Chapter - 6
Annual Suoran slave fair
Poutica Fortress
Sunos 8th, 3974 AG
In unison they led themselves down the plank, one after the other like the brothers they were. Garthren coming down first to be the big one. He wore an expression of contemplation, always thinking, always alert about their environment. Nearik waltzing behind him on the other hand was relaxed and eager to take in the familiar sights.
Garthren detested wearing ankle bracelets, but nothing paled in comparison than the yearly slave fair, where they watched Human’s pick Ork’s by the thousands for servants, bodyguards, pets, food, list only exaggerating further in his mind. Thinking about it made sweat bead down his forehead, for every year he and Nearik stood side by side, with those interested always picking Nearik to no avail.
As they fell in with the group of Ork children they spotted familiar faces. Garthren looked tensely at Edlum and Meletin, his two friends’ heads swirling around the complex. He knew this was their first time out of Halcytus and he hoped not their last.
Tall white walls as smooth as eggs glistened from the bearing down sun, the elegant fortress forming around them like an upside down U. Magnificent towers etched from intervals in the U-shaped complex, with the opening the harbor grasping several ships whence they came.
They all felt miniscule and insignificant, especially the newcomers as the sounds of smithies, livestock and people bustled about them. Many of them merchants and sailors of all three races, but merchants disproportionately Suoran and sailors Ork.
The growing group of Ork children off the ship couldn’t shake the feeling that this would be the first, and last time they’d see the beautiful architecture, and probably each other.
“I miss my mommy.” One child moaned. Edlum bit his lip as the same thought crept into his head.
Men in sleek scale armor donning ornate helmets shielding everything but their eyes came down the plank next. Sheathed swords at their hip, they surrounded the several dozen children in an orderly fashion as if pre-ordained.
Garthren and Nearik looked at each other with worrisome looks, but they said nothing.
The fierce stature of the men with their silver and purple armor pieces made them menacing, and the children became more silent and huddled closer together.
None of them could stare into the shielded faces of the men as their pupil-less white orbs bore down on them like hypnotized giants.
Yul’Sra appeared over the railing looking down upon his wares with another soldier present beside him, yet his armor and helmet looked more antique with large colorful feathers bulging out like a mohawk.
The Suoran captain babbled rapidly in his tongue and the soldiers all at once turned straight opposite of the ship towards the opening of the Fortress.
The loud thump shook the children and then the soldiers began marching forward pressing against them to move.
The captain and slave master exchanged looks of appeasement, but when their eyes drifted back to the orchestration, Yul’Sra felt his head almost swoon being mentally reminded of the price in gold this military entourage has always cost him every year.
But little kids brought up as proper servants will always be worth more their weight in gold.
As the soldiers marched forward in circular formation towards the gate the children bounced around like balls in a pin; Meletin constantly bumping against a soldier that kept shoving him into Edlum who pressed into others, whilst Reana and Garthren had to keep Nearik on his feet being the shortest of the group.
As they moved through the area, they all smelt the sweet aroma of baked goods above the smelting of metal and tamed cattle, something they’re not very used to.
They heard the voices of many Suoran around alongside the distinct rough accent of Ork chattering in common tongue and crudely in others. Between the stalking bodies of the soldiers did they see few glimpses of Human’s, and when they did, they were either merchants themselves or looking like armed men belonging to their own kind.
As they neared the twelve-foot tall gate, the palisade with its wicked spikes was seen barely hidden above them, and all of them noticed the same men around them perched upon the walls staring down at them.
Garthren for one so young, couldn’t quite shake the feeling that the same people that created this beautiful architecture were such an incredible contrast to the ones manning the walls handling vicious halberds and crossbows.
The soldiers steered them like cattle throughout the gate and they all felt a strong breeze from their right blow into them, customary of the lingering north mountains.
That’s when they saw outside huge tents flourishing in every color, numbering in the dozens in every direction.
Some tents with their caravans, and without, displayed their wares with envious Human’s touching and studying the most prized – strong, trained and young Ork men in their prime, dispersed throughout the fair’s crowds Suoran merchants and their accompanying guards.
It took several minutes for the soldiers to wave the children through the heavily congested fair till they were brought into view of Yul’Sra’s magnificent red tent standing tall and wide. Beside it laid a long wooden platform with stepping stairs and barricades running around the back.
Only Garthren and Nearik knew exclusively of the anxiety and agitation of standing atop there, showcased to would-be buyers, and dear Yul’Sra, measuring up the coin purses of every potential customer to only turn them down at their anger.
Epilogue
Storage cellar
Secret location in Cairn
AG 3982
He came around the corner donned in his regal tunic dyed black, adorned over with its tight buttoned teal vest, the five buttons crested in silver and his ceremonial flower head, five beautiful and living blue pedals, stitched beside the third hole going down. From the western flair of his dress boots and attire, to the clean-shaven face and groomed wavy brown hair, it all screamed nobility at its finest. But what stood out more than his gentlemen’s apparel, or his metallic scabbard’s gold-plated locket and chape hung against his left hip, was the sleeping double-edged rapier, “Celice”. Swept hilt pure gold wearing gleaming sapphires in her cross guard, and yet most luring of all encased in that fat pommel an orb; swirling dark clouds keeping hidden something mystical in its center.
Coming down the candle-lit hallway towards a plain wooden door followed his shadow, an individual of infamous reputation that few trifled with.
The candles hanging off the walls blew towards the man as he closed in on the door - the shadow behind him kept them motionless.
The door creaked loudly in the unusually silent room and strode out was the regality and its accompanying shadow that could only be made out as a cloaked figurine gliding towards the right corner.
He never slowed down to take in the fact that the rectangle-shaped storage room once filthy, was deliberately cleaned out in short manner. And stood on his side of the room a dozen armed figures focused on the other end, which stood an equal number of armed guests staring back.
He came to the square wooden table in the center of the room, and pulled his squeaky chair and sat. All the room’s light came from the table candle sat in the center, and several lanterns scattered at opposing ends revealing stone-faced characters. The only minor difference being most of the royalties’ retinue consisted of green-skinned swordsmen, and the other entourage dressed in their kingdom’s signature dark red.
He rested his clothed elbows on the wobbly wood, hands together as if holding up his chin, his eyes dead-set on the man that walked up to him slowly, looking like a king’s messenger in his court attire.
He broken a little smile as he reminiscence the comedic plays he saw at theatres, with the king’s messenger always being beheaded. He pressed his lips against his hands to hide it as the smile lengthened.
“You may sit.” He beckoned the messenger.
Standing over his chair almost squirming, he put his hand on the chair and slowly pulled it back and sat, creating a squeaking noise far louder and far longer than he meant only making himself more shaky.
“I am a representative of Boudica’s royal – Yes I know move on.” He cut in waving his left hand casually from its grip.
The messenger, although nervous, became red and angry at his impatience.
“And we’ve come here to discuss the previous transgressions you’ve committed against the kingdom, and the subsequent consequences that follow!” He stammered, his right arm rising in the air with the index finger pointing out.
If the regales’ man across the table had made any sudden reaction after his stunt, the room full of tense soldiers and killers gripping at their hilts would’ve had them drawn against each other.
The messenger, almost out of his seat blushing red with fiery, began to realize that his entire world would’ve imploded with metal if his audience had made any move against him.
But he didn’t, and as he sat back on his seat becoming shaky again, he came to his senses and knew he could’ve signed his death sentence had his visitor been anyone less.
“I have things to discuss as well royal messenger.” Resting his arms down in front of him.
The messengers eyebrows rose and wondered what he would say next when a knock was heard at the door ahead of him.
The cloaked figurine in the corner rapped back on the wall and two men came through the door. One in brown robes, bald-headed with a long black beard, Ginsett, moved to the other corner, and Nicholas, another noble in fancy clothing stopped walking towards the table when the cloaked figurine snapped his fingers and peered at him.
Nicholas glanced back, but not before making eye contact with the diplomat and awkwardly moving himself closer to the door.
“Apparently our enlistment of these fine men behind me has managed to cause quite the uproar in your rural communities…” (Every Ork grinned).
Leaving his voice to trail on, he could see the messenger’s rise-to-the-moment facial expression and let him speak.
“And the encroachment of your green slaves upon Boudican soil has also caused the King’s nobility to resort to extreme measures in order to deal with their insurrections.” He came back forcefully. (Every Ork grimaced).
Feeling he had gained the initiative in their discussion he pressed on: “And we’ve repeatedly demanded that your green-skins not be seen with weapons, and permitted off their ships in port otherwise they’d send the wrong message.”
In one slow gust of breath he produced: “Therefore it has been decreed by our noble council that the Ice Wolf guild either be dismantled immediately upon Boudican soil or pay reparations to the nobles mounting to three-hundred-thousand gold coins.”
Feeling content and bold, he raised up his left arm palm wide, and one of his bodyguards striding to him with a rolled parchment gave it to him like plate onto platter.
Smiling with glee as he rolled out the parchment down on the table facing it towards his visitor, he fell back against his chair feeling victorious.
Feigning interest in his crummy paper filled with rhetorical riddles and the red stamp of authentication at the bottom, he leaned forward nodding and mumbling “Oh yes, I must’ve forgotten…”
The messenger, feeling complete in his mission began to rise from his seat and turn when he heard a stern: “Wait.”
Frozen in motion, he only turned his head back in surprise as he saw his visitor’s arm raised from the table, with the index finger down pointing straight at him.
“Sit down.” He commanded, and so did the messenger sit back down.
Still reeling from shock, his mouth was wide open as his master began his verbal guillotine.
“I am sympathetic to human losses, be they moral or immoral, and I will happily discuss them and come to some sort of mutual agreement, but” Pausing mid-sentence, emphasizing: “No one,” “No one will ever show their back to me as long as I breathe Aurora’s air in the manner you spoke to me.” The words pelting the messenger’s face like ice hail.
“I am aware that the organisation I serve with honor, has also served Boudican’s people with honor for centuries, but no Lord of the Belani Sea Ice Wolves in its history has ever knelt rear over to its rulers like the way the last one did.” He coldly flowed from his tongue, and continuing:
“And last time I remembered, Caran’s nobles did not have any say, or place, in your noble council, for they have not sworn any oath to the Boudican throne since the late king passed away. Therefore, no Ork’s under my discretion have violated Boudican law, for it does not exist.”
As the messenger’s rise-to-the-moment face crept in, he blurted: “No Lord has ever-“
“And you will address me royal messenger, as Lord Marckus of the Belani Sea Ice Wolves!” He spat at him rising from his chair.
While the messenger shrunk in his seat, everyone else’s hands ran to their hilts with vigor, taking steps toward pre-determined combatants.
Nicholas, still in the background with no eyes drawn on him, looked at Ginsett who looked right back and discretely nodded.
He quickly came behind Marckus and padded him on the shoulder trying to calm him down. As the men at the table regained their composure, thoughts ran through the diplomat’s head “Belani Lord.”
If anyone could pierce their eyes through the black shroud that masked the cloaked figures hood, they’d see bonfires for eye balls.
Nicholas, staring at the diplomat hoping to make eye contact, to no avail did not, and the man instead began breaking a smile.
“We already have come to an agreement, Lords…” Deliberately holding back his name, and not mistaking plural-ling his title as he glanced at Nicholas.
Immediately Nicholas took the bait: “What he means is that we will no longer have Ork’s conduct contracts and land on Cairn, as decided.” The last two words hard to roll off his tongue.
Marckus rose in utter defiance from his seat and turned to him ready to snap.
“You have no say in the affairs of my chapter Nic! We haven’t even discussed this in private!”
Realizing this was the climax of the meeting, he stood his ground face to face. “For years as your friend I had allowed you to take the lead of our organisation to new heights, new riches” He briefly paused: “but we did not get ourselves in the business of rescuing slaves! Not this Marckus!”
Shocked and angry, Marckus blurted back:”For years our organisation had been held captive by the coffers of Cairn nobles doing stable work, and now we own property throughout Belani!”
Still blurting with more force: “If we as so much squeeze their loins, they bleed coins Nic, have you gone mad?” His ending words sounding more anxious than of pure rage.
“No,” shaking his head in dismay, “You’re the one that has gone mad Marckus; no one alienates half their world and clients for an army of green mercenaries to mill about.”
Unable to contain himself any longer, Marckus grapples Nicholas by the collar and rears him in speaking through clenched teeth: “I made you Nic, I made you–“
Before he could finish repeating his words, the diplomat, making eye contact with Ginsett in the corner, threw himself from his chair simultaneously drawing from underneath his sleeve a small dagger, wet at the tip, over the table and stabbing it into Marckus’s bare neck.
In that instance the dagger ran to nick him badly, Ginsett began mumbling the archaic words to a spell, and the open parchment on the table grew a bright blue from underneath the diplomat as lines of previously invisible runic symbols glowed.
As soldier and Ork ran into each other with blades drawn the sound of metal clacking filled the air dramatically. The cloaked figure in the corner exploded into action as he spun leaping from his position, launching from his cloak a thin dagger that flew tip-first into the diplomat’s throat, causing him to tumble backwards over his chair exhaling blood.
“Boom!” Shuttered the sound of an air explosion bursting above the parchment, creating an expanding bluish disk-shaped shockwave that slammed into every mortal being throwing them hard around the room.
Before anyone realized it, endless white smoke began gushing out wildly from the unscathed parchment and anybody that opened their eyes realized they could barely see within three feet of themselves.
Yet the moans of pain and sound of scattering metal momentarily transformed into warcry’s and clacking blades as soldier and Ork searched for each other in the mist.
Marckus, lying on his back motionless, was barely conscious until he saw his comrade Nicholas crouch before him, to unsheathe a long blade from his hip.
Marckus’s ears ringing from the blast could barely hear him when he said over him “I am sorry my dearest friend.”
As he raised the blade high up in the air to lunge, Marckus’s eyes widened, knowing what was coming next.
As the blade swooped down towards his neck, a boot suddenly emerged from the mist and connected solidly with Nicholas’s cheek sending him sliding across the floor.
The rattling of the dropped blade was so subtle, but he knew who’s voice it was that called to him.
“Octer”
A young man hovering over him threw back his hood back and kept yelling “Marckus!” trying to help him get up.
But he immediately realized his friend’s body was paralyzed from the neck down, jumped up to swing the door open and from behind began dragging him down the hallway.
Marckus could only roll his eye balls around, but that was all he needed to understand the situation.
Time became so slow, seconds lagging into minutes, and all he did was marvel at his savior’s signature goatee shaped like a capitol T. His straightened black hair melted against his skin flopping about.
He strangely felt so at peace, almost like he could leave his body and rise into the air, and he emotionlessly felt this could be the last feeling he ever has.
Octer kept his eyes out the door the entire time, studying the evaporating mist and sounds of battle till he heard something that made his spine drop dead cold – more soldiers.
The stomping of what sounded like hundreds of boots flooding down a staircase overwhelmed the atmosphere, and the remaining Ork’s, although aware of their odds, became only fiercer as they knew in their hearts Marckus was brought away by Octer.
As the stream of chain mailed red-tabards flooded down into the storage room they were greeted with the last desperate cuts, chops and swings of their green-skinned foes.
But it only took less than a minute for the green dam to be broken by the rushing tide, for the assault brought the first line down clinging to life; they were shortly overcome by the multitude of thrusting blades.
Octer gave him a strong tug and laid him down, rushing to close the door. His eyes darted around the room, registering the stacks of crates and bags of wheat from the storage room. He flew from corners of the room to push boxes towards the door, stacking them up into a barricade as he heard muffled sounds of steps and chatter coming towards the door.
Thinking himself done, he ran to the center of the room getting on his knees. Feeling his hands on the floor in a circular fashion began reading Ginsett’s extravagant spell out loud.
It slowly began to glow a dim blue, the circle of art. Five runic symbols separated by long lines of archaic script slowly but surely hummed that brightening blue that only made Octer more nervous.
Banging on the door felt like someone pounding on his heart, and it made him smack on the wood as if it would hurry things up.
As the entire runic circle glowed brightly at an even level, Octer now on one knee felt the ice cold drops of water roll down his spine again.
He saw an image of the outside world from within the circle. Houses surrounded the backyard, with a well in the center and only one way in and out.
He couldn’t believe it, the rippling image was meant to be something else, their guilds magic chamber, not some alleyway leading into a garden!
His hands on their own came down his face to rinse his eyes out as if it would create a different image in the circle of art, but it didn’t.
Yelling and pounding at the door as several men battered it with kicks couldn’t bring him back to the present. Reciting every single word written around the circle only trying to convince himself he did it right.
“It’s funny how things end up this way…” He heard from his right. Octer crawled on his knees like a baby would next to the lying body.
They looked into each other’s faces, Marckus at most able to tilt his head. “Remember that play we saw at the theater, how at the end all the men stabbed their king?”
“Damnit Marckus we don’t have time for this!” He swung his arm at the portal, but to no avail it did nothing to stop his friend from gazing back into the abyss.
“And at the end, as he lay dying he said: “you too – Octer?” Forming a smile that only made his savior return one as well.
The door splintered and barely heaved the crates blocking it, but no less pushing the door slightly open.
“Take my sword Ravier and display it to the chapter or they’ll never know our disaster.”
He took his numb hand and locked it with his, gripping tight. He tried to fight tears back his eyes scrunching, but his companion could not.
The door heaved again and it was more than obvious they could make direct eye contact with their pursuers. He ran his hands over his waist and unbuckled the scabbard from the belt yanking it into his grasp.
“Perhaps we’ll have a happily ever after?” He unexpectedly responded to his lying friend, whom could only continue smiling at each other’s abyssal glances.
He then hopped up and ran to stand upon the rippling image, rotating quickly to keep his eyes upon the twitching smile, eyes leaking.
Boots placed firmly upon the wavy image, his body like lit incense burnt up crumbling into that familiar hue of blue resembling the circle. The fizzling smoke swirling around his decaying figure till most of him cremated into that distinct blue as the circle gobbled him up in its brightening lights.
But not before the soldiers finally barged through the door did familiar faces catch a glimpse of Octer’s deathly gaze brought upon them; his mask of hate dissolving like sand pouring out of one’s hand into the dimming lights.
Than in one loud suction of air ending with a crackling of a whip the lights cried out. The ink that once made up the archaic circle started to disappear, as if evaporating into nothingness.
At the door stood Nicholas, cheek very bruised, not forgetting the face that dissipated.
He stepped into the room and looked at the lying body, eyes closed, only taking a curious note of his proud scabbard and sword gone.
Turning his head left, he nearly saw that hateful visage again which made him flinch backing up into a soldier that bumped him back grunting.
Soldiers with little care for mannerisms proceeded to inspect the room and carry out the dead weight, but not before searching his pockets for souvenirs.
He went to open his mouth in protest, but the two hulky men crouching at the body only need glance coldly at their next possible victim to keep his yap shut.
Instinct bade him to leave the room and confront Ginsett with his blank caricature.
“The verses will be aware of the change in power quickly if we relay messages from Equinox’s chamber.”
“No, that wouldn’t be the smart thing to do.” He rebutted, Ginsett only raising an eyebrow in response.
“The guild houses loyal to him will be suspicious of his untimely end, and demand proof of his death.”
Ginsett made no sound or movement to acknowledge him in his daydreaming.
Like reaching some sort of conclusion in his noggin, his head as if perched high in the air flew back down to face Ginsett’s.
“We are only several days’ march from Equinox, correct?” Silence. “So is our friend from us!” He wiggled his index finger from his crossed arms.
“Ginsett, contact the Black Veil immediately to dispatch them after our murderer.” He snapped with imaginary authority, and strode off.
As soldier went about their business and two of them carried the dangling body in the air, his eyes followed its every movement till around the corner.
“Death?” He thought. Ginsett wondered if his change in loyalties – priorities as he’d like to call it was correct. Then the slightest ounce of doubt sat in the corner of his mind prodding him with a pointy stick.
He crushed it. “Time will tell.”
