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  “You will stay here in Voscown and study our ways. This is Essenen, Commander of the Order of the Shadow Disciples,” the god said proudly. “My Disciples possess many skills and they are excellent spies and assassins. They are gifted with stealth and deception and they are skilled in many forms of combat. Once you have mastered the ways of the Black Sigil, the Shadow Disciples will be yours to command.

  “You may wonder why, then, I have not chosen one of my Disciples to carry the honor of this task?” he asked.

  Shalthazar nodded in reply and the god cast a baleful glance at the Frost Elf woman next to him. In contrast, the beautiful woman stood silently, demurely casting her gaze at her feet. Shalthazar felt the power in her though, and he held no illusions about her character.

  “One of their numbers has sinned against me and attempted to use my power without my knowledge or permission.”

  Dark shadows began to swirl around the god like a black mist, echoing his displeasure.

  “All of them were punished for their leader’s sin,” Essenen trembled at that, apparently remembering some dreadful incident. “Essenen has proven to be the most capable and has taken her captain’s place as Commander of the Shadow Disciples.”

  Shalthazar suddenly caught himself beginning to think about Essenen in ways that might prove dangerous. Long ago he had learned never to engage himself with women whom he could not intimidate or force into servitude. Willful and powerful women were always far too difficult to master and proved vengeful when slighted. Although he had no problems using powerful women to further his goals, he had no desire to engage himself with any of them.

  “Wise decision, drau!” the god laughed, apparently reading Shalthazar’s thoughts. It was a grating, skin crawling, laugh that set Shalthazar’s teeth on edge.

  “Now, come. Essenen will be your guide and show you to your palace.”

  The wizard was absolutely giddy with his prospects.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A Day at Work.

  The Temple of Qra’z.

  ~

  Carym awakened long before sun up, as he usually did, and threw his feet on the cold ground; it was the beginning of his morning ritual. He sat on the edge of his bed, with his feet on the floor for a few moments, shook his head and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He walked over to the table in the center of his one-room cottage, and poured some water from a pitcher into a bowl. He sat, staring into the water for several long moments, remembering the absence of the ones he loved, and lost. Sadness began to seep into his soul again, and he forced himself to think about something else.

  He took a long drink of water and ate a piece of bread and some dried deer jerky. After he ate, he washed his face with cold water and felt a little refreshed. He got dressed in his usual work clothes: olive colored trousers, gray shirt, and leather apron. He slung his leather overcoat on top of his shoulder and pulled on his sturdy military issued boots. Finally, as he always did, the man meticulously checked his appearance before he left for work.

  Old habits die hard, he thought.

  Carym had spent some time in the service of the Arnathian Navy as an Arms-Master, a keeper of weapons and ordnance. He owed his skills as a fighter and swordsman to his naval service. For five years Carym served the Arnathian Empire, as was required of all young men of fighting age in the Territories. When he completed his obligation to the Arnathian Empire, he returned home and with his savings he bought a cottage in the small village of Hyrum where he had grown up. Hyrum was located in the Arnathian Northern Territories in a place called Hybrand, populated by those who were descended from the southern Cklath tribes of long ago. To this day the people of Hybrand, still under the oppressive thumb of Imperial Arnathia, hold true to their Cklathish traditions and call themselves Cklathmen.

  Carym married his childhood sweetheart as he promised her he would when he left for his tour of duty. After returning home he and his friend Zach began adventuring for money; hiring themselves out to local lords, bringing fugitives to justice for a price. The Sheriff of Hybrand would give the men tasks to complete from time to time, such as serving Imperial decrees and acting as couriers of the Imperial Court. The Sheriffs’ powers had been greatly reduced under Arnathian rule, having been relegated to collecting taxes and serving warrants.

  Carym preferred order and discipline in life and he detested chaos. Yet he lost his struggles against chaos and disorder on the day his little daughter, Elana, was born. Carym had learned over time to adapt to life with a baby, and he became very happy. He was a proud father and worked hard to provide for his family.

  Five short years ago, a terrible day had been burned into Carym’s memory forever. Carym had been on a trip to the border regions to pick up some much-needed goods for his family and home. When he returned he found that his village had been raided by Vaardic warriors from across the Brythyn Sea. The Vaard were a seafaring warrior nation of ruthless barbarians. They were a hard people, and cruel to a fault, making most of their living from raiding villages located along the coasts of the Brythyn Sea.

  Although the Vaard were rarely seen this far south, their handiwork was apparent, Carym recalled with a twinge as he remembered returning that fateful day. Houses still smoldered, as his fellow Cklathmen ran from ruin to ruin looking for loved ones. The smell of death permeated the air, and the sounds of families sobbing over loved ones had wrenched his soul; it was a day he would not forget. It was the day his beloved wife and their baby girl were murdered in their cottage. Imperial Arnathia considered the Vaardic raid a mere nuisance not worthy of retaliation. His young family was dead and his home had been destroyed. Carym, too, was destroyed. He had given much in his service to Arnathia, and yet Arnathia did not feel Hybrand was worth the resources that would be spent retaliating against the Vaard.

  After the gruesome business of cleaning up and burying the dead was done, Carym sank deeply into despair, medicating his soul with the finest spirits the Silver Star Inn had to offer. Eventually despair gave way to anger and Carym began to harbor thoughts of vengeance. The other townsfolk, too, were angry and ready to strike back at the Vaard. A man called Argus the Strong, who had earned the respect of his fellow Cklathman by standing up for his people with the Arnathians, had convinced enough of the men to form a militia, a practice frowned upon by the Arnathian government, though not entirely illegal. Their sole purpose was to exact revenge against the bloodthirsty Vaardic warriors of the North.

  Argus had been cautioned not to form a militia, but he ignored the warnings. He reasoned that citizens of the Arnathian Empire who served in its armed forces were always subject to recall and, therefore, were always members of the military. In the clever minds of the Cklathmen this was no militia, just Arnathian military veterans activating themselves for duty. Argus had been a captain in the Imperial Army and was the highest-ranking veteran in Hyrum. All the veterans in the town who had not been killed, and a handful of others from outlying areas, joined together in a series of retaliatory raids on the Haag Kingdom of the Vaard, ruled by Vaardking Erlaf Mersen. The Arnathian Military was the finest fighting force in the world and these veterans had been well trained.

  After whipping his company of veterans back into shape, Argus sailed with his Cklathmen across the Brythyn Sea to strike back at the Vaard. It was unprecedented, no one had ever taken a fight to Vaard and they were caught completely unawares. In fact, many of the Haag warriors had been out conducting raids when the Cklathmen landed on their shores, vengeance in their hearts. Some of the Cklathmen faltered upon learning that there were so few to actually fight in the main city of Haag, but Carym and Argus were relentless. There was not time for pity; a lesson had to be taught to the savage Vaard. The Cklathmen of Hybrand returned the destruction set upon them nearly tenfold. After they razed the main Village of the Haag, they carried on pillaging other nearby villages, looting and murdering their inhabitants.

  Vaardking Erlaf Mersen returned to his homeland and upon seeing the destruction visited upon it,
swore to revisit the destruction upon the Cklath. But Mersen had become despised by his people and soon another king had taken his place; one who would not be bothered with sailing the great distance to Hybrand when far softer targets were closer. The Vaardic raids stopped and life began to return to normal in Hybrand, but not for Carym. His best friend, Zach, could only watch his lifelong friend sink further into despair and gloom and anger.

  The acts Carym committed in the name of vengeance sickened him now that it was over. He was ashamed of himself and drank relentlessly, drowning his sorrows in fine Hybrandese whiskey.

  One day, as Carym stumbled home from the Silver Star Inn, he came across a young boy in the street being harassed by a local thief. The boy was bringing some food home from the market and the thief planned to rob the boy of it. Through his drunken stupor, Carym could tell the child was no more than 8 years old, little more than a babe, and resolved not to let this criminal harm the child.

  The cool water refreshed him as he washed his face and momentarily snapped out of his reverie, he forced himself to think about getting ready for work. But, he could no more fight off these memories than fight the hurkin Horde alone. He recalled very clearly, despite his level of intoxication that day, awkwardly drawing his sword from its sheath and threatening the brute. Although he did not remember much of what the man looked like, Carym recalled that he was much larger than himself. The memory of the snickering thief drew Carym away from his morning routine and lulled him back into the world of painful memory.

  Carym saw himself holding his blade before him, and he saw the thief spin to face him. He remembered how the large and ungainly appearance belied the thief’s speed and skill with a dagger. Unable to recall the exact words, Carym remembered the thief mocking him as a dagger sailed through the air and planted itself to the hilt in his shoulder. He feebly swung his sword at the robber, but his drunken body refused to obey him; he lost his balance and fell harshly into the gutter.

  What pained Carym the most about that memory was not the cold steel searing his muscles and chipping bone, rather it was the totally helpless feeling of not knowing if he had saved the young boy from harm. He had been too drunk to move or do much of anything other than wallow in the gutter and fade into unconsciousness as the thief retrieved the dagger from Carym’s shoulder. The pain of his inability to help a defenseless child scarred Carym to the core of his being.

  It was one of those defining moments in life where he knew he was being told something very important; it was time to change.

  After he had sobered up, the constable had related the events to him. Carym had truly grasped how much of his life he had wasted. His anger had destroyed him and it may have cost him his soul. He could only hope that the great Lord Zuhr would forgive his inability to act that fateful day in the alley, and prayed that He might forgive the man his brutal transgressions against the Vaardic people of the North.

  Since then, Carym had sworn off the spirits and immersed himself in his carpentry business with his partner, Zach, and tried not to think about the hole in his heart. He became a popular businessman and he had rebuilt his good reputation. Because he worked constantly, he had been able to save a significant sum of money.

  Carym looked at himself in the mirror, moved his short hair into place and ensured that his thin black beard was neat and orderly. He sighed and looked at his bloodshot blue eyes, thinking that he really needed to get more rest. He looked at the trophy trout mounted on the wall next to his bamboo fishing rod and promised himself a few hours fishing as soon as time permitted. Then he walked outside, locking the door behind him, and stood on his front porch breathing in the cool morning air; it revitalized him and got his blood flowing.

  Autumn was upon the land now, and the mornings were getting cooler, the air refreshing. It was a new beginning for him. Picking up his tool belt and backpack, Carym stepped out onto the main dirt road of his village and walked down the street to the stables.

  Carym did not wake the sleeping stable boy since he was earlier than usual that morning. He went to the stall and fed his horse, Altus. Then he walked back out to the street where he ate his own breakfast; dried beef and some corn bread in a sack tied to his belt. When he was certain Altus had finished eating, he led the “painted” horse out into the street where he brushed and saddled him for the morning ride. Altus was one of the legendary painted horses of the Ash Plains. Tall and powerful with distinctive black and white patches and uniquely hooked ears. Altus was the talk of the town. The horse was a gift from Chief Nagoosa, ruler of a nomadic tribe of humans living on the Ash Plains far to the east. Carym had been rewarded with the horse for ridding tribal lands of a rogue desert firecat, a large hairless catlike predator, not typically seen west of Hurkromin. This particular firecat had slaughtered entire herds of tribal sheep. Carym recalled that misadventure grimly; he and Zach had only stumbled upon the firecat by mistake. Even though the pair came out ahead, it nearly cost them their lives. The massive creatures were said to be hurkin who had been cursed to live out their lives as beasts, roaming the deserts and harassing the enemies of the land of Hurkromin.

  By now the sun was beginning to rise and the sky was changing from black to morning twilight. As the stars began to disappear, Carym climbed onto Altus and began the hour-long ride from the sleepy village of Hyrum to the capital city of Hybrand. About thirty minutes into the journey, Carym heard the sound of thundering hooves in the distance on the road ahead. Imperial Cavalry, he thought to himself. Probably on some urgent mission for the Empire.

  Beyond his own village of Hyrum, in the opposite direction from where he was now going, the road led to the Imperial border town of Herkenberg. Carym surmised that the riders must be going to Herkenberg to quell a dispute with the neighboring kingdom of Galynburg which had claimed sovereignty over Herkenberg for three centuries prior to the Arnathian occupation of Hybrand; a lot of fighting there, of late.

  Carym and Altus ambled slowly off the road and stopped, as required by Imperial law, and awaited the approach of the patrol. Kevyn Macomus was ahead of Carym, pulling his own wagon lead by two brawny Cklathish draft horses, Bonnie and Faeru. Everyone knew Kevyn’s famously friendly horses.

  “Trouble yar way, wat?” called Kevyn as he stopped on the opposite side of the road.

  He was the only person Carym knew who still preferred the older dialect of Middle Cklathish, spoken two to three centuries ago by most Cklathish tribes; today it was only spoken by the Macomus Clan in the Macomay Hills. It wasn’t an entirely different language, and if you trained your ears you could understand enough of what was being said to get by.

  “Nay sar. Na aught but caalm bhind meh,” Carym was good at improvising with this language.

  The old man grunted and nodded, sticking an old yellow pipe in his mouth and began reaching around in the pockets of his vest.

  The morning was crisp and the air was clean, and the two Cklathmen smiled at the beauty of the morning. Kevyn removed a pouch from a pocket inside his blue and red plaid vest, opened the flap, and breathed in deeply.

  He winked at Carym and said, “Ya ont a peench, lad?”

  Carym smiled but shook his head; he was intrigued by the impending arrival of the mounted Arnathians. Kevyn pinched some of the contents of the pouch between his thumb and forefinger and stuffed it into the pipe. With a sideways glance at Carym, he grumbled something under his breath, replaced the pouch, and lit the pipe.

  By now the Arnathian patrol was thundering between the stopped men, dirt flying from hooves, spittle blowing from horse’s mouths, the Imperial Standard snapping as they passed. Carym watched as the soldiers, resplendent in their polished and form fitting breastplates with matching greaves and plumed helms, thundered by. He recognized their standard. This was a highly elite company of knights whose members were often promoted to generalships, lordships, governorships and the like.

  Once, Carym had wanted very much to be one of those knights, yet he learned early in his military caree
r that such was not to be his fate. Carym sighed wistfully as they passed and the dust settled back onto the road; he had neither noble lineage nor famous deeds to propel him to that lofty status. In fact, provincials were rarely allowed to serve in any capacity that might gain them notoriety. Sure, he took part in many battles at sea and fought in fierce hand-to-hand combat, he had even saved the life of the ship’s captain once when his crew boarded a pirate ship. Yet, for all his courage and prowess, he was never formally recognized for any of his deeds.

  “Gooddayonya,” said Carym, as he gently squeezed Altus’ flanks with his knees.

  “Aye, by th’grace o’Zuhr twill beh.” Old Kevyn clucked to his horses and they slowly ambled on down the road, as they did nearly every day.

  Carym continued on, wondering what life must be like in the Arnathian Knighthood. Although he knew of these Imperial knights, he had never served with or under them. Once, he wanted to be a hero and a man for the people. Once, he wanted to do great deeds and help those in need. Disillusioned and disappointed during his Imperial Service, Carym did not want to be associated with anything they represented any longer. There were other organizations whose members claimed to be knights too, but they were largely regarded as outlaws and thieves. And yet, Carym thought cynically, Cklathmen in the Arnathian Empire were largely regarded outlaws and thieves themselves.

  As he wandered along towards Hybrand City, Carym let his mind wander too. His thoughts drifted back to the days when he too served Arnatahia. During recruit training he learned much of the political dynamics of the various regions of the empire. There were few remaining independent nations on the Arnathian Continent that had not yielded to the Emperor. Yet he knew there was an alliance among some of those nations. It was a union whose purpose was to protect each other from their common enemies. The pact between that group of nations had become known as the Alliance of Eastern Kingdoms and they had good cause for concern; they were sandwiched between the mighty Arnathian Empire on the west and Hurkromin beyond the Plains of Ash to the east.