Santina of Greymoore swear that I and all of my line shall use the power of the Coven of the Bull to defeat Bellerophon the sorcerer. Not till the sun rises in west and sets in the east, and the sky turns to ash shall my blood abandon this quest." At that moment, the high priest of the coven handed her an ornate knife. Santina took the blade and cut it across her left palm, drawing a gush of blood. She held her bleeding hand over a garnet bowl, and let it fall. As the blood hit the garnet, smoke burst from it, and rose in thin tendrils reaching the ceiling.
Decades passed and generations flew by. In all this time, Bellerophon didn't age a day. He was one of the few Magi with the ability to do more than tap into the arcane. He was a magi who could rip apart the veins of the arcane with his teeth, and feel the essence of magic drip down his throat. Physically he looked thirty-four, but by the time the debt to the Coven of the Bull was paid, he was at least five centuries old. In the early years of his life, he was ambitious, and conquered all that he came upon, with a raised army of the dead. People flocked to him, like moths to a flame. Someone with such great power gave them opportunity, and cowering behind him kept them safe from his wrath. Over the last century or so, he has lost his ambition, becoming content to hold tournaments, hunt, joust, and partake in other sports.
In his stead he sends out one of his younger generals, Rutger the Broken to conquer the frontiers surrounding his empires. Rutger the Broken was famous for integrating conquered warriors and mercenaries into his ranks, and was seen as the most merciful man under the banner of the Sorcerer. After conquering the tribes of the Saracen Plains, Rutger returned home, towing with him horsemen, criminals, and mercenaries. A rumor reached the ears of Bellerophon, of a plot by Rutger to move on his throne. The sorcerer has become wary.
It was a sunny day in the Amon forests, and Bellerophon loved the sounds of the birds of spring, coming out to sing their song for the first time since the long winter. He scanned the grass in the clearing in front of where he and his party sat atop their horses. Then, he saw it, a hare, speeding out of its burrow and making a break for the opposite tree line. He raised his arm, and from it flew Lightfeather, the fastest hunting falcon from his tower. The bird hurled itself toward the game, and in a matter of moments, returned with the prize for its master.
The lords and ladies all clapped like the vapid sheep they were, vying for his approval. His servant Gunter kicked his horse forward to take the rabbit from his master, but the steps of his horse were overshadowed by the galloping roar of several horses coming from the east. It was Bellerophon’s royal messenger, a sweaty man who had grown fat as he aged. He said to his lord as the group reined their horses to a stop, “Lord Bellerophon, Young Rutger returns from the East, with a train of treasures and recruits.”
Bellerophon passed the dead hare to Gunter, then handed over Lightfeather. He pulled off his gloves and tossed them towards the nobles with him, one of them dropping to the ground, only to be picked up by a scrambling duke. He looked at the messenger and spoke, without raising his voice, “He is to await me in the throne room, and once I have bathed I will be prepared to meet him.” Without a word to any of the others, he kicked his horse into a full gallop, and rode back to his castle.
Rutger placed a hand over his eyes to shade his gaze from the sun as he peered at Taron castle. His Left Lieutenant Euluk stepped next to the Gaulus warhorse his general rode. “Rutger,” he said in the thick accent of his people, [/color]“We draw near to the tower. Do you want me to tell the other officers?”[/color] Rutger looked down at his second in command, but he didn’t have to look far. Euluk was a prince of the Garashi, seemingly giant men from the marshes off far to the west. He was considered short among his people, and he stood almost seven feet tall. He had been sent as a “ward” to Bellerophon, but truly he was a hostage, to keep the Garashi from threatening the power of the sorcerer's empire. A few years ago he had pledged himself to Rutger, and shown a mind for tactics, becoming Rutger’s right hand and confidant.
Rutger shook his head, “Not yet, there’s still more to do regrettably." He lifted three fingers calling for the march towards Taron castle. The horsemen of the Steppes brought up the rear, with the mercenaries preceding them. In between Rutger’s army and the new forces was a group of chained criminals, most of them slim, crooked men who had scraped by, or young frightened boys who looked as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks.
There was one hooded head above the rest, a head atop broad round shoulders. This was not the type of man you’d expect to find convicted of horse theft, he looked like he could take what he wanted with no resistance. But he marched along, shackled like all the rest around him. An old man with a nose like a beak looked up at him, “Do you think he’ll kill us?” The hooded man looked down to the old man. The old man was shocked to see that he did not possess the face of a brute, or a thief, he had the face that should have been woven into a tapestry of some tale of fighting a dragon.
The hooded man grinned and said, “Who? The wizard? I’m sure he’s not as bad as they say. Hell, he’ll probably pardon the lot of us.” The prisoners around the hooded man peered at him wearily. One, a pickpocket, piped up, “A madman who’s been alive for eternity? Letting a bunch of criminals walk?” Another voice, “Yeah, what’s he care about us?”
The hooded man chuckled and said, “Well an emperor could always use more slaves couldn’t he?” A new voice said, “Oh great, we’re all attached to a mad man.” The hooded man turned in the direction of the speaker. His face lost all of its kindness, as his wide jaw set itself to stone.
He spoke again, “Mad indeed I may be, but perhaps madness is just what it takes to slay the beast of Taron castle.” The old man with the beak nose said, “A beast? A sorcerer and a beast? Even a man your size couldn’t fight both surely.” The hooded man sighed, but his smile returned. “Nothing but a touch of poetry my friend.” They fell into the shadow of the massive watchtower of Taron castle, the hooded man looking up at the massive structure piercing the sky. “Nothing but a touch of poetry.”
In Taron castle, Bellerophon was being bathed by his servants. As a young man, he’d found this fairly entertaining, watching the women’s discomfort; but he had seen enough docile young women cower from him, and now he simply desired to be clean. He grabbed a brush from one of the women’s hands, and scrubbed his back, then quickly moving it all around his body, he leapt from the hot waters. Snapping his fingers, he was dry.
The women scurried to robe him, worried that they had displeased him, and that punishment would be severe. Honestly, he wouldn’t even remember their faces. He started the long walk to his throne room. The carpet was blue today, an odd choice, but he was always happy to see it change. That was one of the only reasons he kept half the dimwits around him, to change things, to keep things new. It got incessantly dull, watching the same sun rise and fall in the same sky. So he began the long walk down the corridor, adorned with new paintings, and a new carpet.
He had no need of guards, his spells being more protection than any steel could offer him. He waved his hand and the throne room doors opened. Rutger was not here yet. The bastard, probably hoped to have the sorcerer kept waiting. Bellerophon wished he could simply kill the insolent little whelp. He could do it, a flick of his wrist, and fire would erupt in the General’s veins. Bellerophon knew this would never be viable, the man was favored with the people, and he was an asset to his military, looking at strategy and war technology that could successfully defeat old techniques.
As Bellerophon walked into the throne room, he gazed up at the massive seat. It was solid gold, save for a single Steel Lance that almost hit the ceiling. The chair had been crafted by goldsmiths, so that he could sit on the most beautiful spot in the castle. The spear had been made by a smith some three-hundred years ago, for the king of the Prolane’s, the first people Bellerophon had ever conquered. The Prolane military had been based almost solely on heavy cavalry, the larger slower horses could not escape the walls of flame and destruction that the sorcerer had sent against them. There were standards along the wall of other nations he’d defeated. The Lancasters, the Penteons, the Espanians. Below those, and many other large flags, were barbarian clans and tribes he had stomped out in his time. Carstanian, Baldock, Greymoore, Setanta, just to name a few. Yes, this was truly the hall of a conqueror. Bellerophon sat on his throne, and had a thought. If Rutger tried to cause him discomfort, he would do the same to him. He called a servant to him, “Boy, get over here.” The man scurried to him and bowed. “Fetch General Rutger’s sister and bring her to the throne room.”
Rutger had reached the castle an hour before the previous scene. He had sent his main army to escort the prisoners to the dungeons, while a few of his less experienced officers helped his new troops set themselves up in tents outside the main city barracks. All of his closest officers surrounded him, and awaited the words of their young general, sensing the plot he and a few advisors had set aside.
They sat around a broad oak table in the lower floor of the barracks. As Rutger poured himself a goblet of wine, they peered at him eagerly, until he passed the skin on, and spoke, “Gentlemen, are any of you interested in breaking empires today?” All of the men save Euluk widened their eyes. Their hesitation lasted only a few moments before they all began to cheer and roar for Rutger. He waved a hand, and spoke once more, “Do not be so quick friends. I love each of you more dearly than my own brothers, and would not see you kill yourselves for any loyalty to me. If we fail, I will surely be tortured, and you will meet the same fate. Your families will be killed. If you have any lineage, it will be erased from history. I do not attempt to create a great song, or even to meet some warriors end. I simply hope to break the reign of an evil man who will sit on a throne until the sun sets in the East and the sky turns to ash. If we do not strike him down now, there is no telling how much more powerful he will become. I do not fight him for pride, or honor, or power, I fight him for peace. What say you now?”
Silence lay like a blanket over the room. Until Cassius, a man who would be King of Espania if the wizard hadn’t taken the land and people, rose and said, “I have followed you into many battles my friend, and not once have I been afraid when at your back. The history of my blood lies only on the tongues of old men back in a land that’s now only a province. As for torture, he has tortured me every day he’s allowed me to be alive; everyday, knowing that I live a shadow of the life I was meant to have, I have no fear of death, what can death take from me?” He raised his goblet and said, “I ride with you, Rutger.” At this, the other men raised their own goblets, and replied with a mix of “For you General,” and “For Rutger.” Rutger shook his head and said, “Then this is what we will do.”
“A cold wind blows, o’er the hill, and my life ends with foes left t’kill. The sun is set, the light has died. In the darkest hour, one man may ride. They shall fall, burning to hell. Or he will fail, this evil to quell.” The hooded man sung to himself in a cell. The protests of the other prisoners had awarded him with solitude, and the man seemed to enjoy it. The guards were giving him space, and he lay on a bench he'd shoved against the wall, singing to the black ceiling.
One of the other prisoners moaned. “Won’t you stop it? Its bad enough we have to die, we don’t need no mad man singing in the last few hours we ‘ave left.” The hooded man didn’t appear to move. “What’s your name?” The man hesitated for a moment before saying, “Dagon.” The Hooded Man sat up, and turned, allowing the prisoners in the cell across from him to see his face. He said, his voice calm, “You must be a sad man Dagon. I’ve never known a happy man who didn’t wish to die with a song in his heart.”
Dagon laughed and slapped a man beside him, “Shame isn’t it? Built like that and he’s a troubadour!” The other men barked out nervous laughter around him. The hooded man grinned, “I suppose you’re right, I know a lot of songs and tales. I should have been a warrior, maybe then I wouldn’t be locked in here. Oh well, it won’t be much longer before the Sorcerer gets killed by some hero and we get out.” The hooded man lay back down, and began to hum the same tune from before.
Rutger stalked into the throne room. Two minutes before, a messenger had burst into the barracks, saying that Bellerophon demanded his presence, and that Rutger’s younger sister was there with him. Bellerophon was pointing to the sigils on his wall, and asked the short girl by his side to identify the houses and countries. The girl was nine, and though she was very bright, had no hope to know all of them.
“...and that one?” The old sorcerer asked. The little girl said, “A Wolf, for the Savage Greymoore’s.” Bellerophon looked at the girl’s brother out of the corner of his eye, as he said with a voice dripping condescension, “Good, Talia, good. Now tell me, if your ancestors hadn’t been savages, and your uncle Bellerophon had let them keep their land, which of these sigils would be the one your brother carried?” The girl looked frightened as she saw her brother. Even she could feel the tension in the air.
“Enough,” Rutger said, his voice almost a whisper. It was enough for Bellerophon, a smile spread across his cold lips, and he said, "That is enough Talia, you did very well. You may return to your quarters now. I'll send up someone to read you a bedtime story." As Talia walked past Rutger, he gripped her tiny hand. She looked up at him for one frightened second before he smiled down to her and winked. He felt her calm, and she walked out of the throne room as a guard followed her.
He kept his voice stone as he spoke to the Sorcerer, “You sent for me?” The sorcerer’s mouth twisted into a demented smile. “Indeed I did, how went the campaign in the Saracens?” Rutger was the only man who Bellerophon had never been able to intimidate. He always kept eye contact, and no matter where Bellerophon stood, would not lower or raise his head. “The Plains are yours.” Bellerophon flopped down onto his throne and said, “Oh, fantastic, more grass. Do you know what I can’t stand Rutger? The confinement. Sitting here, waiting for whichever man is youngest at the time to stroll into my throne room, and explain how he conquered some far off nation. I struggle to not refer to you as eight other generals I once had, do you know that? You perplex me. You vex me Rutger. You alone have ever seen yourself as equal to me, and yet I put you in the league of men who did nothing more than what I told them, and do you know why?”
Rutger raised his left eyebrow, “Why?” Bellerophon smirked, “Because you’ll die like the rest of them.” He waved his hand, and suddenly his voice grew very angry. “Go, leave me to my thoughts. Whatever dull device you bring as tribute to me you may send to my chamber later. Now, leave me.” Bellerophon put his left hand against his temple. Rutger walked out of the throne room, and left the throne room, heading towards the courtyard to make preparations.
Bellerophon felt an eruption in his skull. For about a week, his mind had been clouded, and he had struggled any time he attempted to reach the arcane. Every few hours, he was overcome with the feeling of his brain being torn apart. None of his magic could quell the pain, his fingers only barely grazing the spectrum of magic. For three minutes he sat, attempting to knit barriers throughout the various vessels of his mind. As the pain slowly subsided, he took hold of a spell, and thrust his voice into the mind of one of his shamans. “Ferion!” He felt the shaman shutter, but he opened his mind to his lord and master. With the man’s mind unlocked to the sorcerer, Bellerophon projected his consciousness into the man’s surroundings, and the throne room slipped away, being replaced with the quarters of Ferion, his head shaman.
The room was adorned with a massive apothecary table, a small cot, shelves stuffed with books one opening away from crumbling, and several barrels that housed ingredients. Ferion looked at his lord, who suddenly appeared as a somehow misty version of himself. The shaman was a Shee, a small green creature who looked like a human in every way save his toes resembling roots. His small stature, skin color, and root structure were vestigial traits from when his people were living in the forest of the northern isles, existing as living plants, protecting the forest. Close to two centuries ago, Ferion wandered into the city of Heror-Dun days after Bellerophon had brought it into his empire. One of the enemy archers had infected Bellerophon with a poison none under the conqueror had seen nor heard of. At the time, the sorcerer knew no methods of healing, having concerned himself with only the destruction of his foes. This was how the small Shee came into the emperor’s employ. The shaman had the ability to craft almost any potion needed.
“Yes, oh venerable one?” The small shaman’s hands shook, but his voice had a hint of derision. The sorcerer’s forehead knit till his eyebrows almost touched. The shaman gulped, “Apologies my lord.”
“I am in need of a potion for my head once more Ferion. I will expect it in the morning.” The Shee nodded furiously, “Of course my lord, but don’t you think you should have a wizard with some degree in healing ability check to see if you have been cursed?” The sorcerer sighed and said, “Not any time soon, you-"
“Emperor Bellerophon!” The shaman’s chambers were snatched away, and both the Sorcerer and Shaman saw their surroundings as they truly were, the shaman alone at his apothecary table, and the sorcerer in his throne room, no longer alone. One of his oldest living generals, Holden the Broad. The man still had steel in his eyes, but that strength had long since left his body. He had conquered three tribes and one small city state in his time as Bellerophon’s head general, but had long since been pushed from the position by Rutger, and General Wallace between them. The man was balding, but the grey tufts of hair on the side of his head ran down into great mutton chops that framed his face, the only other hair a waxed mustache that still had many black hairs.
“What is it Holden? Shouldn't you be at the mines?” Holden came to a halt from his rushed stride a few yards before the throne. “I have placed Hollace in charge in my stead my lord.” Ah, the man’s son. “Hollace, the gambler?” Holden shook his head, “No sir that would be Hal, Hollace is the younger one, the one with three fingers on his left hand.” Bellerophon flicked his right hand in a dismissive motion, “Ah.”
“Right my lord,” Holden continued, “There is unrest with the slaves. Do you recall when we ousted the commune of savages from the northern hills five months ago?” The sorcerer nodded and the old man continued, “Well, their ‘druids’ the men with harrowed looks, have all refused to work. They are staying inside the slave quarters, and refuse to leave, when guards went to retrieve them, young men asked to take the punishment for the druids. The-” Bellerophon cut off the former general, “Young men have always tried to bear the burdens of their elders.” “Yes sir,” answered Holden, “but never men they’ve never spoken to. My lord, if ten young men had taken up for these so called druids, I would have thought nothing of it, but sir... Every slave in the mine has asked to be punished in place of these five savages.”
Bellerophon felt a wave of curiosity. Druids had been an important part of his own life, training to become one was how he’d first learned magic. Back when he was a boy in the western mountains, he’d been picked to learn the druid ways when he was only three, though in those days, they were referred to as storm callers. He leaned forward on his throne and asked, “What clan’s remnants were these storm callers from?”
Rutger descended into the dungeons. There was only one part of his plot he still needed to see through, and that was a diversion. His men had captured a famed assassin, Gris the Killer. Not the true Gris, but the current Killer. It was a title, passed from one killer to the man he saw fit once he decided to leave behind the life of an assassin. He had heard that this Killer was very young, and had not yet finished his training before the former met an untimely demise. No doubt how his men were able to catch him so easily. He had always detested assassins, which made it much easier to knowingly disrupt the line of a legacy.
He was guided by the guards to where a few men met the description his officers had given him. He walked to the center of the room, and felt the prisoner’s eyes on him. He shook a pair of keys in his hand, and spoke, “I would like to form a contract with Gris the Killer.” Slowly, all the men began to shout that they were he, grasping at a chance for freedom. A wave of quiet overtook all the room, as a cloud rolled from where it covered an early autumn moon, casting a bright beam of light onto the bars of a cell that made no noise. Two large arms slowly slipped through, and rested on a horizontal bar. The young general could make out the details in his face, despite the man keeping a hood over his head. Rutger looked skeptically at the large man, who was taller than most the other prisoners, far more broad, and had a full blonde beard, matching his long hair. He fit the description perfectly.
The man suddenly smiled, a grin that didn't truly fit the idea of an assassin Rutger had in his head, it was a grin that you would see on a child who knew some part of a situation that made it much more humorous to him than anyone else. He spoke, “I am the man some call Gris the Killer. I’d be happy to accept your contract, but there is the inconvenience of these bars. Being locked in one room is a complication when you’re supposed to be killing people.” Rutger walked toward the cell. As he stood just in reach of those massive hands, he asked, “Gris never breaks a contract correct?” The man grinned once more, and nodded. Rutger unlocked the door to the cell and the man slipped his arms from the bars and swung it open.
“The man,” spoke Rutger, “that I want killed is-” At the same time both men said, “Bellerophon the sorcerer.” Though Rutger did naught to hide his shock, the hooded man continued, “I will require some weaponry.” Rutger nodded, and motioned for the man to walk with him, “You may choose any you wish from, my armory, it’s filled with the weapons of all I’ve conquered. Now, in a few days, Bellerophon will leave for the mines to the east, a few of the prisoners have been promised their freedom for igniting a rebellion. I will need you to travel to the battlefield, and kill Bellerophon whilst his magic is sent towards those fighting.” What the general neglected to tell the man was that he was the distraction, and that while the Emperor dispatched the assassin, Rutger or one of his men would finish him off.
As the two walked out of the dungeon towards Rutger’s barracks, Gunter, Bellerophon’s servant, ran up to them and said, panting, “Rutger, our plans have gone awry.” Rutger stopped his march immediately, coldly he asked, “How?” "Bellerophon plans to ride out to the mines tomorrow morning.” Rutger’s eyes suddenly lost a bit of their fire. He quickly regained his composure, “Why?”
“Slaves already at the mines, they are seemingly revolting, the slaves in our plan are still in the dungeons here. Bellerophon plans to go investigate a group of Druids there, and he is taking his undead with him.” Rutger looked down at his feet as he thought for a moment. “Gunter, go tell Euluk to get the Saracens and Mercenaries ready to ride, it’s only three hours to the mine, and we should make it with time to prepare for the battle. Then tell Cassius to prepare my troops to seize the castle one hour after the bastard leaves tomorrow.” Rutger wanted to consolidate his power with the Saracens, it was the only way to truly manage the restructuring of the world after he killed a god the next day. As the servant turned to deliver Rutger’s messages, the young general called, “Gunter!” The man turned, and Rutger whispered, “Get my sister and head as far south as you can, if you hear we succeed, return. If not, never stop.” The man nodded.
Rutger watched him go, then began walking again, “Come assassin,” he muttered. There was an abandoned guard tower that held all the items Rutger had amassed while off fighting. Rutger watched as the powerful assassin picked through the Spears of Chiefs. The man seemed to have no interest in swords or axes, he went first to the bows hanging on the wall. He lifted one, the largest in the whole room. A longbow, made from the horns of a massive bull. Rutger had found it in a chest held by a commune he’d captured and taken to the mines five months ago. “There’s no use, my Garashi Lieutenant couldn’t bend that thing an inch.” Then almost on cue, to his sheer shock, the bow bent under the man’s hands. “I think I’ll manage,” the hooded man said cheerily. He also grabbed a leather quiver of black arrows.
Then, he once again walked past the weapons Rutger guessed would be most suited to an assassin, and this time, lifted yet another massive weapon from the wall. It was a two handed Warhammer, that had an inscription on one face of the head sized maul, and a carving of a wolf's head on the other side. The hooded man slung the bow over his shoulder, and holding the Warhammer in one hand turned to the general, “So, I suppose I should head for the mine as well?” He was still smiling.
Rutger shook his head as he led the man out. Euluk and Cassius came to stand beside him. Rutger spoke once more, “There is a cottage three miles before you will reach the mines if you head east. It is the home of a hermit who has no love of Bellerophon, wake yourself at dawn, then wait until you see the sorcerer pass. When he does, follow him. Strike when you see opportune. These men will see to it that you have a horse.” The General turned to his second in command, “Euluk, I will lead the men until we may ride loud and swift, I expect you will catch us. Cassius, it has been an honor to have you follow me.” Rutger turned and quickly strolled to where the Saracens waited.
It would be no trouble to get out without the sorcerer knowing, the men at the gate were aligned with the General, not the Sorcerer. Euluk and Cassius led the hooded man to the stables. As Euluk and Cassius bridled a large black horse for the man to ride, the young man saddled an even larger chestnut horse, and kicked it into a trot, leaving the stables, and eventually the castle behind him. Cassius and Euluk hurried to the door of the stable to watch him leave.
Cassius spoke, “He may be a savage, but it’s a shame he must die so young.” Euluk nodded, with his voice conveying no emotion he said, “He’s younger than Rutger, and we send him to his death like an old man.” Cassius turned to look at the Garashi, “You don’t sound perturbed by the fact.” Euluk stared after the Savage. “That was my horse.”
Ferion was incredibly nervous. The night before, Bellerophon had projected himself into the Shee’s mind once more, and told him to prepare to ride the next morning. So the Shee shaman had prepared the potion for his lord’s head, then made ready. Now he was one of fourteen living creatures riding for the mines. He rode with those creatures in front of four hundred soldiers, raised from the dead by Bellerophon. The sorcerer’s living soldiers were off holding conquered lands, and the emperor preferred to defend himself with the undead.
The other living things were of course, the Sorcerer and General Holden, ten living bodyguards bred from birth to protect the sorcerer, and Laurent, a young wizard who when it suited him, could be as vile as the emperor. He turned and looked at a cottage as they rode past it, wondering who would be foolish enough to make a life so close to the conqueror’s home. Bellerophon shoved himself suddenly into the Shee’s mind. “This is living isn’t it Ferion? Feeling the wind against your skin as you ride to kill?”
Ferion questioned the sorcerer. “My lord I thought you were simply going to investigate the Druids? Taking all these soldiers as protection.” He heard the Sorcerer cackle, “Please! You think I would allow, this insolence to exist at by own backdoor? No, we ride to kill Ferion and-”
Suddenly Ferion felt nothing but pain coming from the connection between himself and Bellerophon. It felt as if the shaman held a string tied around the neck of someone writhing in agony. He kicked his pony into a gallop, and handed the sorcerer the bottle which held his potion. The Shee was impressed, Bellerophon showed no signs of the pain he felt inside his mind. After drinking the potion, Ferion felt the string slowly steady itself. Bellerophon’s voice spoke again inside the shaman’s mind, “We’re almost there, that forest stretches from here to a little past the mine.”
Ferion grew even more nervous as the mountain that housed the mines came into view. Holden cried out, as a burning pile made with the corpses of his soldiers jutted from the landscape. As they drew even closer, Ferion saw a mass of armed men, many on horseback. They outnumbered Bellerophon’s force greatly. As the sorcerer brought his troops to a halt, he called out, “Are you prepared to be swept away? None of you can hope to stand against my magic. You will be crushed, as all who stand against my might. So, lay down your arms, and some of you may be spared.”
The crowd of slaves parted, and Ferion noted that many of the slaves wore distinctly Saracen garb, the other slaves wore the armor of the dead, and held their weapons in their hands. Then suddenly, they began to move aside. A man in Prolane armor came through the crowd. A familiar voice called out to the sorcerer. “Hello, Bellerophon.” It was Rutger, donning the armor of his ancestors.
Bellerophon erupted with laughter, and Ferion saw many of the slaves draw back in fear. “Rutger, I have longed for this day. How fitting, my first conquest attempts to be reborn. Come then boy, face the destiny of your ilk.” Bellerophon kicked his horse into a gallop, followed by the undead, Holden, Laurent, and the elite guard. Ferion stayed back, watching as the two forces charged each other. The shaman supposed the Druids mattered little now.
As luck would have it, the Druids were of a different opinion, as at just that very moment, five wiry old men stepped out of one of the slave houses next to the cave entrance. Bellerophon had not noticed. The forces clashed. Many slaves fell almost immediately. Laurent began chanting an incantation, and Ferion reached for the Sorcerer’s mind, seeing that it was still clouded. Still, the Sorcerer lifted his left arm, as he slashed down at a Saracen pike man with his broadsword. In that hand, a few sparks seemed to ignite in the air, as a small lightning bolt formed. It was one of the few spells the Sorcerer could manage with the cloud over him.
Suddenly however, a massive physical cloud appeared over the head of all in the battle, and a bolt of lightning struck, but stopped short inches above the head of one slave. Then the voice of one druid came over the sounds of battle. He spoke in an ancient tongue, unrecognizable to all but Bellerophon, and Ferion. “Ich garru shae Greymoore!” In the common tongue, “For the glory of Greymoore.” Then, Ferion felt it. The side of the arcane that both Laurent and Bellerophon used was cut away from them, warded off. Ferion watched as the Garashi who fought alongside Rutger tore Laurent’s horse down by the reins, and buried his axe head in the young wizard’s throat. Bellerophon wheeled about, and rode toward the shaman, followed by three of his personal guard. He grabbed the reins of Ferion’s horse, and pulled them toward the forest. The five galloped into the cover of trees.
Ferion realized what had happened, over the past few months, the Druids had slowly chipped away at Bellerophon’s defenses, until he was so weak, he couldn’t stand against all five of them. Now, the Sorcerer could seemingly not touch the arcane at all.
Rutger threw his spear, and watched as it took an elite guard off his horse, the man quickly dispatched by mercenaries and slaves. Three Saracens had overwhelmed another of the elite guards, but two had been killed, the other lost an arm. Euluk lost two fingers on his left hand, but he had ripped one’s arm out of socket, then cut off his leg, leaving him to surely be trampled. Rutger had to quickly bring his sword up to parry a sudden thrust. It was Holden. Rutger dodged another thrust, then a slash. He waited for an opening, and seeing it on a third thrust where the older general stepped too far, quickly ripped the man’s stomach open, and tore his blade out the side of the man’s torso. He quickly felt a blade slash his arm, as another elite guard barely missed him.
Rutger thrust, and the guard parried, quickly bringing his long sword onto Rutger’s left pauldron, Rutger only feeling a shock, but being otherwise unhurt. The man was much faster than Rutger, quickly slashing his side, leaving a large gash, and then stabbing Rutger in the thigh, luckily not going very deed. Rutger cried out in pain, and slashed at the man, who danced away, but was put on the ground by an arrow shot by some unseen ally of the general.
A few yards away from the General, a lithe mercenary with long hair and a scimitar danced in between two of the elite guards. He had been cut but once on the arm. One of the guards thrust at the man angrily, but after a quick sidestep of the mercenary mistakenly stabbed the other guard through the heart. Then the mercenary quickly slit the guard’s throat vertically, and twirled to fight another opponent.
Rutger saw as another guard was seemingly crushed under a wave of slaves, and another killed by three Saracen pike men and a slave with a mace. Rutger looked for Bellerophon, but saw no sign of him. ‘Damn it!’ he thought. The Savage had lied to him.
Bellerophon finally stopped as he could no longer hear the sounds of battle. Ferion saw true fear in the sorcerer’s eye, a god now living again as a mortal. The sorcerer grabbed the shaman by the collar. “Can you still touch your magic?” He somehow shouted in a whisper. “Yes.” replied the shaman. Bellerophon let him go, “Call Lightfeather to me.”
“What?” Asked the Shee. The guards turned their horses back toward the battle to fight any in pursuit. Bellerophon tried to sound angry, but he only seemed afraid, “He’s my familiar damn it, I can’t use magic now, but through him I can.” Ferion slowly cast a spell with a few waves of his hand. “He’s on the way.” The five continued traveling from the battle. After about five minutes, they came to a clearing. Bellerophon’s face had lost all color, and his hair was graying. Then Ferion pointed at the sky, “There!” The sorcerer turned, and saw his familiar soaring towards him.
“Thank the-” A shriek ripped the air, and Lightfeather fell from the sky, with a black arrow through his heart. “NO!” The Sorcerer shouted. Another black arrow shot from the trees to the west, ripping through one of the guard’s heads. The hooded man stepped into view at the edge of the clearing, and as one of the other guards kicked his horse for a charge, loosed another arrow, taking the man in the throat. The hooded man leant the bow against a tree trunk, then lifted the war hammer from a strap he placed on the back of his tunic.
The last guard spurred his horse into a charge now, drawing his sword. The hooded man held his hammer behind his back, and as the horse came towards him the hooded man grabbed the beast’s snout and threw the horse into a tree at the side of the clearing. He then turned, and the Shee and the Sorcerer saw the face of a man from one of the savage tribes.
“Run Shee.” The hooded man said, “You’re free to go.” Ferion stared in stunned silence for a moment, then started his pony at a walk, and picked up speed. Now it was only the Sorcerer and the Savage. “Get off your horse.” Bellerophon kicked his horse, and quickly pulled it to flee from the hooded man. He did not go far before the savage had grabbed his bow, and shot down the horse, taking it in the leg. “I didn’t want to kill her.” Bellerophon was trapped under his fallen horse, and still cut off from his magic.
“Do you know who I am? They call me Gris the killer, but I am not. I was taught by Gris the killer, but a fellow student of his is the new Gris. Taking the name momentarily was just a means to get me closer to you.” Bellerophon shouted, “Please!” “Quiet!” The hooded man had exchanged his weapons again, and now leaned against the tree. “Did you not think it odd, your men finding remnants of a clan that has not been in this part of the world since you nearly wiped them from existence? They knew who I was when I went to them, and they were willing to sacrifice themselves, to get me this close to you.”
Bellerophon started to laugh, “So you style yourself a hero. Well hero, I could set your blood to boil if you stop boring me, so please, go on about your title ‘Gris the Killer.’” The hooded man knew the Sorcerer was bluffing. “No, I told you, I’m not Gris the Killer.” The man slid the hood off his face. “I am Conall Greymoore.” Bellerophon’s eyes grew, “Greymoore?”
Conall lifted the hammer, and slowly advanced on the sorcerer. He began to sing. “A cold wind blows, o’er the hill."
Bellerophon pleaded, “Please, I can make you immortal!”
“And my life ends with foes left t’kill.” Conall took a slow practice swing with the hammer.
Bellerophon yelled, “I can make you a king! A hero of many great songs!”
“The sun is set, the light has died. In the darkest hour, one man may ride.” Conall was almost to the horse now.
“I can give you women, riches, my own arcane powers, just spare me!” The Sorcerer asked.
"They shall fall, burning to hell. Or he will fail, this evil to quell.” The Savage continued to sing as he lifted the hammer above his head leaning his weight down closer to the sorcerer. In a last effort, the sorcerer drew deep within himself a flare of magic. He grabbed the side of Conall’s neck as the man leaned down, and fire leapt from his hand onto the man’s skin. Conall howled in pain for a brief moment, grabbing the hand of the sorcerer fiercely. He tightened his grip, until the old man’s bones could be heard snapping against themselves. Again, he raised the hammer...
“No!” Shouted the sorcerer, moments before he died. Conall sighed, he was finally free. He turned from a rival who had wronged his ancestors and returned to his bow, and after finishing off the poor horse he’d shot in the leg, returned to the Chestnut horse, and slowly rode away from the battlefield. His neck was in a great pain, but release from destiny was euphoric enough to keep him from succumbing to his pain for a few hours. His demeanor over the past few days had been a facade to protect himself from his fear, a gait that portrayed the foray into the sorcerers land as a casual affair. As he rode away, the Savage felt the weight of his clan leave his shoulders, his life’s purpose complete.
Rutger called Euluk to the clearing he stood in after the battle. Euluk sprinted in, ready to kill any man or creature who sought to accost his commander. What he found instead, was the dead body of their enemy, but no head. What he had to guess for the head was that it was the pink sludge at the base of a massive crater left behind the body. It was impossible for a mortal man to create such destruction without magic, the hooded man could not have done this even with his massive hammer. Before Euluk could say anything, Rutger spoke, "Ready the troops for a march, we must return to Taron castle, there is an empire to divide."
In a small cottage, a Shee spoke with an old hermit. “You understand what this means don’t you?” The Shee asked. The hermit nodded.
“The aura of that boy, he was blessed by one of the gods, the bull god. He is surely the strongest human there will ever be.” The hermit nodded again.
“With the death of the Sorcerer, the world has lost a bridge between ourselves and the arcane, and lost a god. However, his death has resolved the destiny of that young man, he is now a practical demigod, with no purpose, no agenda.” The Shee sighed as the hermit simply smiled. “It certainly does feel like an entirely different world with no Sorcerer.”