This is the next part of my series. it picks up at an awkward point, and if I could change that easily, I would. But here's the first one : (url="http://"http://www.AmbrosiaSW.com/cgi-bin/ubb/newsdisplay.cgi?action=topics&number;=49&forum;=*Coldstone+Chronicles&DaysPrune;=25&article;=000020&startpoint;=")Blood and Honor.(/url)
Part 2 of Body and Soul
Azmodan gazed at the young man for a moment, then asked, No name? But why?
A name is only a vulnerability, never a strength. With a name, your enemies know you. They can learn your virtues, your vices. They have power over you if they know your name. Power that they can exploit. Having one, and giving it to your enemy, is as foolish as tearing that flag down. It draws unwanted attention and gives no benefit.
But surely lowering the flag had some benefit.
Look at the battle, warrior. Both armies still fight. Your actions would only have warranted you a premature death. Come, and I will show you how to do real good.
The man in white jogged over to where the broken bodies of the soldiers lay, and knelt down one trooper. Azmodan followed, and asked of the man in white, Is this the one you spoke of?
Yes. He has survived.
The eyes of the man opened. They fell on the white-robed man for a moment, trying to focus. Who are you people?
Azmodan started to respond, but was cut off by a hand signal from his companion.
We are your rescuers. I am a Monk of the Order of God. That should be enough for now.
I take it you fight against the Dragon King?
The soldier did not recognize Azmodan, Evidently he had suffered memory loss in the fight. Azmodan saw no reason to set him straight. Very much so, he replied.
As am I, the soldier said, He attacked my village late last spring, and forcibly recruited most of the men in town. It was a small town, located near the Cheswick capital. Im just thankful he didnt massacre us like he did to the capital itself. At these words, Azmodan shuddered. He had fought at the battle for Frankál, and still remembered the horrors of the Akhorim mage-priests. He had barely escaped with his life. The soldier continued. Now, we are basically fighting for a cause we dont believe in for the basic reason of survival. Ive had training in combat before, but this isnt my fight. Do you mind if I stand up?
The monk shook his head. Not at all.
With a grunt, the soldier staggered to his feet and extended his right hand. Im Jack Rasner.
The monk and Azmodan each clasped his hand into his own. I am Azmodan.
Charmed, Jack stated, and turned to the monk. And you are called..?
My friends call me Brother.
That a religious thing?
Yes.
And what do your enemies call you?
I wouldnt know, as were not on speaking terms at the moment. The monk smiled, and the other two could not help but chuckle at the dark humor.
Azmodan turned to the monk. Speaking of enemies, why are you out here? What are you trying to do?
Im here for recruitment. My order has need of some foolhardy souls to do a small task for it. Heavy on danger, and on possible reward. I saw you charge the hill alone, and I chose you right away for the task.
Jack spoke. And what crazy thing have I done?
You defended against him.
Jack stooped down, his hand to his forehead. Wait. This is starting to come together. He turned to the hunter. So youre the one who knocked me out? Dont worry, I didnt care for the others much anyway, and I thank you for relieving me of guard duty. Azmodan smiled, happy that Jack didnt harbor a grudge against him.
He spoke. Monk, you mentioned something about a reward. Shall we discuss that part?
Later. For now, we must leave the battle, and head to the east.
He strode off, leaving Jack and Azmodan little choice but to follow him.
A lit candle, insignificant against the darkness of the tent, perched on the edge of a small table. Its dim glow cast shadows across the hard, angled face of the man sitting at the said table.His jutting chin, his hooked nose, his angled brow all stood out against the shadowed holes in his face. His eye sockets were sunken the orbs within like a man huddled at the back of a cave. His cheeks were hollow, and his lips seemed to be thin lines penciled in. He was not a man valued for physical strength or appearance, but for cutting wit, gleaming intellect, and unbridled ruthlessness.
He was Kal Set Zat, cousin to the current Dragon Lord of the ReAkor and general of the Lords foremost army, currently deep in the territory of the nation of the Cheswick Confederacy. His duty was the eradication or subjugation of all the people in Cheswick. His crimes were uncountable, the most recent being the enslavement of several dozen villages to form a suicide army and the most evil being the slaughter of over three hundred thousand civilians at the Battle of Frankál.
As of now, he had two task groups in action. The first was the suicide squad which was fighting in the hills north of his current position. The second, a group of Akhorim mage-priests sent on a sensitive mission to the north-east. A messenger arrived, his plain clothing clearly signifying him as from the former.
What news do you bring from the front? The voice was a soft, raspy whisper
My lord, the commoners are fighting reasonably well. They know that the other forces will kill them after what happened at Frankál, and since there is little difference between their exact ethnic group and our own, the Cheswick army will not grant them mercy based on their claims of innocence.
But they will die?
Most certainly. They have not the power to withstand the Confederacy for long.
Excellent. They will be the perfect diversion.
Pardon, my lord?
It does not concern you. Leave now. Kal noticed the presence of another man standing outside the tent. And see him in.
The messenger nodded and left. A few words passed between him and the other, and the man walked in. He was clad in the ceremonial garb of a Mage-Priest, the long flowing robe tied at the waist with a sash. The colors of the outfit denoted the rank of the priest, going from light blue, an initiate, to white, the High Mage-Priest. This man wore red, the fourth highest rank. He bowed low as he entered. My lord.
Rise. I have no use for such formalities. The priest came to his feet. Now, give your report.
We know where the book is.
Excellent! When will Tyrniall activate it?
We have not reached it yet, my lord. We learned of its location from two men we captured.
Who were they?
One was a druid, who had lived long in this area and knew many of its secret caverns. The other was... simply extraordinary.
Extraordinary? How so?
He was from Habdü del Arash. The country far to the east, beyond all scope of the ReAkor. The country that had not been seen by the eyes of a Westerner for nearly one thousand years. The country that posed the biggest threat to the Protectorate of the ReAkor. The priest saw that Kal was too stunned to answer, so he continued. He claimed that he was on a mission of evangelism, and of justice. He said he had been preaching to the people here for nearly thirty years, and knew where the book was. Both gave the same location, after enough torture.
What did you do with them?
They are long since dead and burned. We were careful about covering our tracks. Kal nodded for the priest to continue. We will reach the place where the book is kept in seven days. I will be there to lead its capture, alongside Tyrniall.
How will you be able to travel back so quickly?
An Akhorim of my stature need not rely on legs to carry him. The others still require them, which is why it will take so long.
Why can you not recover it now with such speed?
More than our strength will be needed to regain the book. Kal looked into the eyes of the priest and saw such an intense fire that he had no doubt of the truth in the priests words. I must depart now.
Wait, priest. Before you go, what is your name?
I am called Ketlig. Farewell, my lord. With those words and a nod, he faded into the surroundings and disappeared. Kal shuddered. Magi these days. No respect for doors.
Fire. The giver of life, the destroyer of life. It gave humanity the spark to create civilization, and it contains the power to return humanity to the stone age. Fire burned in the hillsides of Frankáls country. It warded off the darkness, or maybe invited it. Three men sat around the fire, which they had started and contained for protection.
Azmodan took the opportunity to size his companions up. The battlefield hadnt offered much of a chance for idle conversation, and he had not gotten a very good bearing. The monk looked to be in his middle twenties, and his bald head was well-tanned. He had fit muscles, but not bulging. His simple white clothes hung snugly on his body, allowing for smooth, fast movement. Jack Rasner wore a leather jerkin, studded with bits of iron, and carried a short sword on his waist. His trousers were a dull red, and looked fairly comfortable. The man had dark brown hair, cut fairly short.
So, monk, Azmodan said, What is this task you have for us?
Oh yes, the errand. He paused, gathering his breath. Thirty years ago, my master arrived in this land. He was searching for new converts to the beliefs of the Arashim.
An Arashim? Why was he recruiting over here, of all places? Jack spurted out.
He was trying to win believers to accomplish a goal he had been given many years before. I take it you know the legend of Hades? Of how he transcended the mortal world to create a home for the dead spirits of men? Azmodan and Jack slowly nodded. That was a tale told to small children the world over. The Arashim had found an artifact that could accomplish such a task.
What? Impossible!
But, Azmodan, it is true. It is a book called the Necronimicon, and it is hidden in these very hills. It can give power to its reader, the power to give life to the dead themselves. My master sought to destroy this book, as it was unholy to the eyes of God. But he could not do it alone. He needed aid. But he could not return to his homeland without the destruction of the book. So he began to train the locals in the ways of his people.
I was one of his students, trained in his tenth year here. I was only six years old at the time, and he taught me everything. Religion. Philosophy. Diplomacy, Combat. But even so, many students were lost. Some died, some dropped out, some were imprisoned by the ReAkor. As of last year, only fifteen of his students, myself included, remained.
And then I was told of his death. My master had a friend, an ancient druid who lived in this country for nearly a century. They had been traveling together when they were attacked by a band of Mage-Priests from the Akhorim. They were taken captive, and tortured to get information out of them. Among that information was the location of the Necronimicon.
The Akhorim had been hunting for that book for a month, as they wanted to use it to hasten the downfall of Cheswick by creating an army of corpses. That goal is certainly within the books reach, and now the book is within their's.
Jack spoke up. So how do we know about this?
Before he died, the druid sent out several messengers in the form of birds. They were told to find my masters students and to tell them the story of their deaths, and to go to the books location and destroy it before the Akhorim could reach it. I was the closest to the cave system where it is hidden, and I thought it prudent to bring help.
So there is no reward, is their?
No. None save the survival of your country. You were at Frankál, Azmodan. Do you truly wish to have that slaughter repeated throughout all of Cheswick? That is what will happen if the Akhorim are not stopped.
No, monk. I do not wish that. I will follow you. And you, Jack?
Ill go to. Someone needs to watch out for you two, right? he asked with a smile.
I suppose so, the monk stated. Lets go.
The next week of travel passed with roughly the normal tale of a group of adventurers, without the action. There was hunting, fishing, and sleeping. Azmodan and Jack learned that they had lived in the same area for a while, and eventually agreed that Samantha was a much fitter beauty queen winner for the last year than Melinda had been. The group fell for the log over a murky swamp trick which invariably ends up with all involved wading chest-deep in muck, but that was quickly remedied by a bath at a nearby farmhouse.
The group spent one night in a posh inn paid for by hauling timber for a couple of hours, and the next in a cave telling stories of battle and ghosts around a small fire. A small spark from said fire nearly set fire to the monks robes. And so they continued, until their goal was reached.
(This message has been edited by moderator (edited 05-09-2002).)
) but just a few nitpicks:
