Snow fell lightly on the foothills of Mount Arrai where a small army was camped. The camp was so small that many would not even classify it as an army, though numbers are not everything. Strike force might be a better term, a group with a single goal as opposed to drawn out battles or war. The sun had long since fallen beyond the horizon, and a single figure strode purposefully through the paths between tents.
There were few fire pits among the quiet tents, and they were dispersed evenly throughout the camp. There were no hearty evening conversations here, no jovial laughter. The camp was as dead and cold as the frozen trees on the flat Northland behind them.
The figure noted the oppressing quiet with satisfaction, he hired them for their swords not their camaraderie. His cloak blew behind him in the breeze and his hood hung on his back as if winter’s chill did not exist. He walked silently to a large tent near the center of the camp and stopped in front of the two guards on either side of the entrance. Well, not exactly standing, the untrained eye would call them inattentive at best, half asleep at worst. The dozing guards’ eyes snapped open when they heard the approaching footsteps and their hands strayed to the swords at their hips. When the tall man came into view, the guards snapped to attention, and he smiled.
They knew who he was by now; he imagined the whole camp knew despite his only dealing with their employers. Taren Escale could be named Arrai at a glance. Icy blue eyes shining in the moonlight studied the guards. They looked him over more intently than he did them. These guards had more chance to see him than most others in the camp, and they stared at him just as much now as the first time, still not entirely believing. They stared at his sharply pointed ears as if making sure it was not a trick of the light. His short hair that was so white that it almost made the snow seem dirtied did not fit that youthful face. His small smile turning up the corners of his mouth opened slightly to expose sharp teeth.
His clothing was just as strange as his face to them. He wore an armor made from tightly fitting plates that moved easily with his body. His hand rested on an ancient looking sword decorated with a strange symbol on its hilt and scabbard: the symbol of the Arrai. He made a mental note to alter that symbol to something more suiting as one of the men’s eyes passed over the sword.
He took his time studying them, giving them time to get his image fixed in their minds. These two would continue to fuel the rumors in the camp of the myth that led them. Hopefully this would help prepare them for their coming task. When he was satisfied Taren brushed past them into the tent.
Lamps lit the large interior and a few candles kept proper light on the maps and papers covering the center table. Four men stood around the tent, none of them stood within several paces of another. If it was possible, the silence was even more oppressive within the tent, as if it was the source of the tension that permeated the camp. Taren was late- on purpose; he liked to make those under him wait- yet the pitcher of wine on a side table had not been touched yet. An amused smile tugged at his lips, they still did not trust him, but these men did not get to where they were by trusting people. Men in their line of work found a knife in their back if they trusted, and doubtlessly these four had planted more than a few daggers in their pasts.
Four sets of cold eyes watched him as he walked in. They were four of the best warriors anywhere, or at least the best whose services could be purchased. He could only hope that their men would be good enough. His gaze roamed the tent and came to rest on the most detailed map on the table, an outline of a city and its surrounding area.
A short slender man was the first to break the silence, “Do we finally act? They’re growing restless. And nervous.” He wore no visible weapon, but everyone knew he carried more than a man would have time to count before one of them was in his heart. Vrin Alsullus, the man of endless blades.
“Vrin’s right. This many nervous and impatient men whose profession is to be deadly can’t be made to wait much longer. The few wise ones out there will follow the multitude of fools up that mountain.” Ryas wore only a single sword at his hip, but that sword had shed the blood of countless men, and had earned him the respect he now possessed. “Tonight is as good a night as any for blood, Taren.”
Taren’s blue eyes looked them all over. The massive Bale simply stood silently toward the back of the tent, letting those who liked to talk do the talking. While he was far from stupid, he preferred actions to words. Likely he had resigned himself to waiting as long as he needed to and saving his breath for when it mattered.
The fourth man, Craven, had rarely said a single word in these meetings. His gray hair and gnarled face betrayed his age, but he was still as fit as any man in his prime. Perhaps chief among his talents was patience, for which Taren was more than grateful.
He had hired these men not just with gold, but with a promise for more power than any king had ever claimed. He glanced back towards the tent flaps, in the direction of the mountain, Taren’s former home. Mount Arrai was home to his ancient and powerful race, a dying race. His foolish brethren could not even see their own potential. They held enough power to level the humans’ cities, yet they imprisoned themselves on that one mountain. A race of fools who had exiled him for realizing the truth: the Arrai should be ruling it all.
Taren was no fool though. He knew that he could rule, but not as long as they still lived up there. They may not want to rule, but they certainly had no problem with “keeping order.” He looked at the map of the city, his home city, again. The map had been covered with various markings indicating troop movements and targets.
Twenty years ago he had been exiled. For twenty years he had roamed the rest of the world to the south. Twenty years of watching the underground and searching for those who could bring his plans to fruition. His four generals did not know it, but he had watched most of them grow up.
The time had finally come to end his pitiful race. “Soon gentlemen, soon. We will ascend the mountain before the full moon. Before that, there is something we need to do.”
He reached out with his mind to one of the guards outside. Come, he compelled. A moment later the tent flap behind him opened as the man entered. “You summoned me?” He asked timidly. Having one’s mind touched was a disconcerting experience to say the least when one was not used to it.
“Ready five horses.” He ordered.
“Yes, er, my Lord.” The man stammered as he withdrew. Taren smiled yet again, he rather liked the sound of the title.
“Do you plan on telling us where we’re going at such a late hour?” Ryas demanded. He was blunt, and accustomed to being the one in charge. As impudent as he could be at times, Taren actually appreciated the trait. Ryas didn’t beat around the bush for fear of punishment. He got things done. It was a good thing so long as he didn’t overstep his bounds too far.
“It’s time for me to uphold my end of our arrangement.” Bale and Craven perked up at this. “As you are we wouldn’t stand a chance against the Arrai. And you will need time to get accustomed to your new abilities. So it’s time to take care of this.”
There were few fire pits among the quiet tents, and they were dispersed evenly throughout the camp. There were no hearty evening conversations here, no jovial laughter. The camp was as dead and cold as the frozen trees on the flat Northland behind them.
The figure noted the oppressing quiet with satisfaction, he hired them for their swords not their camaraderie. His cloak blew behind him in the breeze and his hood hung on his back as if winter’s chill did not exist. He walked silently to a large tent near the center of the camp and stopped in front of the two guards on either side of the entrance. Well, not exactly standing, the untrained eye would call them inattentive at best, half asleep at worst. The dozing guards’ eyes snapped open when they heard the approaching footsteps and their hands strayed to the swords at their hips. When the tall man came into view, the guards snapped to attention, and he smiled.
They knew who he was by now; he imagined the whole camp knew despite his only dealing with their employers. Taren Escale could be named Arrai at a glance. Icy blue eyes shining in the moonlight studied the guards. They looked him over more intently than he did them. These guards had more chance to see him than most others in the camp, and they stared at him just as much now as the first time, still not entirely believing. They stared at his sharply pointed ears as if making sure it was not a trick of the light. His short hair that was so white that it almost made the snow seem dirtied did not fit that youthful face. His small smile turning up the corners of his mouth opened slightly to expose sharp teeth.
His clothing was just as strange as his face to them. He wore an armor made from tightly fitting plates that moved easily with his body. His hand rested on an ancient looking sword decorated with a strange symbol on its hilt and scabbard: the symbol of the Arrai. He made a mental note to alter that symbol to something more suiting as one of the men’s eyes passed over the sword.
He took his time studying them, giving them time to get his image fixed in their minds. These two would continue to fuel the rumors in the camp of the myth that led them. Hopefully this would help prepare them for their coming task. When he was satisfied Taren brushed past them into the tent.
Lamps lit the large interior and a few candles kept proper light on the maps and papers covering the center table. Four men stood around the tent, none of them stood within several paces of another. If it was possible, the silence was even more oppressive within the tent, as if it was the source of the tension that permeated the camp. Taren was late- on purpose; he liked to make those under him wait- yet the pitcher of wine on a side table had not been touched yet. An amused smile tugged at his lips, they still did not trust him, but these men did not get to where they were by trusting people. Men in their line of work found a knife in their back if they trusted, and doubtlessly these four had planted more than a few daggers in their pasts.
Four sets of cold eyes watched him as he walked in. They were four of the best warriors anywhere, or at least the best whose services could be purchased. He could only hope that their men would be good enough. His gaze roamed the tent and came to rest on the most detailed map on the table, an outline of a city and its surrounding area.
A short slender man was the first to break the silence, “Do we finally act? They’re growing restless. And nervous.” He wore no visible weapon, but everyone knew he carried more than a man would have time to count before one of them was in his heart. Vrin Alsullus, the man of endless blades.
“Vrin’s right. This many nervous and impatient men whose profession is to be deadly can’t be made to wait much longer. The few wise ones out there will follow the multitude of fools up that mountain.” Ryas wore only a single sword at his hip, but that sword had shed the blood of countless men, and had earned him the respect he now possessed. “Tonight is as good a night as any for blood, Taren.”
Taren’s blue eyes looked them all over. The massive Bale simply stood silently toward the back of the tent, letting those who liked to talk do the talking. While he was far from stupid, he preferred actions to words. Likely he had resigned himself to waiting as long as he needed to and saving his breath for when it mattered.
The fourth man, Craven, had rarely said a single word in these meetings. His gray hair and gnarled face betrayed his age, but he was still as fit as any man in his prime. Perhaps chief among his talents was patience, for which Taren was more than grateful.
He had hired these men not just with gold, but with a promise for more power than any king had ever claimed. He glanced back towards the tent flaps, in the direction of the mountain, Taren’s former home. Mount Arrai was home to his ancient and powerful race, a dying race. His foolish brethren could not even see their own potential. They held enough power to level the humans’ cities, yet they imprisoned themselves on that one mountain. A race of fools who had exiled him for realizing the truth: the Arrai should be ruling it all.
Taren was no fool though. He knew that he could rule, but not as long as they still lived up there. They may not want to rule, but they certainly had no problem with “keeping order.” He looked at the map of the city, his home city, again. The map had been covered with various markings indicating troop movements and targets.
Twenty years ago he had been exiled. For twenty years he had roamed the rest of the world to the south. Twenty years of watching the underground and searching for those who could bring his plans to fruition. His four generals did not know it, but he had watched most of them grow up.
The time had finally come to end his pitiful race. “Soon gentlemen, soon. We will ascend the mountain before the full moon. Before that, there is something we need to do.”
He reached out with his mind to one of the guards outside. Come, he compelled. A moment later the tent flap behind him opened as the man entered. “You summoned me?” He asked timidly. Having one’s mind touched was a disconcerting experience to say the least when one was not used to it.
“Ready five horses.” He ordered.
“Yes, er, my Lord.” The man stammered as he withdrew. Taren smiled yet again, he rather liked the sound of the title.
“Do you plan on telling us where we’re going at such a late hour?” Ryas demanded. He was blunt, and accustomed to being the one in charge. As impudent as he could be at times, Taren actually appreciated the trait. Ryas didn’t beat around the bush for fear of punishment. He got things done. It was a good thing so long as he didn’t overstep his bounds too far.
“It’s time for me to uphold my end of our arrangement.” Bale and Craven perked up at this. “As you are we wouldn’t stand a chance against the Arrai. And you will need time to get accustomed to your new abilities. So it’s time to take care of this.”
~~~
Taren led four eager men out of the camp and towards the looming mountain. As they rode he went over the ceremony in his mind, making sure he would perform it perfectly when they arrived.
This was a magic that had not been used in centuries. The ability to make a human as powerful as an Arrai was not something to be used without discretion, and the elders had not deemed the human race worthy since the last Ascension over 800 years ago. Taren had been an adolescent at the time, so he had seen the devastation firsthand. The humans chosen had done well for a time, but eventually they razed the kingdoms of that age to the ground and started their own.
The elders were distraught and decided to wait until a time when the human race was a more peaceful race before unleashing such awesome power again. Taren, however, would use the power they feared to use against them.
There was a chance that they would retaliate by choosing champions of their own, but for now he had the advantage. The Arrai would be on their way to extinction by the time the elders could do anything.
A snow dusted clearing came into view at the base of the mountain, where the world of the Arrai met the world of Man: a symbol for the location’s purpose. In the center of the clearing was an altar carved with various characters. Foremost among them was the same symbol as the one on Taren’s sword, the symbol of the Arrai, the crest of the creator god Aeril.
The power of this altar had failed 800 years before, but this time Taren would make sure the magic was completed. The world would not do without an immortal race, but the Arrai had been that race for too long. Through these humans he would bring forth a new race, and he would use them to rule for all time. The last of the Arrai.
A God.
This was a magic that had not been used in centuries. The ability to make a human as powerful as an Arrai was not something to be used without discretion, and the elders had not deemed the human race worthy since the last Ascension over 800 years ago. Taren had been an adolescent at the time, so he had seen the devastation firsthand. The humans chosen had done well for a time, but eventually they razed the kingdoms of that age to the ground and started their own.
The elders were distraught and decided to wait until a time when the human race was a more peaceful race before unleashing such awesome power again. Taren, however, would use the power they feared to use against them.
There was a chance that they would retaliate by choosing champions of their own, but for now he had the advantage. The Arrai would be on their way to extinction by the time the elders could do anything.
A snow dusted clearing came into view at the base of the mountain, where the world of the Arrai met the world of Man: a symbol for the location’s purpose. In the center of the clearing was an altar carved with various characters. Foremost among them was the same symbol as the one on Taren’s sword, the symbol of the Arrai, the crest of the creator god Aeril.
The power of this altar had failed 800 years before, but this time Taren would make sure the magic was completed. The world would not do without an immortal race, but the Arrai had been that race for too long. Through these humans he would bring forth a new race, and he would use them to rule for all time. The last of the Arrai.
A God.
~~~
The Outcast’s four shall meet
Aeril’s four in battle,
And the Outcast’s shall triumph.
The Mountain will fall.
The chosen race will fall.
The Outcast’s four shall reign for a millennia.
Of Aeril’s four two shall remain
And two will descend through the ages.
The lost two shall emerge in another time.
One will stray from Aeril,
And one will become her champion.
These two shall decide our fate.
It is Foretold.
Aeril’s four in battle,
And the Outcast’s shall triumph.
The Mountain will fall.
The chosen race will fall.
The Outcast’s four shall reign for a millennia.
Of Aeril’s four two shall remain
And two will descend through the ages.
The lost two shall emerge in another time.
One will stray from Aeril,
And one will become her champion.
These two shall decide our fate.
It is Foretold.
Nice.
ReplyDeleteThis plot is extremely compelling; definitely a book I'd slip under my arm at the library. A few of my favorite bits were from "He wore no visible weapon, but..." to "the man of endless blades," and from "Mount Arrai was home to his ancient..." to "the Arrai should be ruling it all." I also liked the idea of an army being "led by a myth," an Arrai. Keep it coming ;)
Well done! I agree with Jordan, definitely a book I'd grab too. Your characters really came alive, even in their quick intros. And you built the suspense in such a way that its suspenseful without becoming melodramatic and cliche. Plus that ending "The last of the Arrai. A god" gave me shivers. All in all a great start and I can't wait to see what comes next!
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