《Savage Errands I - The Sixth Kuinkazner》 Copyright COPYRIGHT This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events, and incidents are the products of the author¡¯s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The World of Elsuon SAVAGE ERRANDS Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. The Sixth Kuinkazner Published by Arbonhale Press Copyright ? 2000-2022 by David Jetr¨¨ All Rights Reserved. Neither this book nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced without permission. eISBN: 978-1-7333206-6-5 Introduction THE UNSACRED AGE is over. The strongest and most ancient of the races, the invincible Vyn Vanir, have received their long-awaited Emperor. Unpinning their ring kingdom from the world, they sailed their great northern continent back into the strange waters of the Sea of Pleats. Left behind as custodians of their legend is the small Island Republic of Arbonhale. Founded by a saint, it has prospered for over seven centuries as a beacon of justice, gentle rule, economic benevolence, exploration, high education, scientific curiosity, and deep moral investigation. Spreading out from this song-raised island, spanning the southern sea, is a loose maritime federation of age-old cities, ports, island states, duchies, and trading nations called the Sabler Commonwealth. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Now a legitimate power, the Sabler Commonwealth has begun challenging the cruel realms surrounding it. Desiring all men in all places to be free, the Sablers have used strategy and economic sanctions to abolish piracy at sea, end slavery on land, and topple tyrants wherever they find them. To these ends, a great standing army, supported by an equally formidable fleet, has been created: the Sabler Order. Heirs to the contracts, obligations, and secrets of the departed Vyn Vanir, the Sablers have crowned their first king, now twenty years into his rule. Discovering a six-thousand-year-old covenant, one ratified by the Vyn Vanir House of Paledragon, the Sablers have entered the western kingdom of Sanzakarth to adjudicate the crowning of a queen. However, a warlord by the name of Kuinkazner opposes the intervention and is marching towards the Sabler forces stationed at the old sea-side fortress of Anzioch to destroy them. This is the setting for Savage Errands. The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare & Strange Auspices (Letter One) 12 Straight & Wise District of the Ten North Quarter Island of Our Lady Republic of Arbonhale His Excellency Lord Aston, Prime Minister of Arbonhale On the fifteenth day of the last month, I was, on account of my good reputation and the quick pen of the Right Honorable Lord Hoel, Master of the Ministry of His Majesty''s Separate Matters [or Affairs], pressed into service on the matter of the young Tristanu¨¦, a lady of our esteemed allies, the House of Yale. On the details of Lady Tristanu¨¦''s arrival in Anzioch and her many interventions on behalf of our brave countrymen so nobly entrenched there, I have submitted a full report to the aforementioned Right Honorable Lord Hoel and his many deputies. I am told redacted records of those events are available within the House of Lords, while unredacted sources, bound to privacy by the living terms of the Paledragon Amendment, remain in the custody of the Ministry of His Majesty''s Separate Matters. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. Given the stirring but sensitive nature of the Sabler victory in Anzioch, not the least of which saw the lawful coronation of Silayujon as the Queen of Sanzakarth and the enfolding of the Western Fortunes into our noble Commonwealth, I have been asked and authorized to provide you, sir, with an ongoing summary ¡ª a sort of traveling journal ¡ª of Lady Tristanu¨¦''s actions and movements subsequent to the Battle of Anzioch, including her ongoing work for the Ministry of His Majesty''s Separate Matters. Pertaining to her secret orders, I regret I may only be able to report on the wrapping of such surprises, but not the content thereof. Unfortunately, my specialty lies in the baser crafts of warfare; nonetheless, I shall invoke the best angels of my mood and manners to account for Ms. Yale''s actions accurately. I pray that you forgive the common hand of an untitled agent of His Majesty. In this matter, I remain¨D Your faithful servant, Baloroy {Entinua: Are there any secret officers from the Ministry of His Majesty¡¯s Separate Matters currently near the Transom? It would be unfortunate if, in the course of my obligations, I was to slit the wrong throats.} The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare & Strange Auspices (Letter Two) 12 Straight & Wise District of the Ten North Quarter Island of Our Lady Republic of Arbonhale His Right Honorable Lord Hoel, Ministry of His Majesty¡¯s Separate Matters; His Right Honorable Lord Aronyear, Ministry of Undeviated Souls; Honorable Resident Minister Wase Longpen, Parasandra, Aman-Hadar, Kimjudeya Tris-TAN-yoo-wey. That¡¯s it. That¡¯s how you say her name: Tristanu¨¦. She is the first daughter of Prince Cenodorn Yale and Taris Blackthorn and the younger twin sister to Prince Tristan II, now one of the Kings of Cavarel. Indeed, some power, some secret grace, slows the days in favor of this strange house. The matriarch of the House of Yale is the enchanting Ryvern (silent n), who, despite being Tristanu¨¦¡¯s grandmother, appears no more than thirty years of age. Cherished by His Majesty, our best Ministers, and the Eastern nobility for her warm soul, charity, and fondness for our Commonwealth, Lady Ryvern Yale deserves the broad affection she receives. Further, it is not a mistake to say that if one did not know the proper kinship between Ryvern and her granddaughter Tristanu¨¦, one could not be shamed for thinking them sisters. However, such longevity and youth greatly complicate things: not all grandmothers are so beautiful. Immortality, or should I say primortality, is very confusing to those social formalities to which so many have grown accustomed. As for Ryvern, she is of the black race of the south; an ebony folk called the Dnnimago. The Sablers, who inherited the tongue and terms of the unconquered Vyn Vanir, regard the great island of their origin as Sanulagr¨¦. The lesser provinces of their archipelago have their names, respective tribes, and slightly varying customs, but all swore fidelity to their kings: the Yaleen. You may have already deduced the Yales claim descent from those ancient island kings. The Dnnimago have waited for millennia for the return of their rulers, and the arrival of the Yales from Royos (wherever that is) may presage a royal reunion between the Commonwealth¡¯s best allies and this old island folk. It is worth mentioning that the Yales refer to themselves as Khytherians, former tenants of Khyther, a ¡°wising-island¡± that moves through the Sea of Pleats. They take no offense at the more popular term for their race: Dnnimago. Since the sailing days of the sea-prowling Rothbards, there have been fables of Sanulagr¨¦: a lush jungle isle of sapphire-blue reefs, savannas, and mountains where great horned apes and jaguars live and run. There, these dark people enjoy their paradise. It is where coffee, ebony, mocha, carob, and cedar are the hues, and the fair flesh of elves and our pale northern skin are unknown. The reports of Sanulagr¨¦, both ancient and modern, paint a pastoral image of topless spear-wielding maidens, mighty kings decked in the dotted skins of great cats, proud tribes, and fiercer ways that would sound strange to northern ears. Still, these Yales give no impression of such brute manners but better ones. Among the Yales, I often feel this Royos of which they speak may be less a place than a time, for though I never feel they speak down to me, I do often feel they are speaking back to me as if I have not kept pace with some secret of which they alone have custody. And though they can speak Khytherian, they prefer Royosian, which has few living speakers, aside from their family ¡ª something I will address later. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. As for Tristanu¨¦, her features rest at the best intersection of her southern ancestry and that enigmatic race from whom the Loring King claims descent. Her eyes are large, her lips plush, her nose straight and narrow as the Roy of Royos (whoever they are, wherever that is) are said to possess. Unlike most of her cousins and aunts who have amber or gold-flecked eyes, Tristanu¨¦¡¯s eyes are bright blue, which I am told is rare among her race. Often, I have looked into them and seen the full strength of whatever mood was driving her at the moment. I have seen joy in abundance and hope many times, but also sadness, grief, and more than once, fear. And anger ¡ª lots of that. Please forgive me if I have luxuriated in describing the beauty of this young and resourceful ally. Being a man of rougher ways, I am rarely invited to comment on pretty things. With such a woman before the senses, would that I had been born a poet. Now to the formidable side of this matter. In my service to the Ministry of His Majesty¡¯s Separate Matters ¡ª here, in secret, let me call it by its more deadly name: The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare and Strange Auspices ¡ª I have learned much about the dangerous man who claims Ryvern Yale as his wife: The Loring King. Prince of Wands. Cenodaxorn, if we dare to say it. Such a man out-dangers even the lost Prince-Ghast, that throne-stealing fiend of old. It is believed the ancient power of the Loring King flows in the veins of his sons and daughters and their sons and daughters after them, including Tristanu¨¦. However, I have seen no evidence in her of that ancient craft, the terrible gift of the Saxor: the Loring Hex. Here I must question whether my employment and that of Hax, to defend Tristanu¨¦ from any kind of harm or class of peril, should not be reinforced with a thousand men. Though I am confident in my skills, the Land of the Pillars is a dangerous realm. Should I fail and Hax fall, what will prevent the Loring King¡¯s revenge on those who killed his granddaughter or those who assigned so small a guardianship for her? Should the Loring King be brought to wrath, I fear the world itself would tremble for it. This is worth considering. The hour has grown late here, and the bells are ringing. Hax and I must return to the lady¡¯s company. I conclude this letter with this final notice: we are traveling to a small Sabler mountain fort on the east side of the Transom at Tiltashan. We will rendezvous with the garrison that guards the Devil¡¯s Backbone and enfold them into our dispossession of the Tharn of Widows from those Warlocks hiding there. In this matter, I remain¨D Your faithful servant, Baloroy {Entinua: Would that Lady Skythorn traveled with us! Pray for our success!} The Sixth Kuinkazner In the 19th, 20th, or 21st year of King Donahue¡¯s reign ¡ª depending on which calendar one used ¡ª an estrangement in the Western Fortunes, now ten years old, had escalated to civil war. A warlord had risen to power by the name of Kuinkazner, and it was to that cold and pitiless name that many strange rumors had come to be nailed. The fast-moving and well-financed Kuinkazner had humbled many of the ancient cities and shrines of northern Sanzakarth. Desert kingdoms seem to breed tyrants ¡ª one kind of desolation begetting another ¡ª and this Kuinkazner was as cruel as any other. He made an open show of those who denied his ancient claims: burning whole towns, crucifying entire families, seizing whatever assets pleased him, executing peaceful priests, burying scholars alive, throwing disabled children into pits of starving hyenas, desecrating temples erected to those better spirits who refused to hear his bloody vows, and enslaving tens of thousands for their unwilling part in his coming kingship. Withstanding him, sequestered in the ancient fortress of Anzioch, was a young girl by the name of Silayujon. However, the current Queen of Anzioch, 22nd of her line, the scheming Guinsiratu, ignored the claims of Silayujon, intending instead to promote her own daughter, Shin Shadane, and come to treaty with Kuinkazner by marriage. And so, Anzioch was a city with two queens: one backed by the lawful Sabler Order and another by murder, malice, and intrigue. Invoking a forgotten covenant, the Sablers captured Anzioch with only five thousand men and held it under the authority of an old but celebrated Vambrasian name: P A L E D R A G O N. The Sabler Commander, the prestigious General Saxallen Duralamayre, a man who had walked the world for eighty-five years and killed for seventy of them, held the city in obedience to King Donahue¡¯s primary wish: Sanzakarth must not fall back into heathenry. The very image of that heathenry was Kuinkazner, commanding a two-hundred-thousand-man army, whose hateful gaze now lay fixed on Anzioch, the great seaside fortress that guarded the southern Sea of Hooks. Fortunately for the Sablers, their best allies included the legendary Blackthorns of the Eastern Fortunes and the House of Yale, which had recently immigrated from the distant skies of Royos. The breadth of the Sabler Commonwealth, with its fair practices, devotion to law, free markets, and broad moral and economic benevolence, was too philosophically precious and commercially prosperous to risk the advance of a rapacious desert-dwelling despot. Investing themselves into the matter, the Blackthorns and the Yales came to Anzioch offering aid, insight, money, and (as the Sablers had hoped) the use of their many strange artifacts. Tristanu¨¦ Azhora Yale was one such ally. She was living on Arbonshire at the time, a small islet off the eastern side of Arbonhale, the island capital of the Sabler Commonwealth. It was purchased twenty years prior when two of her aunts, Allessia and Devon, barely older than her, were gallivanting around the Southern Rhone. It was open to anyone from the Houses and Blackthorn or Yale or any of their many political allies and personal friends. As for Tristanu¨¦, she loved to travel. Whether it was to the far Eastern Fortunes to see her relatives, those benevolent rulers of Nymiria, the Blackthorns, or west to San Sab¨¦ to visit her cousins there, she loved the breadth and diversity of the civilized world. Nonetheless, whenever Tristanu¨¦ went home, she went to Arbonshire. After having spent almost five months in Anzioch ¡ª in no small way irritating General Saxallaen Duralamayre with her many daring but unsanctioned midnight raids against Kuinkazner¡¯s flanks and less-defended fortifications, which, when timed right, included the old religious capital of Anzukar ¡ª she was delighted to be over one hundred-and-thirty leagues away from even one grain of sand and the general¡¯s scowls. In those weeks, she and her younger sister Tristana returned to their favorite pastime, pearl-diving nude into the clear blue warm waters around Arbonshire. When the Ministry of the Ungentlemanly Warfare and Strange Auspices learned Tristanu¨¦ planned to return to Anzioch, their senior officer, Lord Hoel, proposed a co-venture: allowing a small number of Sabler explorers and spies to travel with her. Hoel would have made this petition to Tristanu¨¦¡¯s successful cousin Orland, but she could not be found. Or, to Tristanu¨¦¡¯s other cousin, the devout, rational, and beaming Kazandria, but a proposal of marriage ¡ª from a king no less ¡ª had seized her political and romantic sails like a gale-force crosswind. Even Hoel, whose fiercest detractors knew he possessed an utterly fearless soul and a mind for diabolically clever subterfuge, dared not come between a young girl and her royal vows. Still, he tried. Kazandria¡¯s response, always in her pretty cursive, contained one name: Tristanu¨¦. So Hoel played the one hand Kazandria offered him, unaware whether he should raise or fold, whether he was playing an ace or a jack. Tristanu¨¦ had distinguished herself alongside Kazandria and Prince Ezrabeth Paledragon, but she was the wild card: the one most likely to color outside the lines a little too boldly. Kazandria obeyed Scripture and Ezrabeth her Amendments, but there was no such inspired writing that curbed the impulses of Tristanu¨¦ Azhora Yale. As for the officers Hoel requested, they were less soldiers than scientists and could offer little assistance to their Sabler brothers in Anzioch. However, Kimjudeya was of deep interest to the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare and Strange Auspices. Just east of Sanzakarth, Kimjudeya was situated across the Axle of Mior, or ¡®the Transom¡¯ as the Sablers called it: a colossal arch of rock stretching over the entrance to the Sea of Hooks for thirty-three leagues. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Others called it the Devil¡¯s Backbone. Though presented professionally and dispassionately, Tristanu¨¦ nevertheless politely declined Hoel¡¯s proposal. Standing flat-footed in the young woman¡¯s rejection, the powerful Lord Hoel, First Minister of the clandestine Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare and Strange Auspices, fell to scheming. Again. During her previous months at Anzioch, Tristanu¨¦ somehow became the bearer of title and deed to an old mountain fortress in Kimjudeya called the Tharn of Widows. The legalities of this acquisition remained dubious but owing to the great successes Tristanu¨¦ and her family had won for the Sablers at Anzioch, Hoel decided not to look too closely into this curious land grab. Fortunately, Hoel was presented with another lure. The Ministry of Remote Ages had delivered a fragment of a northern prophecy flagged for relevance by a rather insightful scribe. As for the prophecy itself, it belonged to a Bezelite oracle named Adderyke, now ten centuries old. All good politicians recognize few things coax the anxious soul like a well-timed prophecy. So Hoel decided if he could not win Tristanu¨¦ over on the merits of a co-venture or blackmail her over forged documents, he would play to her vanity ¡ª a foible all too common among the young and beautiful. Adderyke¡¯s prophecy, in part, read: A dangerous one comes! Beautiful like a smooth cedar in winter: leafless, lordless. She is coveted by men; women desire her. Wing and stone! She battles from above. She is wrapped in the sky ¡ª a crown of sky, eyes of sky. She judges from a hard terrace. Under her, the night has grown wings! Voncubr¨¦ja rises! Despite being warned that prophecies were little more than riddles dipped in molasses, sticky to the touch, and impossible to unknot, Tristanu¨¦ nonetheless believed those old words forespoke her, or at least her growing popularity, though she preferred the word fame. In other words: she took the bait. And though vanity is never a virtue, her swagger was not entirely unfounded. The granddaughter of the Loring King, she considered herself heir to his assets and legend. Like all the Yales who were graced and glamorized by her grandfather¡¯s most extraordinary power ¡ª the Loring Hex ¡ª she believed herself a deadly contestant in any match. Like her father, her complexion was lighter than carob but darker than caramel, a hue the Sablers cited as cedar (though they sometimes spelled in sidar). This hue was semochan in the old Saarkan language and jharkaram¨¦ in the Kimjudeyan tongue. All this proving something as simple as color can elude consensus. And being Khytherian, her figure was entirely glabrous like the rest of her family or ¡®leafless¡¯ as the Saarkans put it: possessing no hair even down to her most intimate seam. And ¡®without a lord,¡¯ she reasoned, one would be ¡®lordless¡¯; unmarried ¡ª which she was. Being ¡®coveted by men¡¯ and ¡®desired by women¡¯ only meant she had impressed both sexes with equal effect ¡ª a feat she considered something of a triumph. Regarding ¡®wing and stone,¡¯ she believed those words spoke of her great raptor and her Pier of Ventures. ¡®Wrapped in the sky ¡ª a crown of sky, eyes of sky¡¯ surely that was the light azure Ecclesiarch armor she had recently acquired, along with her azure hair and eyes. Unlike the rest of the children and grandchildren of Ryvern Yale, who were born with white, ivory, or cream-colored hair with bright amber eyes, Tristanu¨¦¡¯s hair shined blue like a proud summer sky, as did her eyes. The blue complimented her skin with a paralyzing effect. The ¡®hard terrace¡¯ must, she believed, refer to the Pier of Ventures. The last line, ¡®Under her, the night has grown wings!¡¯ could only mean her giant falcon, Mr. Midnight, who, as his name implied, was black as night with a beak lacquered in brass. Regarding Voncubr¨¦ja (pronounced vawn-koo-BREY-ah), neither the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare and Strange Auspices nor the Ministry of Remote Ages could make sense of the name other than to lean on some incomplete and questionable southern scrolls that claimed it belonged to a vanished goddess-queen of Kimjudeya. Captivated by all those words, ones that were simultaneously old and near, prevision that straddled the ages, Tristanu¨¦ agreed to Hoel¡¯s band of merry experts. They were, in order:
  1. Sir Anderclay - a titled mechanical engineer and naturalist from the Ministry of Distinctive Differences. His brother Andershaw was an accomplished astronomer in the Republic of Brune.
  2. Elshender of Tiel - a historian and archaeologist from the Ministry of Remote Ages.
  3. Syrolucis of Owlen - an older aristocratic arbiter from the weird Ministry of Undeviated Souls.
  4. Baloroy and Hax - two armed escorts, or ¡®sure-men¡¯ from the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare and Strange Auspices. Tristanu¨¦ guessed they were assassins.
Further distinguishing her trip were two kings and a prophetess named Lady Skythorn, a young saint who overthrew nations with carols and moved mountains into the sea with songs. The darling of the Sabler Order, she had personally taken up the obligation of destroying the Warlocks of Eoln, demon-taming sorcerers supporting Kuinkazner¡¯s conquests in Sanzakarth with terrifying sorcery. Accompanying her was the handsome young King Lancider II, ally to a distant Saarkan king who sought to repay Lady Skythorn for the beneficence of her late mother. The second King was the enigmatic and imposing Wyngard, an itinerant beast-taming royal, towering, wild in look, who had taken an unconfessed interest in Tristanu¨¦. In addition to all these exalted souls, two others came along: a pubescent Sanzakarth native named Surandot (formerly Jaquessa), who served as her page, and her black-haired, blue-eyed bodyguard Jocasta Valan. Concerning Danger Concerning danger, it is as natural an instinct as it is an absolute one that mothers protect their children. And, despite their reciprocating love for their mothers, young girls, winding their way through their adolescence and unlocking the catalog of powers and persuasions they possess and boys do not, often try those things to which their mothers would surely protest. Thus, it is under the covers at night, at sleepovers, or during extended stays away from home that young women truly come into their own, much like boys. Tristanu¨¦¡¯s mother, Taris, would have grounded her for a dozen summers had she known the battles, intrigues, and duels she had committed on behalf of the Sablers of Anzioch. And indeed, for the new ones she was already planning on her return. The children of the Loring King were fit and fearless, and their children after them. Fortunately, none of Tristanu¨¦¡¯s letters gave any hint at such misadventures. And there were plenty of letters as her extended family included three brothers, one sister, six aunts, two uncles, and over a dozen cousins ranging from just a little older than her to newborns. As for Tristanu¨¦ herself, the last few years revealed she had not inherited her mother¡¯s slim Nymirian figure but her grandmother¡¯s proud Khytherian stature. No longer tall and gangly with blue hair, boyish shoulders, oversized eyes, and lips, Tristanu¨¦ was now a beautiful young woman ¡ª a Khytherian. Her hair, once an embarrassment, had grown so thick and luxurious as to be coveted by those who previously teased her on account of it. Against the background of her cousins¡¯ uniformly amber eyes, her own bright blue eyes were now distinct and envied. Her body had caught up to her bones, now wrapped in a lean concord of muscle that, owing to her family¡¯s strict regimen of calisthenics, weight training, and sparring, permitted her athleticism to extol her femininity instead of obfuscating it. Adding to her sensual profits, her breasts outpaced the brassieres she bought to reduce their proud sways until they had bloomed to the bold size and shape of her grandmother¡¯s, who, somehow having kept her young look, appeared no more than thirty years of age. Tristanu¨¦¡¯s full Khytherian lips, Nymirian nose, large blue eyes, cheeks, chin ¡ª all now set in a configuration so astonishing that few men, or women, could look at her without captivation. All except her younger sister Tristana, who only saw her sister¡¯s exquisite beauty as proof of her own inevitable allure, mere years away. Though prepared, if not anxious to leave, Tristanu¨¦ waited a few days until her new armor was ready. Given her enthusiasm on the matter, one could imagine she would have halted the war entirely until she was appropriately dressed to return to it. It was not the vanity of a young debutant demanding the latest fashion before gracing a gala ¡ª though Tristanu¨¦ could have been accused of that in previous years. No, this armor was the work of Sephragelo, the most celebrated armorer on Arbonhale. Eccentric and irascible as all good artists should be, Sephragelo had been the personal armorer to Andruin of Saarke, the Foundress of the Sabler Order, now translated to glory. Put simply, aside from magic, there was no workman in the world who could make better armor and better-looking armor than Sephragelo. The few women who counted him their private armor-maker swore as much by the name of Sephragelo in the matters of crusading and comfort as priests did by the name of Proya in all their holy affairs. Everything from the belts to the boots, plates to pleats, grommets and buckles, and every lace and strap were meticulously positioned for maximum efficiency, durability, and comfort. Working alone, Sephragelo personally measured each client with his secret measuring system. Regarding those softer requirements unique to the fairer sex, no balance was better than his own hand, which, being intimate but inoffensive and certainly never raised without consent, infallibly assessed those appeals every woman¡¯s body silently made on her behalf. It was said the work of Sephragelo was the only armor no one ever wanted to take off. His clients, being overwhelmingly women, were quick to repeal those small reproaches they cast against his method when, having worn his military fashions for the first time, could not conceive of anything more divinely conformed to their figures and regarding dangerous deeds and actions, far exceeding every demand they had made of it. So too did Tristanu¨¦ submit to this master¡¯s touch. Her reward for it was armor so comfortable, supportive, elastic, and right in all the right places, she could scarce imagine how a man could so perfectly comprehend a gender to which he was not born. A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Her armor honored the style of Kazmiranda, the extolled First Queen of the Ecclesiarchs. Being neither men nor front-line infantry but sky-riders who soared over battles on giant falcons, ancient Ecclesiarchs maximized their dexterity by minimizing their heft by wearing barely enough armor to protect them from lucky archers. Adopting pliable, featherweight plates made from the lacquered cartilage of giant starfish, they remained unconfined by the mash of heavy metal plates and unrestricted in their ground movements when they landed. Accordingly, history regarded the Ecclesiarchs as ¡®swift and terrifying airborne auxiliaries¡¯ who could escape engagements as fast as they entered them. The classic style of their armor was distinct, consisting of thigh-high leather boots, laced, and latched up the back, with tall block heels that caught the stirrups well. The boots integrated greaves to protect the shins, poleyns (or knee cops) to protect the knees, and small cuisses to protect the thighs. At their hips, they wore front-laced lambions (a tight high-cut brief) under short drapes of leather, rings, scales, or hinged metal patterns that resembled flexible steel doilies. They often wore a metal plate belt latched in the back where their lesser arms hung. For some Ecclesiarchs, the lambion was separate from their corselet, while others wore a singular maillot, fitted by darts and pleats. Given the long history of women warriors among the Vyn Vanir ¡ª sword-wives as they were known ¡ª the corselet, a woman¡¯s undergarment, had been reimagined as an outer garment, even armor. Depending on the style, it was called a corsel, corselon, corselyn, or maidencourse. Sephragelo had chosen a high-cut lambion and a bold strapless top known as the corselon. Ecclesiarchs preferred to wear one battle sleeve held in place by a diagonal belt or two. Tristanu¨¦¡¯s sleeve incorporated a leather-wrapped pauldron to protect the shoulder, a matching rerebrace for the upper arm, a couter (or elbow cop) to protect the elbow, vambrace, or forearm guard, and a gauntlet¡ªall slimmed and fitted for comfort and motion. At the shoulder, Ecclesiarchs often displayed large feathers from their best raptors, cartouches indicating their order, or aiguillettes that revealed their rank, class, and kills¡ªall left off in Tristanu¨¦¡¯s case. As their battle style was unconventional, so was their partial battle dress, one that left no ambiguity in the minds of their foes that they were fighting the fittest and fiercest of women. And being women, they relied neither on their strength nor their bulk, but¡ª from the air: diving, master archery, and javelin throwing. From the ground: slashing speed, swift movements, innovative spearplay, precision sword thrusts, slips, feints, and no small measure of deception. The only article that gave Tristanu¨¦ pause was the lambion ¡ª the thin elastic brief worn under the drapes. Narrow in front, it was far less in back and left only the short back drape to conceal her backside. Worrying that her mother would upbraid her over the armor¡¯s risqu¨¦ hems, she donned a leather poncho that matched the armor in style, cut, and color and, more importantly, concealed it. No battle horn is as loud or dangerous for a young girl as her mother''s angry voice calling her by every name she was dedicated to the world. Having grown up on the legends of Tzyar Paal, that Avenger of old, Tristanu¨¦ had expressly asked for black armor, but Sephragelo ignored her (as he did everyone) and cast the whole work in varying shades of azure: glossy, matte, satin, textured, plain. The suit was accented by black and silver and enchased with runes, especially around the edges of the plates. Tristanu¨¦ was initially furious over the change until a chorus of compliments convinced her that Sephragelo, the legendary artist, knew far more about art and beautiful women than she did. Being Khytherian, Tristanu¨¦¡¯s sense of smell and taste were extreme, far more than the average person. For this reason, Khytherians were nearly as famed as Saarkans or Sang Vanir for their ability to track men, stalk monsters, and pace animals across great distances. Fresh from the workshop, Tristanu¨¦ could smell nothing but the fresh steel, leather, new oil, and lacquer: it was hers and no one else. Now dressed for victory, she was ready to return to Anzioch and the great struggle there. But there was a problem, and it was an unexpected one: the armor was so pretty she did not want to see so much as a scratch on it. Unfortunately, lots of things get scratched in battle. Even the soul. The False Lornlariat In the sixth month, on the 33rd day of the month, young Tristanu¨¦ Yale returned to Anzioch. She traveled by the Pier of Ventures, a remarkable artifact that belonged to her cousin, Orland, but since her disappearance, it had been entrusted to Tristanu¨¦. Controlled by the Prism of Orlandra, a beveled crystal ring resembling a thick chakram, the Pier of Ventures, a sizeable five-sided stone platform with the power of flight, traversed the great distance between Arbonhale and Anzioch in mere hours to the astonishment of all. That evening, the sentries of Anzioch cheered when the Pier of Ventures, so distinct and recognizable, came into view, eventually gliding over the walls silently before descending to its regular landing zone. Each group member disembarked casually as the Sablers received them without suspicion. Such was the reputation and trust the men placed in Tristanu¨¦, from the foot soldiers up to their captains, even General Duralamayre, who watched the reception from his command tower. Tristanu¨¦¡¯s welcome, though warm and genuine, could not compete with the loud greeting the Sablers gave Lady Skythorn, whom they regarded as much a song-prophet and warrior as her legendary mother, the founder of the Sabler Commonwealth. Also, the Sablers counted it all good fortune that Lornlariat ¡ª to them the sharpest sword in the world, that celebrated Sword of Saints ¡ª was nearby. Despite being fiercely competitive, Tristanu¨¦ did not mind coming in second to so adored a saint, one most explicitly sponsored by powers not found in the mundane world. Days into her visit, she wore Sephragelo¡¯s masterwork with great assurance, secretly enjoying the boost in height the boots imparted. She even liked the sound of her heels as they clacked against the polished tiles of Ashen Garde, the Paledragon-controlled sanctuary around which Anzioch had been built ages ago. She was no longer that tall, gangly girl on Arbonshire. No, she was a woman, with a woman¡¯s body, and a woman¡¯s beauty, and now a woman¡¯s walk. And for the first time, she was learning just how much power lay in these two possessions ¡ª the clay and the curve of it ¡ª and what power did not: dying men, barely older than her, calling for their mothers as they bled out, did not care how pretty or poised she had become. While strolling along the city walls, passing by the banging smiths, walking past archers repairing their bows, or patrolling the blackened northern fields where enemy siege engines had caught fire and burned to the ground days before, whenever a whip of wind or blast from the bellows fluttered one drape or the other, or both, she reflexively and palmed them down. But now, less than a week later, she paid those breezes little mind. She knew some of the soldiers, far from home and longing for the kisses of their women and the hugs of their children, stole glances as she passed. The Sabler Order was a good thing, founded by a benevolent prophet and prospered by monks and clerics into the open society it was today. So, in the middle of a war, along the high battered walls of Anzioch, or the buckled terrain surrounding it, if the men took to prizing her as something warm and beautiful against all that cold, if one woman reminded them of their own, if a bit of lust helped them heal ¡ª well, she did not mind. Respecting their morale, she did not flaunt herself, but neither did she flee from her brand-new self-confidence, one she could tell the Sablers regarded as a debut. Emboldened, she was committed to a new list of actions. First, she met Samwand of Plume, an overweight young chronicler attached to the Sabler army. On loan from the Ministry of Remote Ages, he was familiar with the history of Sanzakarth, the city of Anzioch, and Ashen Garde. A rosy-cheeked legalist, he was intimately acquainted with the Paledragon Amendment, that old covenant that sanctioned the Sablers¡¯ taking of the city. Since Tristanu¨¦ planned to return to Kimjudeya, she inquired if Samwand knew of any officers who were experts in mystichora (the Vyn Vanir term for magical creatures), particularly those found in deserts. It turned out a man named Starwood, a former associate of Tristanu¨¦¡¯s aunt, Allessia, was in Anzioch tallying the sightings of Sudar-Calbion: a colossal hammer-headed sand serpent scouts had seen sliding through the great dunes of the western desert known as the Dry Silence. Thus, she committed the name Starwood to memory. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. Tristanu¨¦ was not a thief. Nonetheless, she was not above a little larceny when (in her reasoning) the fog of war allowed bypassing the Sablers¡¯ overly strict ban on looting. She found Samwand in the middle of taking inventory of the dozens of illegal reproductions of the famous witchsilver sword Lornlariat. The personal weapon of the Sabler Queen for over a thousand years, now wielded by the fast-moving song-prophet, Lady Skythorn, Lornlariat, and her two sisters, Drae Selen¨¨ and Aslanjuris, held a privileged place in the lore and law of the Sablers and the Vyn Vanir before them. All three blades had been imparted with perpetual warrants granting them sweeping legal powers to forgive debts, seize property, pardon prisoners, conscript servants, and strike without liability before the law. Historically, such warrants were sparingly granted to famous swords until they broke in battle: a divine sign their purpose had ended. However, no one realized the three sister blades were indestructible. Consequently, anyone wielding the vorpal Lornlariat could murder whomever they wanted and not be brought to trial for it, at least not in the Sabler Commonwealth. It was a terrifying form of social and martial carte blanche, now regarded as the ¡°six-thousand-year mistake.¡± Fortunately, the holy hands in which the blades found themselves did not take advantage of these permissions but battled from conscience rather than colder motives. For this reason, reproductions of the swords were illegal as they could unlawfully annul, seize, and strike down men and women under powerful pretenses. While Samwand moved back and forth in his chamber, checking his books and ledgers, Tristanu¨¦ picked the most convincing counterfeit to the silvery Lornlariat and concealed it up in her poncho. Shouting fast farewells, she skipped out before he detected the theft. Later, at the end of the hour, Samwand found he was one long sword short. After a recount, he simply corrected the ledger down by one. As for Tristanu¨¦, she had plans for the false Lornlariat in her newly acquired mountain refuge in Kimjudeya. After she returned to her quarters to stash the replica under her mattress, word shot through the camp that a Sanzakarth prince named Jansekad¨¦ had arrived ahead of thirty thousand men from the south. Reports claimed Lady Skythorn, months ago his prisoner, had won her freedom by healing his dying wife and reforming the twisted limbs of his crippled son with those sacred songs which had forged her legend. Stunned by the dual miracles Lady Skythorn performed, the hard political bias of the southern prince was shattered when his son, seconds before simple-minded and lame, straightened out before his eyes, stood, and ran to him. Against such overwhelming grace, even the most rigid political loyalties disintegrate. When he had regained himself after many tears, he begged how he could repay such staggering and unmerited mercy, going so far as to offer the better half of his kingdom in gratitude. Being a slave to holy intentions, Lady Skythorn demanded the necks of the Rovian priests who had secretly cursed the son to control the father. Realizing their manipulations, the prince acceded to the young prophetess¡¯ request. Freeing her and returning her mother¡¯s sword (the real Lornlariat) to her, the deceitful priests of Rove Kisaya were arrested and dragged to the courtyard. In the same place they had humiliated, tortured, and condemned innocent people for decades in mock trials, Lady Skythorn turned their system back upon them, executing one-hundred-and-twenty men, one after the other, until no disciple of that mad lying angel Rove Kisaya remained. In their deaths, no bones were found that could stop the astral edge of Lornlariat, which passed through their stiff necks like wheat. Tristanu¨¦¡¯s purpose for the replica of Lady Skythorn¡¯s famous blade was far less grandiose. Since the reputation of Lady Skythorn was spreading so fast throughout Sanzakarth, it occurred to Tristanu¨¦ that she might be able to bluff her way out of some minor confrontations if future rebels believed Lornlariat was in her possession. Or better, possessed by her bodyguard, Jocasta Valan, who Tristanu¨¦ thought was just a few wardrobe choices and one haircut away from resembling the celebrated prophetess. On this, Tristanu¨¦ wondered if impersonating a saint was all that much of a sin. Undoubtedly, the powers of heaven, those flawless Nuon Jion, would consider her good intentions when weighing her schemes on their holy scales. General Duralamayre Enlists Tristanu茅 On or around this time, returning spies warned General Duralamayre that Kuinkazner, or one of his soulish vessels, had escaped from the religious capital of Anzukar. Based on current maps, scouts believed the only place Kuinkazner and his men could rest and refresh their horses was Khel Marjon, a well-watered oasis currently beyond the reach of the Sablers. The first name that came to the General was Orland, the daughter of Camino Yale, the governess of San Sab¨¦. Orland had distinguished herself many times, but alas, she had disappeared recently and was feared captured or killed. Yet, there were no ransom demands for her return nor boasts of her death from Kuinkazner¡¯s operatives. When Saxallen inquired of the Yales, they gave no impression of alarm or worry but regarded her absence as a ¡°needful thing.¡± The second name the General considered was Kazandria, daughter of Allessia. If he was being honest, she was his preferred choice for secret missions. Kazandria walked in the footsteps of Lady Skythorn, a prophetess whose mighty works were reshaping the philosophical landscape of Sanzakarth and the Sabler Commonwealth as well: Proya was moving. There was a saying among his soldiers, one the general had heard many times. It was a rebuttal to another popular expression: Do prophets cast shadows? The rebuttal, now only months in the minting, argued: Prophets do cast shadows, and the shadow of Lady Skythorn is Kazandria. This statement was far from a slight. It was, philosophically speaking, the highest praise, for it suggested that Kazandria walked the holy path of Lady Skythorn so faithfully that she might as well be the saint¡¯s shadow. Yale princes ¡ª Camedelon and his younger brother Cenodorn ¡ª had fathered Tristanu¨¦ and her cousin Kazandria. Nevertheless, they had wildly different looks. Where Tristanu¨¦ possessed a classic Khytherian complexion (save for her blue hair and blue eyes), Kazandria¡¯s irrepressible Saarkan ¡ª that is, semi-elven ¡ª ancestry on her mother¡¯s side blanched her island hues. Her skin was warm like honey, her hair a fiery fusible red, a shining profusion of steely wishes: like fury cast into a wave. In her gentler moods, her malachite eyes were bright and believing, in war, more so. It was well known the Nuon Jion had rewarded Kazandria for her faithfulness, for she possessed the wonder-working White Hand: a piece of paradise in her palm. Adorned in the black Syperion of Edessa, she worked out Proya¡¯s will in the world by the Ender of Princes: Drae Selen¨¨. Those were the noticeable differences, but there were subtle ones too. Kazandria played the long game, the patience of men and nations, the weave of kingdoms yet to come. Tristanu¨¦, not so much. Kazandria¡¯s devotion had moved her into the company of wizards, including one by the name of Avataranthis. Something as sweet and sweeping as romance was on the table: the proposition of a king. And nothing, not even a war, could squeeze into the compressed space between the virgin Kazandria and the queen-sized dream she held in her heart. So, entrusting Anzioch¡¯s defense to her cousin, Kazandria left the city. When Duralamayre reflected on Tristanu¨¦¡¯s former victories, he could not, despite her youth, deny her cunning and resourcefulness. So, just as Hoel had before him, the general summoned the wild Tristanu¨¦ for his savage errand. When she arrived, the General almost did not recognize her. Sephragelo¡¯s armor cast the young black beauty in an entirely surer light. Though she walked in her approval far more proudly than ever before, she recognized his authority and honored it. She did this by the Sign of Shartochan, which he returned. Despite all she had won for him, the General could not shake the fact she was, like her cousins Orland and Kazandria, not even twenty years of age. Other famous families introduced their eligible sons and daughters at soirees and political banquets and dances; the Yales preferred battles in which to make their debuts. He had seen her as beautiful, but a girl, for months. But now, standing not ten feet from him, was another creature entirely. He recognized the Ecclesiarch style of her armor at once. Though quick to remind Tristanu¨¦ of his obligations ¡ª the life of every man under his command ¡ª the General nevertheless gave her much leeway, for, despite her youth, she stood a legally appointed ambassador from the House of Yale. Moreover, not being a Sabler, she was not now, nor ever was, truly under his direct command. Nonetheless, she knew better than to challenge a seasoned commander in so precarious a position as the General was commanded to win. It required little skill to recognize the five thousand Sablers entrenched at Anzioch (plus the five thousand Sablers under Bishop Malabranca) totaled ten thousand men. This was one-twentieth the size of Kuinkazner¡¯s two-hundred-thousand-man army that was presently heading south to greet them with something other than kisses. After pleasantries, the general revealed intelligence suggesting Kuinkanzer, or one of his murdering soul-vessels, was near Khel Marjon. The General knew this lusting Kuinkazner was beyond his reach but not Tristanu¨¦¡¯s. ¡°I make no request of you on this matter, young Lady Yale. You are not mine to command,¡± the general said. He was tall, lean, and commanding. His thinning hair had been white for decades, yet he remained handsome. He spoke with perfect pronunciation, emphasizing all the right syllables, before and after all the right pauses, to make whatever point was presently on his lips inescapably clear. He appeared an affable but disciplined grandfather, if not a bit stern. Military decorum prevented him from those softer words and kindlier gestures he wanted to show his young guest. ¡°These reports are unconfirmed, so I will not request that you go,¡± he said, raising his chin. ¡°But neither do I request that you stay.¡± A sly smile curled the right edge of Tristanu¨¦¡¯s lips. She pulled the Prism of Orlandra off her hip and held it to her mouth. ¡°Kuinkazner,¡± she said. In the glass ring, seven golden slivers appeared: one for each of the seven soul-vessels of Kuinkazner. Five were here, in Anzioch, captured in the previous months. Two remained free. His vast army in the north surrounded one soul-vessel (wrath). The last soul-vessel (lust) was thirty leagues northwest of Anzioch, in or near Khel Marjon. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. She gave the general a nod. He returned it. The young woman turned and left. Smiling, the general calmly poured himself a cup of cinnamon brandy, stirred in some nutmeg and sugar, and sipped his last cup of the evening. ? ? ? Tristanu¨¦ entered Ashen Garde as quietly as she could in her armor, realizing her hard block heels were not ideal for sneaking across hard mirrored surfaces. Still, she softened her walk as much as possible until she arrived at a tremendous vaulted chamber with twelve high and mighty gates in a circle. Slung diagonally across her back was her strange blue scabbard, the Sinister Minister. She carried a black recurved horse bow far shorter than the Sabler longbows guarding Anzioch. The grip was stylishly molded to an archer¡¯s hand while the upper and lower limbs were faintly ribbed, like horns, but smoothing away before reaching their respective nocks. Her arrows were also black, with eagle tail feathers for fletching and shiny three-bladed broadheads on the killing end. Mingled with these were some enemy arrows fired from Kuinkazner¡¯s archers collected after every attack. Choosing the seventh gate, she touched the bright gem in the center of the door. The jewel recessed, triggering outer steel radials of runes and glyphs which turned in their order, some clockwise, others counterclockwise, until every pin clicked into place, not loudly nor stridently, but more like the music of chimes. The doors opened with a loud sigh. Wafting out at once was the warm and wet balm of a primeval mist ¡ª a Raima forest. Walking into the undergrowth, she came to a moss-carpeted meadow pierced by a great spur of silver-streaked rock. Whistling loudly, she searched the weeping canopy until Mr. Midnight burst through the upper crowns, wings spread across thirty feet, black as doom, and lighted down in front of her. An emirisupal or ¡°titan falcon,¡± Mr. Midnight was a vypern. Believed extinct for a thousand years, they were recently discovered in a strange, gated plane within Ashen Garde. The very one in which she was standing. When Tristanu¨¦ realized vyperns had survived the hunts of the Rovian Kings, the dream she had as a child of women warriors riding brightly colored vyperns high above the clouds came rushing up from the past. When she originally entered Ashen Garde¡¯s strange aviary, Mr. Midnight nearly killed her. Still, her royal guest, King Wyngard, tamed the colossal raptor with some secret persuasion for which his ancestors were rightly revered. Whether it was a spell or not, she could not tell, but the flesh-eating vyperns of Ashen Garde acknowledged Wyngard¡¯s ancient authority and acceded to his primal but unspoken appeal. There was something in this man, this wandering Wyngard, that every creature ¡ª dogs, horses, vyperns ¡ª recognized even if they could only prove their fealty by not eating him. Or his friends, which now included Tristanu¨¦. She wanted to ride Mr. Midnight that night, but Wyngard waved her off that notion. ¡°It will be a few days, princess,¡± he told her. ¡°These are proud creatures. They do not give their loyalty quickly. But have faith: I am here to negotiate for you,¡± he said, running his hand over the creature¡¯s giant beak. ¡°I pray you do not return for three days,¡± he added. Tristanu¨¦ began to speak¡ª ¡°Three days,¡± he repeated. And so Tristanu¨¦ left Ashen Garde. For those three days, she prepared for her trip to Kimjudeya. She would have spent time in the hospital aiding in the recovery of wounded Sablers, but they were in far better hands than hers: Lady Skythorn, the healing daughter of Andruin, had come to them. So on the last day, she returned to the aviary where Wyngard greeted her. ¡°Be at peace, Princess Yale; I have sold them on your quality,¡± he said with easy confidence, setting down a strange saddle and tack, neither of which were for horses. Whistling loudly, Wyngard summoned Mr. Midnight. High above leaves burst away from their branches as Mr. Midnight spiraled down to the pair. Throwing his wings out, he landed ahead of the strange king and the ebony princess. In something of a mystical formality, Wyngard presented Tristanu¨¦ to the great plumed sky-hunter, who accepted her on the king¡¯s behalf. Better than any pony, this mighty falcon, whom Tristanu¨¦ called Mr. Midnight for his raven-black hue, was a legend, ten centuries dead, that had suddenly come to life. That night, after hours of instruction and admiration, a young woman, in name a Yale, in image an Ecclesiarch, took to the skies over Anzioch for the first time in a thousand years. Never had Tristanu¨¦ Azhora Yale felt so unconditionally free. That long night, spent among the clouds, with only the stars for witnesses, remained one of her most treasured and invulnerable memories. Having returned to Anzioch, Ashen Garde, and her beautiful Mr. Midnight, he impressed her as much as before. She knew falcons ate other birds such as pigeons, game birds, starlings, waxwings, waterfowl, small geese, and other small creatures, but also bats, grasshoppers, crickets, other insects, mice, rodents, and even fish. Mr. Midnight, however, was a vypern: his diet consisted of virtually every other living thing: dogs, goats, rams, sheep, horses, lions, tigers, boar, elk, moose, bison, camels, giraffes, apes, giant boas, seals, sharks, dolphins, and even men. Legend told of vyperns felling small dragons and hunting manticores. Such claims were not easily dismissed when one realized Mr. Midnight¡¯s talons could pierce through the thickest hide or easily punch through plate armor. His bite could snap the spine of a rhinoceros, and his beak could strip a hundred pounds of hot muscle from the bone with an undemanding twist of its neck. For these most dangerous facts, Tristanu¨¦ was grateful for Wyngard¡¯s intervention, for the young woman would scarcely be a morsel for the colossal raptor should its mood ever turn against her. When Mr. Midnight lowered his head, Tristanu¨¦ laid her forehead against his polished beak, her fingers softly tracing the Vyn Vanir runes carved in shallow lines along its edge. After a time, she stepped back and tied her long blue hair into a ponytail with a black leather thong. She looked back to the vypern saddle and then to Mr. Midnight. ¡°Time to hunt,¡± she said. Baloroy & Hax Hours later, after countless rounds of Nine Maryns, Fivestones, Jackals Six-Dance, trulls, tarocks, and a little cartomancy, Baloroy threw open the door to the mead hall and swaggered out into the night. Hax, as always, dutifully followed. His head raised high, Baloroy chuckled as he thumbed through a score of Sabler banknotes: the night¡¯s winnings. He would have also had a dozen excellent swords, but waging one¡¯s weapons in war was forbidden. In his other hand, he held a tankard of Ghost Rain Rum from Poor Gables, that ever-rebelling port fifty leagues due east of his current obligation. Gulping down the last drink, he set the tankard on a weapons crate as he passed it. Unlike the vast majority of other men who enjoyed the elegance and sophistication of a good pipe, Baloroy preferred its far less reputable cousin, a rolled bundle of dried tobacco leaves, perfectly fermented, called a sagharot, or cigar. It was a popular choice for men like Baloroy, who found themselves working for the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare and Strange Auspices as ¡®rough captains¡¯ where their irregular service mitigated their various brig sentences, excessive debts, or other penalties. Or, in Hax¡¯s case, simply because he could find nothing better to do. As the cigar was foreign to the Island of Arbonhale, it had become a staple of well-traveled men: Ambassadors, on the one hand, assassins, and soldiers of fortune on the other. It was so ubiquitous among the quiet killing class that it had become an unspoken means of identifying operators within that cruel trade. Among those brands he had sampled, he preferred Tremaloro from the southernmost kingdom of Morgandy. As for Baloroy, he imposed himself equally by presence as by personality. He was a tall, burly, boisterous man with dark eyes, olive skin, and an unkempt goatee. He was at heart a festive man with a great booming laugh that came quickly and infected all who heard it. He wore a dark bandana on his head, an earring in his left ear (for luck, after the manner of the Awenda, a clannish people who lived on a spear of land between two great rivers in Kimjudeya), and layers of leather armor collected from a dozen campaigns across a dozen frontiers. He wore a thickly layered leather pauldron over his right shoulder, and it was sewn directly into his jacket and had long since faded from its colors. Ever deployed, his great sword belt was crowded: sword, dagger, another dagger, coin purse, a small book, a metal drinking mug, spare D-rings, a loop of keys, a half-dozen pouches with double snap closures, and other articles. He was also distinguished by his rather large gloves, buckled around the wrist, which appeared to be his favorite part of his attire. He was rarely seen without them. Hax¡¯s look, however, was entirely singular. Where Baloroy¡¯s build and belongings abled him to stand his ground against all dangers, Hax¡¯s were intended for taking ground, for movement. He had a lean and athletic build with excellent proportions. His sword belt had few things on it, for where Baloroy brought most of his effects with him, Hax was content to find them wherever he went. Thus, he traveled featherlight. His hair was short, well set, the color of hay, and combed straight back. He had a good face, always set in grim determination, either toward solving those tasks before him or thinking back on that singular defeat that had cost him an eye and kept him silent for over a decade. That first loss, his left eye, was covered by a simple black eyepatch. His leather wardrobe mainly consisted of dark colors, except his coat, which had a dull bluish-gray hint. Looking past the slashes and tears of his attire, one noticed its quality: he was once a wealthy man. Stopping by one of the Sablers¡¯ many open yard stoves, Baloroy dropped a coin in the cook¡¯s money box and took a fresh seasoned chicken leg from the grill. Halfway through it, he turned to that section of the yard where the Pier of Ventures regularly rested, but it was not there. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. ¡°Huh,¡± Baloroy said, taking a last tear at the chicken leg. ¡°Is it just me, old boy, or is something missing?¡± When he turned to see if the strange terrace had been relocated within the high walls of Anzioch, he was nearly stabbed by the bill of a swordfish carried by an old gray mariner across his back. ¡°Oh, sorry, sir!¡± the man said, stepping around him. Baloroy touched the bill, then wiggled it, chuckling, ¡°Killed by a broadbill. Well, nothing on land can kill me. Why not let the sea have her chance!¡± As the man continued his way, Baloroy gestured to the empty lot. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t happen to know where that went, would you?¡± ¡°That ole venture? Aye, off to war it went without so much as a whisper. That lovely Yale child raised away on it¡ªthe blue-haired one! Took her friends with her, she did. And those birds. A most volitant stone if ever there was one.¡± Unaware of what volitant meant, Baloroy looked over to Hax, who gestured to the sky. ¡°Ah, yes, volitant. Of course.¡± Sniffing once, Baloroy asked, ¡°She didn¡¯t happen to say where she was going, did she?¡± ¡°No, sir, can¡¯t say she did. No sooner had she spoken with the Old Eastern than she stole off. Talk is, she¡¯s off to land that mad butcher, another seventh of bloody Ole Kuin.¡± The man laughed, ¡°My money is on the girl!¡± Shrugging into the fish, the man walked off to the kitchens. ¡°Mark my words!¡± he shouted. ¡°In time, they¡¯ll call this whole mess the Maidens War!¡± ¡°The Old Eastern, eh?¡± Baloroy said, repeating the colloquial name for their commander, General Duralamayre, who had been born in the Eastern Fortunes. Throwing away the chicken leg, Baloroy approached one of the night watches¡¯ writing desks. Pulling out a page from a leather portfolio, he tapped it, saying, ¡°To pen, Hax, we must write something clever to exonerate ourselves from this predicament: this recurring shame to which she keeps abandoning us.¡± Hax sat down, found a quill, and placed an inkwell on the desk. Ready, he waited on Baloroy. ¡°To, uh,¡± Baloroy puffed on his cigar, saying, ¡°whoever it must, more likely than not, eventually worry¡ªthat¡¯s stupid. Scratch that. Let us see: Sirs, that blue-haired jackrabbit, is¡ªwhat? She is, by her own hand, nowhere to be found. I am not saying she¡¯s dead, but most likely¡ªno, scratch that¡ªnew sentence. My esteemed lords, Tristanu¨¦ has disappeared again like¡ªwhat¡¯s faster? A black buck or a rock dove?¡± Baloroy asked loudly to everyone near him. He reached out and caught a passing Sabler footsoldier and repeated the question. ¡°Couldn¡¯t say. But a cheetah, why, that fast lad can run down bad news, which sounds like what you¡¯re writing,¡± the lancer said before turning back to his duty. ¡°What¡¯s a cheetah?¡± Baloroy mumbled. ¡°Anyway, um, all that. So on and so forth,¡± he rambled. ¡°Your most dependable, incorrupt, and undefeated servant, Baloroy.¡± Hax scribbled as Baloroy smoked his cigar. On finishing the report, Hax sprinkled some fine powder to dry it. Then, blowing on it, he handed it to Baloroy, who read it. ¡°Hax, old boy, you are a perfect liar: ever plausible as all good poets should be,¡± Baloroy grinned. ¡°Yes, you have added weight to light.¡± He read a little more. ¡°Discomfiture? What¡¯s that mean? Who cares? Discomfiture, I like it. Excellent, Hax. Excellent.¡± Hax, as was his way, said nothing. However, he reached over and slipped out a banknote from Baloroy¡¯s wad. Baloroy looked down at his winnings, now one bill short. Typically, a fight would ensue after such effrontery, but this was Hax, who, if nothing else, was his friend. ¡°Yes! By god, why not!¡± Baloroy laughed, ¡°A writer is worth his wages! You have a velvet hand, my friend!¡± With that, the two men went off in search of other diversions. The Seven Kuinkazners Kuinkazner¡¯s bid to win Sanzakarth was entirely due to two factions who surreptitiously aided him but would have abandoned him at once had either of them discovered the other. The first group was the mysterious Reeves of Shalamar, foreign imperialists who underwrote Kuinkazner¡¯s war machine with gold smuggled through the country¡¯s far western ports facing the Sea of Shalamar. The second group was a cabal of sadistic sorcerers who terrorized southern Sanzakarth under the name of the Warlocks of Eoln. Ainuox the Demonosopher, a ruthless demon-catcher whose atrocities made Kuinkazner¡¯s injustices look mild in comparison, led them. Other Warlocks were known: Sulomanix the Usher, the Memory of Rites, Shoon Sykanubalor, Helanuock (also known as Glass Helane or the Glasswright), Orcusa the Curse-Wright, and Spindleknot. The Warlocks cared nothing for gold or precious jewels as such baubles meant little to the truly malevolent. No, they offered Kuinkazner something all those coins could never buy: the blackest and fiercest cast of forbidden magic. The Warlocks put terrible depth-dwelling creatures under Kuinkazner¡¯s command, and the nexus of that command was the ancient religious capital of Anzukar, sometimes spelled Ansuqar. One of Kuinkazer¡¯s soul-vessels, the one that enclosed his lust, presided from Anzukar, defended by a formidable inner circle of knights, assassins, and lower-ranking sorcerers. Yes, that lecherous sliver of Kuinkazner was safe in Anzukar, far from the Sabler regiments encamped at Anzioch. Still, he was not safe from the highly resourceful Blackthorns, Yales, and Paledragons who formed their redoubtable inner circle within the political hems of the Paledragon Amendment. They had proved this more than once by reaching out and striking Anzukar when all its bureaucrats, believing themselves safe, roared in their revels. Such boldness put the officers in Anzukar on their heels, but from such ambushes, they could recover. However, when the report came that Kuinkazner¡¯s supreme military terror, the hell strong and unconquerable Saintless, had been defeated, the entirety of Kuinkazner¡¯s political momentum lurched to a stop. As outer battalions and brigades fell away from their master¡¯s goal, Kuinkazner defected from himself: the soul-vessels that contained his lust and his wrath were permanently disaffected from each other. No longer bound to his angrier twin, the Kuinkazner who had so faithfully held Anzukar abandoned it. This Kuinkazer fled into the western desert with a swift coterie of guards, leaving his officers to administer the capital in his absence. Several nights later, having evaded Sand Hoven looting along the edges of the war, they found rest in Khel Marjon. In that little-known oasis of spring water, figs, Ghafs, and date palms, Kuinkazner and his cohorts genuinely believed themselves safe for the night. Tomorrow they would press on to more remote western sanctuaries, ones Kuinkazner was sure were not on any Sabler map. He reasoned that he would be forever free in a few more days, having vanished within that vast Dry Silence where only the cunning survived. Khel Marjon was distinguished from the desolation by a great jutting prow of white stone. According to local legend, a prophet had split the stone with a song. Since then, there flowed from that fissure the fresh waters of Khel Marjon¡ªthe ¡°Prophet¡¯s bath.¡± These waters had flowed for over six thousand years, an inexhaustible reprieve from the hot killing sands surrounding it. The oasis comprised a small but deep lake, the excess of which poured lazily over a small stone dam, barely the height of a man, where it snaked off into the desert for forty leagues. Ruins surrounded the oasis: toppled ramparts, stone arches standing off by themselves, unfinished bastions, and other evidence of old occupations and defeats. The only useful structures that remained were a stone bridge over a narrow pinch in the lake and a slender tower near the spring itself. Kuinkazner had been promised a safe night¡¯s sleep at Khel Marjon by an old companion and former raider who went by the peculiar name ¡®Blackjaw¡¯ or ¡®the Blackjaw.¡¯ However, when Kuinkazner arrived, he was told Blackjaw was away on a night raid and would return three days hence. Kuinkazner trusted Blackjaw as much as anyone with Blackjaw¡¯s reputation should be trusted: they had tried to kill each other at least once in the past. And though Kuinkazner could not bring himself to believe Blackjaw would betray him to the Sablers, an order they both opposed, the absence of his old friend disquieted him. Unwilling to take a chance, Kuinkazner invoked the memory of his friend¡¯s hospitality until Blackjaw¡¯s officers agreed to let him and his men spend the night in a five-story structure that had once served as a bailiff¡¯s tower. Situated in the middle of the bridge, it was wider than the bridge, which bulged around its sides in a narrow walkway. Stone guardhouses and iron gates defended both sides of the bridge. Secondary gates, also iron, were erected about twenty feet from both sides of the tower. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. It was to this edifice that Kuinkazner entrusted himself and his officers. After ordering that they not be disturbed until dawn, not even for the company of those beauties that belonged to Blackjaw¡¯s exceptional harem, Kuinkazner passed out some gold to the bridge guards: a reward heightening their alertness and loyalty. There was no cause for celebration¡ªat least not yet. For Kuinkazner, the night was to pass with modest drink and common distractions, for he knew the resourcefulness of those who sought him. Secretly, however, he fantasized about the young dancers he had denied himself and his men. After divesting his great outer maroon cloak, only his matching leather and black breastplate remained, as did his daggers at his waist. As he settled in for the evening, he laid his scimitar across his lap as his officers ate, played the lute, and spoke of escape. It is a long-standing opinion¡ªnow a proverb in many places¡ªthat a man''s soul is as much the architect of his face as his father is. By this rule, one sees a friend¡¯s face when reading his letters, recognizes the work of his brush upon the canvas, or hears those notes he orders through the clarion. A man may have his father¡¯s jaw or his mother¡¯s eyes, but his soul is his own as heaven never recycles its patents. So strong is this stamp that it is hard to fool someone overly fond or familiar with it, though forgers try. Those who met Kuinkazner for the first time could not reconcile his voice and manners with his face. Though they dared not say it, Kuinkazner appeared more like a man at a masquerade playing his part from behind a disguise. And that was not far from the truth, though sorcery had provided him seven identical masks of flesh and not of porcelain or velvet. The spell that divided the warlord into seven bodies, occupied at different times and locations, was now years into effect. It was an enchantment, yes, but an old and imperfect one. Indeed, the ordination that determined all men should be themselves and not someone else was rubbing the outlaw magic threadbare: Destiny having her say. Consequently, no matter where he was, he gave the itching impression of a man caught wearing someone else¡¯s clothes. He frequently fumbled, often in small ways that alarmed no one. His soul and nine decades of being himself still believed him so tall with such-and-such a stride and reach, all now entirely different from the body he had invaded. And though well into his darting possession of seven innocent men, he remained unwelcomed within their clay, an alien within their warm estates. Indeed, their bones, their blood, and their muscles rebelled beat after beat, breath after breath, and stretch after stretch against the eminent domain of a strange conqueror who had recast their flesh as colonies by a dark and imperial craft. The men he had abducted and violated were septuplets, being seven handsome men. But now, the spell that captured them was ebbing, and errors were forming. The original magic enabled Kuinkazner¡¯s mind to shuttle among his seven vessels as needed: warring here, battling there, relaxing, politicking, throwing banquets. When in one body, the other six slept according to a strict schedule, one sustained by rites. Loyalists surrounded those other comatose bodies, their preservation attended by chanting clerics wielding spices and gauze while local governors curated the warlord¡¯s regional ambitions. But as the spell decayed, its primary parameter buckled. To everyone¡¯s worry, all seven of Kuinkazner¡¯s vessels woke one day simultaneously, six being unscheduled because the strange power that held his soul together as it moved among its seven endpoints inverted, resulting in a sudden sevenfold schism: There were now seven Kuinkazners. Since the warlord¡¯s virtues were too atrophied to serve as a measure, the spell split along those muscular vices common to all men: wrath, greed, sloth, gluttony, lust, pride, and envy. Within a fortnight, each Kuinkazner manifested a singular deadly sin, excluding all other moods. Now stranded within themselves, when all seven Kuinkazners received word that their ¡°other selves¡± had awakened, there were a few quivering weeks of cooperation-by-correspondence among them. Alas, vices are vices. In little time, each Kuinkazner became suspicious of the ¡°impostors¡± that looked just like him in all those important far-off places. A sort of mania ensued, with each blaming the other six. In an irony that reversed the entire purpose of the enchantment, the warlord Kuinkazner was bitterly divorced from himself sevenfold. This dissension was direct, irreversible, and worsening. Only two of Kuinkazner¡¯s soulish vessels had eluded capture by the Sablers. They were those that signaled his lust and his wrath, the former at Anzukar and the latter marching south to Anzioch, respectively. The seven victims of Kuinkazner¡¯s plot were septuplets. They had a singular look, and it was a good one. They were young and handsome, tall, broad-shouldered with brown eyes and thick black hair¡ªat least they were in the beginning. Unfortunately, in the months after the spell¡¯s failure, each body was coarsened by the unrestrained vice that now dominated it. The body of Kuinkazner¡¯s wrath was now scarred and burned and limped from many battles, while his gluttony had so fattened its vessel that none could properly bathe him. The warlord¡¯s sloth was wasting away at a coastal palace while his lust was reeling from disease, even the slow madding creep of syphilis. His greed worsened to avarice: hoarding gold, jewels, and treasures, all of which he counted over and over in never-ending mumbling audits. Each vessel was racked and ruined apace. Those clerics and officers who tried to rescue the warlord from his fetishes he executed and replaced as regularly as they complained. The Attack on Khel Marjon On a dune overlooking the southern perimeter of Khel Marjon was Balyard, the oldest of seven sons and a sheyef, or captain, who was strolling the outer sands with two men. They wore black steel conical helmets, beautifully fluted, wrapped in cream turbans. Black aventails sloped down to their shoulders where broad clasps fastened cream cloaks to their black scale mail. The warm night winds had picked up in the last hour, billowing their cloaks and swinging the dozens of black tassels that dangled from their saddles, blankets, and reins. The perimeter pennants flapped as they passed them. They wore black sleeves of layered leather plates and cream gloves. At their waists, they wore several belts over matching cream sashes. Below they wore black trousers and boots under cream battle skirts. Those colors, black and cream, belonged to the Bayari, a regional tribe who currently counted the Prophet¡¯s Bath among their treasures. Though not Bayari, the Blackjaw was a good friend to them. So far from the Sablers, no one expected action against Kuinkazner this night. Inshu, the lead guard, was the farthest out, standing on the shoulder of a high dune. The sheyef yelled to him, asking what he could see. As the young man signaled silently, the captain heard the short shrill punch of a needle bodkin through metal¡ªpang! Reining his horse around, he saw Dargo, the rear guard some thirty paces behind, fall dead from his saddle, the glint of an arrow sticking out of the top of his helmet. ¡°Inshu, the horn! The horn!¡± the captain commanded over his shoulder. ¡°Call the watch!¡± Pang! Drawing his scimitar, the captain jerked his horse around to see the lead guard gasp, slouch, and fall off his horse. Inshu rolled down the windward side of the dune, but his horse, a blond sorrel, slipped when the brink shifted beneath it and tumbled down the slip face. Reining his horse to the right, then back to the left, the captain could spy no archers. Then a shadow, a rush of wind¡ª The captain looked up just as Mr. Midnight crashed down on him and his steed. He attempted to leap from his saddle, but the collision completed his action for him, hurling him some ten feet away. His horse snorted violently on its side, kicking wildly, trying to stand, until eight piercing talons, each twice as large as a sickle, wrenched a terrible sound from it. As the captain scrambled away, Mr. Midnight bit down on the horse¡¯s neck at its crest, right in the middle of its mane. There was a loud crack like a thick oak branch snapping under a blanket, and the stallion spasmed and then fell limp in a spray of blood. Sliding off the slim saddle strapped at the vypern¡¯s neck, Tristanu¨¦ landed, horse bow in hand. As her quarry ran, she drew, notched, and released her third arrow as quickly and calmly as one would pluck a harp. The needle bodkin pierced Balyard¡¯s left thigh back to front. He stumbled and fell but stood back up on his right leg, jumping forward. ¡°Kenyut! Kenyut!¡± (¡°Alarm! Alarm!¡±) he yelled, seemingly to no one. Her fourth arrow hit him just below the right shoulder, piercing between the scales of his armor. Thrown forward, he landed near Inshu¡¯s spear. Stabbing it into the sand, he climbed up to his feet, but when he drew back to throw it, another arrow broke through his armor into his heart. He sank to his knees, his mail jangling, as the spear slipped out of his hand. Looking around, Tristanu¨¦ calmly walked to him, notching a sixth arrow. With the last of his strength, the captain pulled out his dagger, cursing in his tribe¡¯s tongue, that is, until he saw his young and exotic killer. As he faded from rage, Tristanu¨¦ pushed him over with her foot. He fell back into the sand, snapping off the shaft in his shoulder with a wince. ¡°The snarl of Kuinkazner,¡± she said, standing over the captain, aiming at his eye, ¡°has become an echo¡­ and you with it!¡± No sooner had she executed the captain than the forward guard, having rebounded from death, moaned and struggled to his feet. Notching the seventh needle bodkin, Tristanu¨¦ whistled back to Mr. Midnight, who was dining on warm horse flesh. Tristanu¨¦ nonchalantly drew the arrow back and killed the groaning guard with a trick shot without so much as a glance. She was careful to use those arrows belonging to Kuinkazner¡¯s bowmen, creating the impression these watchmen died at the hands of deserters or brigands and not a clever Khytherian archer. Despite her age, these were not the first men she had killed on behalf of the Sablers, her dear friends, or herself. Is there a city, a nation, a world where cruelty passes over the young? The innocent? Even babes at the breast? Tristanu¨¦ understood evil was real and that good must withstand it not only where one finds it but also when one finds it, and ¡°lo, the years of an avenger count not against justice.¡± The Loring King ensured all his children and their children knew this. The Prince of Wands had no desire to turn his heirs (or anyone else¡¯s) into killers, but his unwillingness to have them be victims was absolute. Thus, he trained all the souls of the House of Yale from youth to defend themselves and others. Once combined with their natural athleticism, creativity, and ambition, their martial skills were formidable. Notching her eighth arrow, she ran up the long windward slope of the nearest dune and peeked over the crest to Khel Marjon, some five furlongs away. Well into the midnight hours, the oasis was quiet except for the mad flutter of flags and uneven singing. Far below, she saw Inshu¡¯s horse ambling around. Removing her arrow from the drawstring, she rolled it through her fingers before slipping it into her hip quiver. Returning to Mr. Midnight, she took the Prism of Orlandra from her belt as the breezes sighed between her thighs, raising goosebumps. Activating the crystal, she looked up to the overcast sky as the Pier of Ventures descended through the clouds, lower and lower until it settled not twenty feet from her, silent as a shadow. Atop it was her Nymirian bodyguard Jocasta Valan and her plucky page Surandot, concealed under soldierly Sanzakarth cloaks. Unfortunately, Jocasta, only ever acquainted with horses, did not enjoy being off the ground. And though she was not afraid of heights, something about being suspended by forces akin to magic on a five-sided flying marble deck did not comport with her otherwise well-grounded convictions. To Tristanu¨¦¡¯s surprise, Surandot, her pale vypern Nonchalor, Jocasta, and the surface of the Pier were beaded with light rain. Arid for millennia, the provinces of Anzioch, Thal Hazon, and Anzukar¡ªindeed all Sanzakarth¡ªwere now being lashed by thunderstorms caused by the eruption of Vash-Kardan Q¡¯zaru¡ªthe ¡®Mount of Kezra,¡¯ a volcano believed inactive. That is, until six months ago when it unequivocally proved the reverse. Altering the local weather and intermixing with the moisture from the Sea of Hooks, the southern provinces of the Western Fortunes were enjoying the legend of rain. After a moment, when Tristanu¨¦ determined the weather was not bad enough to thwart their attack, she instructed Surandot to remain on the Pier of Ventures. Enthusiastic as all good servants are, Surandot was disappointed as she had hoped to distinguish herself in battle before her mistress. However, Tristanu¨¦ knew the young girl was inexperienced; she would not dare risk her Surandot for a Kuinkazner. Out of this came Tristanu¨¦''s command for Surandot and Nonchalor to stay with the Pier of Ventures. As the Pier levitated into the sky, Tristanu¨¦ and Jocasta set out to reconnoiter the oasis. As they approached the southern gate, they saw the carapaces of giant sand ticks, each the size of huts, propped up by spears. Moments later, four Bayari watchmen dragged a beaten, bleeding, babbling convict outside the city arch. Estranged from empathy and ignoring their captive¡¯s pleas, they unexcitedly slit his throat. Bantering among themselves, they sawed off the man¡¯s right hand and nailed it to a nearby beam among a dozen other rotting penalties. Black vultures, familiar with the brutal rhythms of the refuge, were already waiting for the night¡¯s casualties. Disguising themselves in local robes and cowls, Tristanu¨¦ and Jocasta wandered towards the bridge, ignored by the few sentries they met. Passing clusters of men singing songs, gaming with dice, telling fortunes, and drinking toasts to their ancestors as half-clad belly dancers entertained them, Tristanu¨¦ and Jocasta deduced a ground assault would be too complicated. Confirming Kuinkazner had retired to the bailiff¡¯s tower for the night and deeming the guards too close, their gates too sturdy, and their dogs too many to overcome swiftly and decisively, Tristanu¨¦ and Jocasta revised their plan. After whispering back and forth, they parted. Tristanu¨¦ headed back into the dunes to find Mr. Midnight while Jocasta moved through the shadows to the far side of the oasis, where she entered a thin minaret. Once beyond the main courses, near some palms, Tristanu¨¦ unfastened her headdress, a thinly tasseled scarf or shemagh, and whipped her hair free. She did not notice, however, that she was removing her tribal garb in front of a man concealed within the shadow of a large pack tent. As for the man, Jandaqor was dressed in the black and cream of the Bayari and sat eating a fig and drinking mey, a local wine. His look was not entirely gentle, for his black eyes, hooked nose, frequent scowls, and swarthy complexion imparted a sternness to even his blankest look. He sat there, snacking quietly, waiting for the very patrol Tristanu¨¦ had killed to return. At first, he mistook her for a slender page or moon squire, boys who often brought food and drink to the guards between patrols. However, as she fought with her thin black robe, which hovered in the wind, his opinion began to shift. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°Fen, bayat (Say, boy)!¡± he yelled to Tristanu¨¦ in the local tongue, ¡°Het Dargoa entor (Has Dargo returned)?¡± On hearing his strong voice, Tristanu¨¦ froze. Just then, her bisht glided off the three-inch prongs on her pauldron that had snagged it. When her drapes also flapped out of place, Jandaqor found his assumptions suddenly overturned, for there was the bare backside not of a boy but a girl. A dagger of blue, the rear plunge of her high-cut lambion, separated her tight and well-rounded cheeks. Her every tuck and sweep¡ªher small waist, the curve of her hips, the swell of her bust as she turned to him¡ªquickly revealed the true gender of one stranger to another. Atop her eye-catching form, what he had at first mistaken as a frayed blue turban, was, in fact, her wild wind-swimming hair. Seeing no squire before him, Jandaqor stood. As her drapes jounced and jingled, keeping time with rowing palms above her, Jandaqor dragged his eyes over her figure. He could see no room under her high-cut hems for those warm outer organs that so strictly differentiated the rebellious sex of boys and no room within her deep corset for anything other than herself. Suddenly cautious, he took a step forward. ¡°Who are you?¡± he asked, this time in Urdu, a popular caravan tongue. Surveying her odd half-armor, he wondered if she was a wealthy merchant¡¯s daughter. Her dark skin was not out of place here in Khel Marjon, but all those blues perplexed him, being far from the local choice. He was familiar with all the neighboring tribes, allies and enemies alike: she resembled none of them, neither in manner nor marks. As she reached over and picked up her bow and quiver from the sand, the echo of a conversation days old flitted across Jandaqor¡¯s mind. When the Blackjaw''s men had first agreed to conceal Kuinkazner for a night, there was some secondary talk of an assassin. Yes, a woman with hair like topaz. Jandaqor put out his gloved hand, commanding, ¡°Come here, girl.¡± Her reply was a whip shot: the flight of a fast-drawn arrow. Surprised, Jandaqor countered, hurling a dagger in return. Rescued by his reflexes, her arrow pierced the slope of his black aventail without effect. As for his dagger, it brushed her cheek like a lover¡¯s hand, snipping her bow string before tumbling off in the dark where the sand swallowed it. ¡°It must be you! That mad desert witch I¡¯ve heard talk of,¡± Jandaqor whispered. ¡°...with hair like topaz.¡± Still holding her bow, Tristanu¨¦ scanned for other sentries, but Jandaqor snapped his fingers loudly, demanding she focus on him. ¡°That¡¯s right, mulo. I am the dangerous one here. Do not worry; I never share my glory,¡± Jandaqor said, leering. ¡°Or my bed. Abrazor be praised! Your black merchandise descends from the sky. But if your moods are not for the man Kuinkazner, then they are against him. I see now! Yes, you¡¯re one of those holy Sablers.¡± As he spoke, he drew his slim scimitar. The blade was lacquered black and decorated with elaborate gold cursive near the curled brass crossguard. ¡°It is the fate of the prettiest flowers to be plucked. I think I¡¯ll humble you and keep you for myself.¡± She feigned rage and lunged at him, but it was a trick. Instead, she broke and ran up the sands toward Mr. Midnight. She would have easily outpaced him if they raced on anything other than sand, but her block heels sank too deep. He kept up at first, then closed on her among ruins where he swung at her shoulder. The sparking blow knocked her forward, but she turned her stumble into a somersault. He grabbed for her hair but came away with her back drape instead. As she rolled up to her feet, her front drape, also yanked free of its press studs, fluttered away¡ªanother plaything for the wind. She looked at the first score on her pauldron, furious her new armor had been marred on its first night of service. Scowling at Jandaqor, she threw down her bow and quiver and, reaching over her shoulder, drew the Sinister Minister. ¡°Bells and whistles by moonlight! What a lovely impression you make,¡± he mocked, dangling her drape like a prize. ¡°Hail the Horned One! You¡¯re as young as the first yesterday!¡± he said, lingering on the tuck of her bright, thin lambion, now revealed. ¡°Praise be to Abrazor! I¡¯ve prayed my whole life for a virgin like you. Kisaya¡¯s hoof! You¡¯re tight as tree bark!¡± Unfazed by his praise, if not bored by it, Tristanu¨¦ gave him a haughty look. Swiping the air with the Sinister Minister, she swept away even the echoes of his flattery. So rebuffed, Jandaqor¡¯s look twisted into a sneer. ¡°You¡¯ll regret that¡ª¡± Tristanu¨¦ kicked sand in his face, followed by a leaping wild slash. She came on quicker than he expected and would have drawn blood were it not for his longer blade. Her speed put him on the back foot, where he found himself defending against a dozen furious swings. Figuring out her footwork, he confidently caught her pauldron and flipped her over his shoulder, slinging a high arc of sand. He expected that to stun her, but when she kicked him in the face, it proved her style was far more improvisational than his. Her foot snapped his head back no sooner than she twisted and swept his feet out from under him. To his surprise, the girl mounted him, pinned his sword hand under her boot, and punched him in the face with her spiked metal gauntlet. He threw a counterpunch, but it went wide. Unchallenged, she proceeded to smash half his teeth out of his mouth. Jandaqor panicked as she slipped his dagger from his sash, but as she drew back to slit his throat another guard tackled her. Rolling away some distance, Tristanu¨¦ and the second night watchman wrestled to their feet near a short stone wall. He was far stronger than she was, but her way of slipping, twisting, dodging, and ducking, combined with her expert footwork, neutralized his natural advantages. Three times he slashed, and three times he clanged against her intercepting sleeve, throwing sparks. His fourth attack was his last: Tristanu¨¦ turned into him, grabbed his aventail, dropped to her knees, and drove his head down into a flagstone, crushing half his neck bones in a single fatal shock. Throwing him off, she pushed her boot through the surrounding sand until she kicked up the Sinister Minister. ¡°Voncubr¨¦ja¡ªfour,¡± she tallied, checking her blade for nicks. ¡°Everybody else¡ªaught.¡± Nearby, Jandaqor staggered to his feet. His rugged looks were gone, replaced by a swollen patchwork of garish wounds: blackened eyes, shattered teeth, ripped lips, a more crooked nose, and the repeated quadruple punch of small spikes, all crisscrossed by whips of blood. ¡°A-Abrazor will be praised! Jionjaxupatra is not adored here,¡± he mumbled, weakly swiping the air in front of him with his scimitar. Realizing the man still had some fight left in him, Tristanu¨¦ turned to Jandaqor, who, to her surprise, lunged at her. Skipping and darting, blocking and parrying, she evaded Jandaqor as he tramped after her like a man walking for the very first time. Her only attack that interrupted his stilted chase was a downward strike he blocked. As their blades rang against each other, he seized her wrist with his free hand. ¡°Hah! Now I have you, mulo!¡± he sputtered. ¡°Have you?¡± she panted with a smug tilt of her head. The Sinister Minister shimmered, and to the man¡¯s complete astonishment, a second blade, identical to the one he had trapped, sprang magically from the first. Catching it in her left hand, she slashed his belly open as far back as his spine, his old armor notwithstanding. As Jandaqor screamed out the last pitch of his life, Tristanu¨¦, now double-armed, struck him repeatedly until she cleared his head from his shoulders with a great outward sweep of her blades. ¡°Jen-mulas (Black witch)!¡± A third sentry yelled. Rushing up fifteen feet from her, he stopped with sword raised, his iron stare promising she would soon be his captive. And then, outlaw magic¡ª No sooner did Tristanu¨¦ aim her left sword at him than she swung the right one down it. A razored effect crossed the distance instantly, shearing off the top of his scimitar and tearing open his aventail, and his soft throat under it. The man dropped to his knees as his life rushed down over his front, his eyes wide and disbelieving. The tip of his sword stabbed down in the sand before him, now soddened by his blood, next to dozens of bloody scales that fell from his unraveling neck guard. As she walked past him, she judged him without so much as a look. ¡°Dine with monsters, die with monsters.¡± Hearing the echo of more guards¡ªsomeone had reported a skirmish among the ruins¡ªTristanu¨¦ merged the Sinister Minister back to itself and put it away. Locating her bow, she nimbly restrung it with a spare string concealed inside the detachable base of her quiver. Tugging it and finding it workably taut, she took position near the mouth of the ruins. Whistling into the air, she heard Mr. Midnight screech back: he was still there. Despite her dexterity and swordsmanship, it was with the bow that Tristanu¨¦¡¯s skill turned nearly magical. The best of all her cousins, she possessed not just skill but a marvelous talent for combat archery. Shots others would not dare she executed with ease. Whether seated, standing, or running, she outclassed her brothers and sisters, cousins, and acquaintances so much that none challenged her on the range. Here, on the sandy slopes outside of Khel Marjon, with four Bayari guards approaching on foot and two on horses, the odds could not be more in her favor. Looking to the pennants to check the run of the wind, she attacked. The two horsemen died before the other four realized they had wandered into her killing range. Emerging from behind a pillar, she picked off the others calmly, for no matter what they tried, they could not outguess her. Taking one last look around and seeing no reinforcements, she collected her drapes and continued to her beautiful Mr. Midnight across the dunes. Balyard¡¯s horse was still there¨Dor what remained of it. Next to it were two dead wolves, grayish beige in coat, shredded down to their bones. Mr. Midnight stood there, his brass beak slacked with blood, bile, hide, and fur. He was so calm, so satisfied, that he gave not the impression of a fierce giant falcon, but a wise old towering owl wondering if he should be somewhere else. The bodies of Dargo, Balyard, and Inshu already bore the fresh marks of scavengers. Securing her bow and quiver on her saddle and stuffing her drapes into a side pocket, she pulled out the Prism of Orlandra. Wolves bayed in the distance until Mr. Midnight¡¯s ringing screech reminded them there were far more dangerous things out tonight than them. Walking back to the highest crest of sand, she looked across to the far side of the oasis. Near the top of a thin fire-scarred minaret, she saw the flashes of a small lantern. Jocasta was in position. For a moment, she closed her eyes and reined in her breathing. The wind blew over her bare backside, her hips, her one bare shoulder, and other open windows of skin, kissing through the cool of her sweat and the fading warmth of Jandaqor¡¯s blood. A glyph appeared in her glass instrument: Radia. Activating the function, she breathed deeply as the Prism took inventory of all her minor injuries. Free of sprains or fractures, the relic tallied her bruises, scratches, cuts, abrasions, and soreness. Ranking them by severity, the Prism quietly began knitting them. Mending in many places, she submitted, ¡°Kuinkazner.¡± As before, seven gold slivers appeared: five pointed to the southeast at Anzioch, one to the east, and one across Khel Marjon to the bailiff¡¯s tower. Nominating the nearest version of the man, she ran her finger in a circle around the entire Prism, activating it. A Tower in the Sky Five hundred feet above Khel Marjon, sitting on the edge of the Pier of Ventures, was Surandot. She reclined on her arms, kicking her feet absently, clacking her boots together, her head cocked to one side, waiting on her mistress. Her military fashion was modeled on Tristanu¨¦¡¯s, whom she served politically as a squire and personally as a valet. Just as Tristanu¨¦¡¯s blue armor accentuated her southern skin, Surandot¡¯s arms and armor accentuated hers, cast with ascending hues of beige and gold and macadamia with foil highlights. Unfamiliar with sparse Ecclesiarch fashions, especially with the fearless hems and plunging lines of Sephragelo, Surandot fidgeted with her lambion, which, like all her gear, was modeled directly on her Tristanu¨¦¡¯s. Any discrepancies between them were physical ones, those embellishments Nature published so proudly in one and not the other. Tristanu¨¦¡¯s assets had come to full estate, while Surandot¡¯s were just arriving. Behind her, Nonchalor was dipping its beak in the watercourse near the center of the Pier. In feather, he was off-white, or chiffon, while his face, eyes, beak, and feet were shiny black¡ªthe beak more so being thinly lacquered in dark brass. Likewise, Surandot¡¯s saddle, straps, and tack were also black. Bored, she stood up and tugged at her corselet just as the wind picked up and blew her dreadlocks into a mess again, clacking her hair beads and rings. Throwing her locs behind her with a sharp swing of her head, Nonchalor shrieked and flew away. It was then she perceived Tristanu¨¦ had called Pier of Ventures into service. It was descending. High above the bailiff¡¯s tower, dull gray clouds began to swirl, imperceptibly at first, as competing dints of thunder portended a strange twist of nature. As the watchmen looked up, a five-sided silhouette briefly appeared, backlit by lightning. After a brief silence, the guard dogs began barking hysterically and jerking against their chains. A tremor rippled through the bridge rattling the gates, swinging lanterns, and rocking signs. Below, the calm water under the bridge splashed and roiled. Above, still concealed by clouds, the Pier of Ventures opened. Despite having the appearance of a solid object, a five-sided aperture opened and expanded in the middle of the Pier. Up there, where no one could see her, young Surandot marveled at the effect. The distance from the inside of the Pier to its five outer edges did not change, remaining about thirty feet. Instead, the diameter and circumference of the Pier expanded. Each of its five sides, originally over forty feet long, lengthened inch by inch, foot by foot. Amazingly, the stone grew out of itself. It continued this way, slowly broadening until the five-sided hollow was the exact circumference of the Pier when closed. Inside the tower, Kuinkazner and his men, who had been dining, drinking, passing the mouthpieces of hookahs, recounting their victories, lamenting their losses, indulging in games of chance, and cursing the Sablers, suddenly felt the air pressure change. Their captured sighthounds that had been sleeping, awakened, and snarled. A force mumbled through the stone walls and wooden decks. The planks creaked, straining the nails that held them down. The chandelier, a heavily candled ring of iron, swayed overhead while the tongues of fire atop the candelabras fluttered as if troubled by a breeze. On the table, their strong drinks rippled inside their cups and tankards. ¡°What storm has come?¡± one of the officers asked. Kuinkazner stood up, his face twisting in alarm. ¡°No, it is another thing!¡± No sooner had he spoken than something strange and irresistible seized the tower with a shock. The sighthounds stood and barked at the ceiling. ¡°Silence! Worthless curs!¡± Kuinkazner shouted, throwing his drink at them. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. Outside, the mortar of the tower cracked and burst. The effect raced down the building to the bridge like a down blast of wind. The bricks surrounding the base of the stronghold split and shot out of place as the Pier of Ventures imposed its torque, twisting the turret free of its foundations. The bridge guards screamed and leaped back as their horses broke free of their handlers and raced away. Kuinkazner and his men struggled to maintain balance as everything inside the tower teetered and fell over. Kuinkazner, balancing through the rumbling sway to the main door, flung it open. Intent on escape, he instead leaped back in surprise. There, one step beyond the sill where there should have been stone, was sky. Blackjaw¡¯s soldiers watched in awe as the turret lifted into the night without a sound, rotating lazily. Some babbled the names of their dull guardian spirits, while others staggered away as the tower drifted over the town, sloughing off bricks and streams of mortar dust as it went. As a parting slight, Surandot startled the bridge guards with a low pass atop Nonchalor, whose bone-rattling shriek, let out not ten feet above them, stripped what little composure any of them had left. As for Kuinkazner, he stood clutching the jambs, slack-jawed in astonishment: beneath him was seventy feet of the empty night air. The tops of the various buildings, streets, yards, standing cressets of fire, and date palms passed below him. Terrorstruck, he closed the heavy iron door and laid a bar across it. One of Kuinkazner¡¯s officers rushed to the opposite door, flung it open, and raced out. Unfortunately, his shrill but fading scream proved to the others there was indeed no escape. ¡°What devilry is this!¡± another officer yelled, drawing his curved dagger. ¡°The devils of Royos!¡± Kuinkazner growled. ¡°The Yales!¡± He then commanded his men to search for what rope and chain could be found in the tower and secure them from the candelabras, now reimagined as anchors, for it was his intent to rappel down to freedom. And though there was great uncertainty about the plan, his officers obeyed. Many feared the ropes and chains would not reach the ground and that leaping onto roofs or dunes might follow, but another threat quickly overshadowed all others. No sooner had the first officer slipped out the window and down the rope a little than an arrow pierced him back to front. With that killing shot, the man felt his strength vanish. He groaned once, then again, lost his grip, and fell away to death. Scarcely had the man at the window witnessed this than a second arrow stabbed through his neck. Spraying blood, he fell back into a third man, thrashing wildly as all life rushed out of him. Out there in the sky, keeping pace with them on the east side of the turret, revealed by a bright sinuous streak of lightning, was a giant black falcon and a slender blue-clad archeress on its back. Then it thundered, punctuating the moment with a boom. ¡°Kuinkazner¡ª!¡± the third man shouted, but as he turned to his master, a perfect third shot ended his plea. He took a few listless steps and fell over dead before his fellow collaborators could react past a look. Across the chamber at another window, Kuinkazner had sent two other officers down a winch chain. Hearing a scream, he looked down: the lowest man had disappeared. The man above him was yelling frantically in his old dialect, gesturing into the sky. Just then, Nonchalor swept into view. Kuinkazner recoiled as Surandot took aim at his man and released her razor-tipped decision. The arrow hit the culprit in the chest. Letting out a great cry, he surprised everyone by not slipping down the chain, not even an inch. A strong man, he had been wounded before and fought through it. He marshaled his strength with a great roar, determined not to let a single arrow embarrass him before his master. That was until Surandot put a second shaft through his skull. The man strained for a second, went limp, and fell away like the others. As for Surandot, she pressed against Nonchalor and dove while Kuinkazner threw a spare helmet at her, cursing her in his grandmother¡¯s tongue. ¡°My bow!¡± he demanded, thrusting out his hand. No sooner had he spoken than the turret struck something as heavy as it was. The impact threw Kuinkazner and his officers to the floor and sent the dogs skidding, but the tower righted itself. A scrambling officer brought Kuinkazner his bow and a fistful of arrows. ¡°Quickly, now!¡± Kuinkazner ordered with a nod, ¡°I will protect you!¡± The young man darted to the window and leaned out to see where the falcon-riding archers were when a short sword stabbed up through his boiled leather breastplate, the breastbone behind it, and his backbone. He seized instantly, wheezing from the death blow. Climbing into the room, using him as a shield, was Jocasta Valan. All this was according to something close to a plan. Tristanu¨¦ had directed the tower into a brushing pass with an abandoned minaret at the southern side of Khel Marjon, where Jocasta had earlier taken up position and signaled her readiness. And though Jocasta did not anticipate the ropes and chains Kuinkazner had employed, she made opportunity by them the instant they came within reach. Unfortunately, Tristanu¨¦¡¯s aim was a little off target: the heavy tower struck the minaret, collapsing it. Tristanu¨¦ flew on the east side of the tower and Surandot on the west. They could hear the screams of Kuinkazner¡¯s men as the double-armed Jocasta Valan hacked her way through them to the evening¡¯s main prize¡ª The Sixth Kuinkazner. In the Land of Dreams It would long be told by the people in Khel Marjon and those merchants who witnessed the strange events from afar that those mighty and malevolent forces Kuinkazner once held in the palm of his hand had, on account of some unknown offense, turned against him one night and whisked him away in the very tower he hoped would save him. However, to the Sablers encamped at Anzioch, who woke up the next day to the strange sight of a stone tower hovering silently over a vacant plain east of their position, it was yet another success, another impressive victory wrought by the House of Yale. Extricating Kuinkazner from the tower and surrendering him to the Sablers, Jocasta abandoned the tower along with the sighthounds. Once they were safely distant, Tistanu¨¦ released the building, which crashed into a heap of stones, splintered furniture, petrified corpses, and buckled wooden decks. Above, the Pier of Ventures contracted to its regular shape and descended, revealing Tristanu¨¦, her squire Surandot, Mr. Midnight, and Nonchalor. At Tristanu¨¦¡¯s command, the Pier of Ventures drifted silently towards Anzioch and landed in the lot designated for it within the main yard. There the Sablers received Tristanu¨¦ and Surandot (and Jocasta when she rode in later, the sighthounds accompanying) with tremendous and lengthy applause. Following protocol, Tristanu¨¦, clad once more in her drapes, went to General Duralamayre, who received her as he often had, with no small measure of satisfaction, as she summarized the capture of the Sixth Kuinkazner. Wishing to hear more about it but recognizing the capture was hard-fought, the general recommended they reconvene after she had taken a long hot bath. Agreeing, they found themselves revisiting the matter two hours after hot waters, scented oils, and bubbles had worked their magic on the young girl. In place of her armor, she wore a low-cut cream sleeveless dress, the d¨¦colletage of which would have subdued a weaker man than the seasoned commander before her. Like his own assets, hers were as effective in peace as war. After questions and compliments, as the meal ended and the promise of a long restoring sleep slowed her blinks, he said, ¡°The news of your success will travel quickly. Soon, the last of this man will hear of this.¡± She nodded. ¡°Six down. One to go.¡± The general knew stopping one man, even a Kuinkazner, was one thing, but a two-hundred-thousand-man army was another. ¡°May I call on you again, Lady Yale?¡± The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°Yes, Lord Duralamayre, you may,¡± she said. Taking one last drink, she laid down her napkin and stood. ¡°If I may?¡± The general stood less because she was an ambassadress or a beautiful young woman but because a lady was leaving the table. ¡°Of course, Lady Yale. Thank you for your company.¡± As she made it to his door, a junior officer opened it for her. ¡°Oh, there was some spoil from this night which I confess I am unable to accept. I wonder, might I now prevail upon you?¡± ¡°Of course, my lady,¡± he said formally, still standing. At that moment, the six sighthounds that formerly belonged to Kuinkazner ran into the room and up to the general who, she had learned some time back, loved dogs. Deep-chested, long-legged, and swift, the dogs were white gazelle hounds from the north. Beautiful and sleek, she could tell the General was impressed with them at first sight. An unfeigned smile was the proof of it. And though Tristanu¨¦ was not sure, it seemed more the smile of a young boy than an old man. ¡°Thank you, Lady Yale,¡± he said most sincerely. Tristanu¨¦ put her palm on her chest and replied with a heartfelt smile and a nod. Unwilling to interfere in so pure a moment, she left the general to his new companions. Back in the main yard, Baloroy and Hax walked out of the mess hall, enjoying the last of their meal, when they both stopped. There, not seventy feet from them, right where it should be, was the Pier of Ventures. Baloroy chuckled, pulled a new cigar from his vest, smelled it, and put it in his mouth. Without looking, he handed one back to his quiet friend, who took it. Noting the excitement in the camp, Baloroy leaned into a cresset and lit his cigar on the coals. ¡°Something tells me all the pretty people are back.¡± No sooner had he said that than he heard Surandot¡¯s pleasant young voice. ¡°Good morning,¡± she said, passing between him and Hax, her gear slung over her shoulder. ¡°Surandot,¡± Baloroy answered with a respectful nod. ¡°We¡¯re back on our feet, old boy. Yes, sir!¡± He took a long drag on his cigar and exhaled felicitously. ¡°Back on our feet!¡± So it was that all the schemes of this Kuinkazner, one-seventh of his original cold soul, were overthrown in a single night by three remarkable women. All won for a man, in rank a general, who valued every man under his command so much that he allowed a young princess from Royos and her friends to fight for them too. As for the princess, she returned to her spacious bedroom in Ashen Garde, slipped into bed wearing nothing but her success, and fell fast asleep. There, in the land of dreams, she beheld a great city.