Prologue

The Warrior Maidens

 

 

The late evening air lay thick and weighted across the mainlands of Ellada. Amidst the heavens the sky grew dark, obscured by a sheet of stark grey clouds proclaiming the inevitability of rain. Across the tilled, well farmed lands of the north so a lone rider ventured.

The cobblestone road was a paved and maintained thoroughfare, its stones set, shiny and moist from the seasonal rains evoked by the lands humid summers. Through the distance the thunderer shook the skies with his might; streams of lightning forked across the sky, a rendition of the Gods supreme power.

A lone rider trekked at horseback upon the main Dragon Lane. Her cloak was the cerulean of Attica, high capital of the free mainland. Her hood was lowered, unveiled plain yet fetching visage.

Her brow was a rich wealth of core length, brunette hair. Such pride and disdainfulness was rare in one so coloured, for brunette locks marked the blue cloaked female as a Dirt-Brow, the least of citizens.

It was believed that those of such colour were sired from the barbarian lands of Epirus or Thrace, their bearers impregnated with heathen children fit for ridiculed; to be shunned and hated amongst those who spoke true Ellada.

Many of the Dirt-Brow class would attempt to destroy their status beneath the edge of the blades or conceal their lowly tones with dyes of differing, more accepted colourations.

Alfe Freeblade, however, wore her colouring with pride and fearlessness. A warrior of the wild it was common for her to bare the brunt and scorn of her fellow citizens. She had been the subject of rejection, outcasting and worse things, only for her pride too grow stronger and more supercilious of her status.

From the realms of the Southron peninsula to the high rise of Ráth Cruachan her name was known, stretched forth across the plains, mountains and valleys as a warrior fierce at arms and possessing a will of steadfast strength and fortitude. This reputation so brought forth respect, regard and fear when whispered, be it from the common tongue or those who bore arms against her.

Alfe softly touched the leather satchel which hung from her side and rested upon her saddle station. Her horse trotted with ease, the gentle clip clop of the animals hooves offering a soothing rhythm to their travels.

Beneath her cloak Alfe wore a cuirass of linothorax. This, of all garb, was the most confusing and unidentifiable of her true origin. Fashioned from many layers of leather, linen and sheets of thin steel, the armour was much lighter than the thick, heavy plates of bronze or iron used by the nation of her cloaks origin. The armour was from the smiths of Lacedaemon: the warrior nation, while her sword, sheathed in black, marked her as Crypteia, an elite survivor of The Rearing.

Slowly, from amidst the drape of the settling evening so the lineation of the road village formed from the shadows. Its gates were broad and cast from sturdy oak bound in iron, though the entrance to the village remained open despite the lateness of the evening. Alfe's brow furrowed, her deep eyes darkening with unease at this unusual situation.

Though the village was a natural rest stop between the East and southerly routes of Ellada, the sheer fact that the village remained unsecured, with the hour growing so late, troubled the female rider.

Her hand tightened upon the pommel of her plain straight-sword cautiously as, with much effort, the warrior maiden guided her mare through the entrance of the village. From a outhouse stationed near the village entrance a lone gate hand stood draped in a night cloak of common grey, head bowed low in respect.

Alfe offered the gate-hand a single silver drachmae. The hand bowed low, pocketing the precious coin into a single, draw string purse. Offering the young warrior a polite nod of the head so did the gate-hand issue a command. A shout of acknowledgement followed trailed by the winding of gears and the strain of wood on stone and earth, as the hands secured the gate.

Alfe swallowed, scented the air. Beads, droplets of rain slowly began to fall, maturing too a heavy deluge. he female warrior pulled her cloak tighter about her, hunched her shoulders protectively around the satchel.

An evening wind swept chill across the eastern thoroughfare, cutting through layers of leather, cotton and armour, sending shard of cold through the woman's veins. Alfe's mount bristled, the warrior maiden offered the horse a slight smile and softly caressed the animal's side. With a cox, no more than a twitch of her thighs, the animal began to trot forth.

Behind the traveller the gate-hand watched as the warrior rode forth. Enveloping himself within the shadows of the village so his true self became known. Allowing his moisten garb to drop from his frame so unveiled was a warrior apparelled in black. A firm coat of ringmail beneath a cuirass of carapace steel were his protection. At his hand gripped in a plain grasp so a fine rapier was held. Ornately fashioned forged from fine steel the sword was a model of perfection befitting its wielder.

Pale of flesh, his hair God-Born gold, so the warrior watched Alfe with cruel blue eyes. From the darkness the black clad warrior observed as Alfe drew her mount to a halt outside the public house of the village.

Stepping down from her saddle station the Freeblade drew her satchel about her. Another crash of thunder chased a rending fork of lightning as she drew in a breath of thick, humid air. It was the contents of the satchel which her enemies sort.

Un-eased, weary by the feeling within her gut, Alfe haled the master of house. Her gaze drifted back across the allies, lanes and shaded depths of the village while the buildings, fashioned from wood and earth bone aligned the walkway.

A rotund, innocent man clad in a stained cotton smock and hoes answered her call, flanked by an stunted, shallow dwarf. The little man offered Alfe a gesture of welcome and words of greeting. Stooping slightly the warrior grasped the slight gentleman's forearm, the simple house-hand standing kindly as the maiden introduced herself and expressed her requirements.

“Can you offer food, shelter and warmth for both myself and my saddle mare?” so questioned Alfe, her tone rich and emphatic with the tone of the south.

The impish tavern keeper smiled, gestured with his tiny hands to the warriors horse. The house-hand giggled innocently. The horse followed the man without a whine of protest. Alfe smiled as she watched her horse led gently towards the stables, stationed to the east of the inn, the simpleton absently stroking the mares mane muttering “pretty horse” over and over as they trudged.

The two, innkeeper and traveller engaged in barter, a price was agreed and Alfe parted with her silver. The dwarf led his latest customer towards the ambiance of the taverns innards. The warrior maiden paused in the doorway, gazed out across the darkness once more.

Rain drummed hard upon the shingled roof of the threshold, the enveloping shade of night lay still, quiet unbroken amidst the village. Alfe breathed deeply, her instincts still a roil as she entered the inn.

 

***

 

Amidst the shadows and shade of the rest stop so the darkness began to shift, solidify, taking upon themselves the wisp of human form. The darkness began to seep, unveiled the frame of a female. A wealth of raven black hair addressed with streaks moonshine silver framed a strong, beauteous visage. The shadow flowed across her form, took the dappled shape of black carapace armour.

The warrior maiden Scath Adlam, supreme Prymark of The Order lifted her elegant hands to her face, relished in the power which surged through her at the art of arcane transport. At her breast was slung a strand of steel cable, decorated with a number of sharp, jagged blades. At the finish of the length of cable so was slung a fine, ornate sword pommel.

The cable clung to Scath's body as intimately as a lover, writhed with the rhythm and essence of draw breath.

Slowly, with a serpentine grace the strand and links shifted. The bladed line slithered, slid across the frame of its bearer until the pommel rested tenderly into her hand. The living line began to retract, the steel shards connecting, collecting into the ornate cross-guard like the union of a puzzle. Finally the tip of the blade took its place at the height of the weapon, so that in the hand of Scath was formed a arcanely forged short sword.

Adlam pressed her lips to the jewelled beautification of the blade in a kiss of intimate relish. The blade seemed to shudder, to hiss in gratitude as the warrior maiden sifted to the edge of the alleyway.

Scath's eyes found the form of her foe, herself turned towards the alley, her boot resting upon the first step into the villages public house. She saw Alfe Freeblade stall in her step. The raven haired maid ushered back into the embrace of darkness, her gaze purposeful and observant.

The Freeblade glanced across the village, sighted nothing of suspicion, Scath's warriors, her enemies cloaked in shadow their aura's suppressed by the High One's augmentations. Scath sighted the acceptance in the visage of her enemy as Alfe relinquished her grip upon her weapon before stepping on into the tavern.

Scath's countenance rested. One by one, within the mouth of each lane and thoroughfare so the members of her force appeared.

Prymark Adlam gestured to her eyes, pointed to the simple figure leading their foes horse to the east of the inn. The warrior maiden saw the salute, the gesture of understanding.

An eddy of shadow enveloped the form of a warrior; Scath watched as the shaded figure stepped towards the stables. A splinter of light proclaimed the draw of a blade. A slight smile entered the fair Prymark's face, knowing of the death dealing she had ordered, itself as natural as breathing.

Scath issued her command. Together so the forces of The Order united, settled into a slow advance upon the inn. The living sword held in the Prymark's grasp shivered, expressed its longing for blood.

“Soon…” Adlam breathed, her free hand caressing the body of the blade, “Very soon.”

2: Fate's Gift

Fates Gift 

 

The ambiance of the great hall of Ursir lifted with the joy and revelry of great feasting. A slight murkiness hung about the air, thick with the fume of pipe smoke, torch fire and roasting pit. The fragrance of fare, meat, fresh baked loaves, roasted vegetables and trimmings moistened the tongue. Refreshments of rich, fruity wines, heavy ales and sweet cordials filled cups, goblets and skins. 

Connla Kincade, a youth, barely a man grown, sat stationed at the core of the high table, his hand recently promised to lady Devorgail Sherer first daughter of Lord and Lady Sherer. 

The two betrothed sat in silent company, hands intertwined together, jaws aching with the ever instant requirement to smile. Lady Devorgail sat straight and tall her back ram rod straight as she beamed, eyes sweeping the halls and nodding whenever a well wisher offered the couple felicitations. Her wed-tie Connla however, through he sat as straight as etiquette commanded, felt the burden of his families decision bear down upon him. 

Connla himself was still a mere youth, a youngling. Though his betrothal was a moment of great pride for his mother and father the young lord couldn't help but feel a sense of hopelessness, an enclosing state of imprisonment slowly settle within him. Connla knew little to nothing of the young woman to which his family had pledged him too, and though they held hands and exchanged glances in public displays of affection, any real affection was not past between them. 

Before the couple the hall was a mass of hearty cheer, rowdy guests and pleasant serving maids. In retaliation, in rebellion against his slowly eroding freedom, Connla allowed his gaze to drift to the fine wench who worked the high table. 

Blessed with a wealth of brunette tresses so the light of flickering flames crown her brow in a circlet of cerulean. The woman carried herself with a flirtatious air. Her frame was small boned, curvy. Young Kincade ravished his gaze upon her, allowed himself this simple, once common, freedom. 

A dark, ominous warning issued behind him chasing away any other gazes of admiration. 

Allowing his eyes to drift Connla sighted who stood beside him. His mother, Lady Emer Kincade stood rigid and firm behind her sons high station, eyes burning with restricted disapproval. The young lord nodded, caressed the crown of his betroths hand with his thumb and turned back to the hall before him. His mother stepped past the raised plinth that had been erected for the two newly promised young people and came to sit beside her husband. Connla's father. 

Connla understood the reasoning behind his mothers warnings. Straying eyes were seen as a great insult amidst the port city of Ursir. Here, a man and woman's eyes were meant from one and one alone. For one who allows their eyes to wander can never be deemed loyal. Connla had almost placed his family in grave danger all for a single moments pleasure. 

Accepting another cup of wine Connla drank deeply, fortifying his courage as the evening deepened. Finally with his final cup of liquid courage Connla rose from his seat, his newly betrothed joining him as he readied to speak. The hall slowly grew quiet, hushed as all sat still awaiting the words of their celebrated couple. 

“I would like to thank,” Connla began gesturing with his laden hand towards the entire hall, his other still entwined with his ladies own. “I would like to offer our deepest gratitudes that so many have come forth to celebrate our union.” 

A chorus of applause sounded from the gathered, many whistled or offered words of praise, Connla offered another laboured smile. Upon offering thanks to the guests and wishing good health too both his family and wed-kin both Connla and Lady Devorgail shared a chaste, tense kiss. A knot tightened within the young man's gut as slowly he led his promised lady across the richly decorated hall before exiting at the grand, far doors. 

When free from eyes and scrutinisation Lady Devorgail, Derval so was her name amongst her circle, let go of her betroths hands. Her husband to be pressed his back against the large, ornate stone frame of the door while Lady Devorgail buried her face in her hands. 

Connla lifted his gaze from the floor, gazed at the young woman who was to be his wife as she shook, trembling with tears. Slowly he stepped forth, touched her shoulders, herself garbed in a fine dress of peach toned silk. Derval lowered her hands looked up at her newly betrothed, her green eyes shaded with fear and dread. 

Softly Connla pressed his lips to her brow in a kiss of true tenderness. 

“You need not fear me.” Connla said gently, his tone filled with strength and kindness. Devorgail gazed towards him face wrought with confusion. 

She swallowed. 

Lady Sherer opened her mouth to speak, closed it and allowed herself to sob openly once more. Kincade took his newly betrothed into his arms. He held her gently, the strength of his embrace forcing away agonise as Lady Sherer gently wept. 

Finally Derval looked up. Taking Connla's hand in hers she led him forth, up towards her sleeping chambers which was guarded by a large, iron bound door. Kincade paused as Devorgail turned back her foot upon the first step of the staircase, confusion evident in her eyes. 

“You do not wish to bed me?” Connla shook his head, took her hands in his and softly caressed the backs of her hands with his thumbs. 

“We must grow more accustom to each-other before we make such a commitment. Sleep well my lady, for a few more nights. I will not force myself upon you.” 

Lady Sherer offered her betrothed her first true smile of the evening. Leaning forward, lips touching Connla's cheek. 

“Thank you.” Lady Devorgail said gently, Connla relinquished his hold upon her and gestured for her  departure. Venturing up towards her chamber, the drape of her dress shifting across the stone stairway, Connla's eyes trailed his departing wed-tie. Her eyes met his once more beyond the turn of the spiralling  tower steps. Lady Devorgail offered the young man a slight nod and vanished from view. 

Connla breathed, feeling the touch of Lady Sherer's kiss upon the skin of his cheek. He was confused, his world a shambles. He needed peace, solitude, a place where he could come to terms with such a heavy engagement. He knew of only one place which offered him such luxuries. 

The citadel of Ursir had grown, stone by stone, from generations of families, conflicts, bloodshed and usurpations. Now, a tall, mighty, fortification, the citadel stood as a grand and commanding superpower amidst the Bay of Agamedes their arm stretching forth even into the Chief Sea. 

It was not to the coast that Connla ventured however, but north, to The Centre its natural grandeur of nature strew with life itself a haven to any seeking peace. 

Kincade always found solace here. The sound of the rivers flow, itself a natural waterway which stretched from the north to the east of Ursir offered its own music as it washed across a bed of purifying stones. The scent of nature, the dusting of apple blossom which sifted from many trees driving away the smog and stench of the city, almost as-though the garden itself were shielded by spells of arcane witchery. 

Here, as was the custom in all great houses, the Centre was a place of peace and self-reflection. 

Connla settled himself at the base of a great redwood tree, its leaves bright and touched with life. Looking deep into the depths of the river beside the tree so Connla observed the many stones and pebbles which formed the riverbed as he began to ponder. 

Moments past with nothing more than the slight summer breeze and the music of nature for company. The young lord grew introverted, attempted to understand the sudden erosion of his freedom that had happened some weeks prior. 

It had all occurred so suddenly. 

The dawning of Connla's nineteenth year, the age of manhood, was no less than a month away; and with the approach of such a time Connla's father Sétanta Kincade had taken up the ceremony of the passing of the colours. 

The house of Kincade was a proud yet recent line. The Lords and sires of Connla's blood line blessed with the high station of the Raven Blessed: Black hair and intense blue eyes. 

Sétanta Kincade, first night and defender of Ursir, called forth his son to his chambers. 

Connla had entered gingerly. 

His father and lady mother had stood together, draped across each of their hands a long swath of clothe resided. Connla understood the meaning of this ritual, itself ancient and immemorial. 

“My son,” Sétanta Kincade had spoke in a voice of solemn pride. “It will soon be the dawning of manhood for you, and as such I and your mother present too you the mantle of House Kincade.” 

Emer Kincade, Dirt-Browed yet beautiful beamed towards Connla as, before his parents, the young man knelt as the black and silver cloak of Kincade was drape across his shoulders. 

The weight and history of the cloak bore down upon Connla like a burden. Attaching the cloak to his person Connla allowed his hand to caress the sable lining of the mantle. His warrior father drew his sword from the scabbard at his waist. It was a fine blade, forged from the finest sword steel and beautified with a large red ruby at the base of the hilt. 

Sétanta Kincade lowered his weapon and presented it, hilt first to his son. Connla swallowed, the sheer meaning behind what his father was offering was intense and frightening. 

Connla gripped the pommel of the blade and rose to his feet. It had been there, with the acceptance that he was now heir to the House of Kincade that his lady mother had informed him of the union that had been his since his birthing- 

A slight disturbance drew Connla away from his reflections. A shaft of clear, brilliant light had formed at the heart of the river drawing a startled look from the young man. 

Standing Connla trekked towards the disturbance. The young lord blinked, squinted, settled his gaze deeper into the depths of the river. 

A single stone rested at the heart of the waterway, alien to any other stone of which it resided. The stone more a crystal than a smooth river rock. 

Curious Kincade began to unclothe. He stepped into the waist high water of the clear river the water cold and chill to the touch. 

A shiver was evoked from this sudden drop in temperature as Connla waded the waist-high water its depths clear to the naked eye. Stepping towards the stone he stood over it, reached, the water the body of the stone too deep to touch without immersing himself deeper. 

Drawing a breath Connla dived beneath the water. He came face on with the stone. It was a crystal, erose and unnatural like a traders jewel. The young lord reached forth, touched the crystal with the tip of a finger. 

The crystal burst into a shattering of light. 

Kincade exhaled a soundless, water choked scream of pain as a surge of energy raced through his whole body. The water rushed back on all sides unveiling an island of stones and giving voice to Kincade's harsh cries. 

Both the light and crystal vanished as suddenly as they had appeared. The arcane restriction upon the water dissipated with the vanishing of the crystal. The water of the river rushed back to fill the once open space enveloping Connla's limp body as he floated flaccidly towards the river bed. 

His body was drained of energy. With willowed arms Connla clawed himself over the river bank, his upper form resting with a terrible effort slightly above the waterline. 

With the last of his strength Kincade coughed up a lungful of water, his last sight of broad leather boots coming towards his form as oblivion overcame him. 

 

*** 

 

The small, simple room of the public house bore the distinct signs of combat. Furniture and fixings lay toppled, battered, broken into shards of wood and stone. Alfe Freeblade knelled upon the floor of the chamber before her attackers, clutching at the wound in her shoulder. 

A deep, vicious gash had pierced her armour, life fluid seeped red as fire, warm against her skin. Shakily, Alfe lifted her head, omitting a sigh of pain as she slowly eyed the woman who stood before her. Her foe Scath Adlam stood furious, her arcane sword stretched from the form of its wielder like a whip, its tip embedded within the shoulder of her foe. 

Fury filled the eyes of the Orders supreme Prymark. Drawing forward, her sword contracting, so did Adlam kick aside her hated enemies fallen weapon, forced Alfe to look into her eyes. 

“Where?” Scath hissed, her tone laced with heated rage. “Where did you send it?” 

Alfe glanced towards her fellow warrior, a look of pained triumph in her eyes; then to the Scath's disgust her foe spat a mouthful of blood and spit into her face. 

Lady Adlam drew back, affronted, outraged. Viciously so she slammed her free fist into Alfe's jaw. The vicious blow knocked the last of the woman’s strength from her form. 

Alfe collapsed in a heap at the feet of her foe. 

“Bring her,” Prymark Scath ordered addressing any number of her fellows who had endured the battle. The great Orc, Vuk Ryback, growled in acknowledgement. In compliance to his Prymark’s orders so the Orc bound the fallen woman's hands stiffly behind her back, the binding wire etching deep, weeping welts within the woman's wrists. Ryback hoisted Alfe onto his shoulder, their fellow, the golden haired Melierax Dragon-King gathering the woman’s weapon in their final motions. Together the three warriors stepped from the room. 

The pulic house had long been reduced to splinters, the foundations the only things not to be completely consumed by the rage of the Order's vicious stroke. The final member of the four, The Youth, eyed his Prymark. With a gesture so they gathered those of importance before stepping from the inn. 

There, waited at veering intervals, were four black stallions. Prymark Scath ordered Alfe tied to the hind quarters of her charger before, as one, the members of the Order followed their Prymark out into the night.