The cold desert night air threatened to send chills down Tholden’s spine as he lay against the sand, staring up at the stars.  Ten years ago this day he left home for greater adventures.  He remembered that day like it was yesterday…

“You’re going to WHAT?”  The bellow echoed against the walls inside the villa, making several servants pause in their duties to observe the sudden commotion.

“I said, father, that I am going to leave.  We have talked about this before!  My decision is made.”  Under his father’s watchful glare, Tholden continued to stuff what belongings he could fit into a canvas pack, content to end the argument there.  His father was not finished giving his view of things, however.

“And I have warned you what would happen if you abandoned your home!” Tholden’s father spat back venomously.  “You are my only son and the only heir I can leave the estate to when I am gone.  I cannot, and will not leave my estate to one of your sisters!  If you abandon the estate, you abandon the family!  I will find a new wife and sire another heir if I have to, but if you step out that door, none of this will ever be yours.”  He crossed his arms over his chest triumphantly, anticipitating a victory over the argument.

The victory was not to come.  Tholden pushed the last of his belongings into the pack and slung it over his shoulder.  “Goodbye, father.  I hope I never see you again.  Mother would be ashamed if she was still alive.”  Before his father could snap out of his daze at this response, Tholden was out the door and on the road to what he hoped was a better life.

A deep sigh escaped Tholden.  His idealism nearly got him killed, and it was only running into the cursed Roses three years ago that he is still alive.  That curse haunted them no longer, and soon they would all be on a road to better things, he hoped.  As his thoughts began wandering to his other adventures, he finally began to drift off to sleep.

[b]Chapter 5 – Asryn[/b]

The aged man moved deftly among the supply crates quickly stacking up along the quay as they were removed from the ship. As the Old Tarantia dock workers moved the waiting supplies to horse-drawn carts, Hanibus marked the various crates’ contents and barracks destination within the city proper. This was just one of the duties that Captain Rinates had found for him. Hanibus was too old to fight, and far too stubborn to retire quietly on the soldier’s pension afforded the Black Legion, but he found solace serving as an aide to the Captain.

Stopping briefly to stretch his aching back, Hanibus spotted a familiar face disembarking a ship at the far pier – a man that was supposed to be hundreds of leagues to the south. Hanibus lay aside his list and made his way to the pier. He saw it was no mistake of his eyes. The long blond hair and narrow face were unmistakable, and a large scar now marked the man from his right eye back to the ear.

“Asryn, what has happened? The Falcons were not due back for another month,” Hanibus asked with concern.
The younger man looked up wearily and let the pack he carried drop to the ground. “Hanibus, it is good to see you my friend,” Asryn replied with a deep sorrow on his voice.
Hanibus reached up to the fresh scar, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity. “Did the detachment locate Toth-Amon’s forces? What news?”

Asryn sighed deeply. “We failed, Hanibus. Somehow they discovered us before we ever reached the staging grounds. We were still in Kush, for Mitra’s sake. It must have been some foul sorcery, for I swear to you we made no mistakes.” He paused for a moment, then said softly, “The beasts that came into the camp… I’ve seen nothing of their kind before, Hanibus. Demons from hell never bore such offspring.”

Hanibus looked down the pier to the ship over Asryn’s shoulder. The blonde scout simply shook his head. “None of the others escaped, I am all that remains of the Black Falcons.”

- – -

Captain Rinates stood with his head bowed, resting white-knuckled fists on the desk before him. “An entire light scout detachment lost before leaving the mountains? Asryn, how did this happen?”

Asryn explained the way the beasts appeared inside the night-watch perimeter without warning, a fury of rampaging slaughter and carnage. He recounted how the attack was so sudden and silent that sleeping men were ripped apart by talon and fang before they could even conceive of their fate. The need to relieve himself was all that awoke him moments before and spared Asryn’s life.

He was a short distance outside the camp when the attack came, but a beast discovered him as the onslaught began. Never walking hostile ground without his sword, Asryn engaged the massive beast. It quickly became apparent the skirmish was futile and the soldier knew one man stood little chance of bringing the demon down. Asryn wounded the beast sufficiently to hamper its fearsome speed, yet it still pursued him through the mountain forest. A sheer drop high above a mountain stream halted his blind run through the forest. The moment’s hesitation was all the beast needed to strike a mighty blow, throwing the woodsman from his feet and over the cliff. Fortune was with him as he entered a deep pool amid the white water, and the quick icy currents carried him out of the beast’s reach.

“I returned to the camp late the next morning, wary of any signs of the beasts,” Asryn continued. “None of the men were spared. I regret the gravesites were hasty, and I cannot be sure that I… recovered all of everyone.” A distant look entered the man’s eyes. “I collected some personal effects, sir, to return to the families,” he finished sullenly, indicating his pack beside him.
“A miracle of Mitra that you returned to us at all, lad,” Rinates said with awe.
“I made my way back to the coast and secured passage here on a number of trading vessels,” explained Asryn.
 
Captain Rinates pursed his lips and tapped his right fist lightly against desk. “To locate the unit that far out… and to command such beasts,” the captained trailed off. “We must discover the source of this mystic sight Toth-Amon has employed. The sages may know of some means to counteract this power if we can uncover what we are dealing with.”
Asryn looked up with fire in his eyes, “Yes sir. And I would like to return with the detachment that is sent.”

Rinates frowned and hesitated, making Asryn uneasy. “Have a seat, Asryn,” the captain finally ordered.
“Sir?” Asryn inquired without moving.
The captain met his subordinate’s eyes. “Something has happened since you left port. The Nemedians crossed the Border Ranges, and they have entrenched themselves at the ruins near Tesso. I am sorry Asryn – Corvo was taken and burned.”

The scout’s eyes widened, taking on a frantic indecision. “Sir, my wife and daughter… I must…” He quickly collected himself to some measure and began again. “Sir, I request transfer to…”

“Just go, Asryn.” Rinates interrupted. “They may have escaped to Tesso and we still hold the town. With all that has happened, I’m releasing you from service until you are able to return to me.” Asryn swallowed hard and turned to leave.

“I hope you find them lad, but watch yourself. We’ve lost contact with the guard in the pass, and chances are high there will be more coming through before we can reinforce. Some damned sickness is passing through the barracks here in the city and is slowing our deployment.”
“Yes sir, and thank you,” Asryn replied as he bolted out the door.

- – -

There was no horse born fast enough to carry him the many leagues to Tesso at a bearable pace, and Asryn would have gladly ridden a fiery abomination from the darkest depths of hell if it would have taken him there in an instant. As it stood, he had ridden hard and made his best time of two days, but exhausting the steel gray to near death in the process.

Upon arrival he had learned of other dark horrors threatening the town, only adding to his concern for his family and serving as a grim reminder of Kush. He searched the refugee areas, but most were from Kerkyra to the south. The local militias had forced the Nemedian invaders far back into the canyons surrounding the ruins of the old temple, but the lines of battle shifted constantly and areas controlled one day would be taken by the enemy the next. Taking advantage of the advance, Asryn set off for Corvo.

The stories he had heard in Tesso had not prepared him, as nothing salvageable remained and all was charred ruin. The clash of steel and battle cries of men rang down from the upper canyon as the scout walked dazed through the place he once called home. At the distant outskirts of the village he came to the remains of his small house, now little more than blackened stone walls crumbling amid ashes.

A glint of light caught is eye near the outside of the front wall. Stooping low he brushed the dirt aside and retrieved the objects in trembling hands — two thin bracelets of braided leather with small, inlaid polished stones. Asryn knew without counting one bracelet carried seven stones, the other thirty-two. His breathing became ragged as he slumped heavily to his knees, lost in despair.

He had no sense of how long he remained there, but eventually the sounds of the world returned to him. Asryn’s breathing steadied and his eyes focused on the ruined home before him. He placed the bracelets tenderly in his belt pouch and rose to his feet. The sounds of battle raging in the canyons above called to him. Drawing his sword, a roar of pure rage escaped him as he began the long climb up into the canyons.

=|~~~~~~

“Ugh…this stench is unbearable, how do you even stand it, Fulna” groaned Ictan, one of the Lord Victas most trusted accountants and personal assistants.

He was a mild mannered looking person,that is to say, someone who carried himself like a person who was use to everything happily falling into their proper place. Needless to say, lurking around in the rotting halls of the Tullianum prison was very out of place for him. He carefully tip toed his way across the slippery stone floors, occasionally sliding on some loose moss that had collected on the floors. Each time he began to slip he reflexively would reach out to grip the walls for support, but would quickly retract his arms to his side in order to avoid dirtying his hands on the roots and filth that had collected on the shoddy bricked walls.

“How do I stand it? Easy. I simply don’t come down here-None of us come down here except to feed them. Whats the point otherwise? Have some tea with them or some such, maybe strike up a conversation?” Fulna erupted into a loud laugh, which echoed down the long hallway of locked cells. An encore of several weak moans, and other various noises could be heard in response to the laughter. All of which made Fulna and Ictan cringe. “Lets just move along and be done with this, eh?”

Ictan quickly took out his ledger and nodded his head up and down, “Yes, lets. The sooner your business is concluded with my master the better. Where is the roster for this floor?”

Fulna glanced over to one of the guards waiting by the door, who simply returned Fulna’s glance with a confused look. The two merely stared at each other in silence before Fulna scolded loudly “Get the roster you, oaf!” The guard quickly jumped to a haphazard position of attention then ran off, quickly down the stairs. Only a few moments later he returned breathing heavily with nothing to show for his work. “Well?!” barked Fulna.

“Sir, um…The rosters and records for this wing–erm…remember that “accident” that occurred two winters ago?”

Fulna paused a moment, tapping a pudgy finger one of his several chins. “Oh yes-yes. I remember, the fire–”

“Fire?” Interrupted, Ictan inquisitively tilting his head to the side.

“Yes, there was a fire a couple years back, maybe three I’m not quite sure a small accident nothing too big. We’ve apparently lost the records for this wing though, as well as some of the records of our inventories. Caused -quite- a mess for our book keeping when the royal appraisers had to come by.” Fulna gave a coy smirk to Ictan, who simply rolled his eyes and gave a nod.

“So…you are telling me you can hardly tell me what these people’s names are, more or less -why- or how -long- they have or will be here?” Ictan was losing his patience, while he was mostly appalled he couldn’t help but think the whole operation that was occurring was ingenious.

Fulna stuttered a moment, stalling to collect the right words then finally spitting out, “Well most tend to die in five years anyway, from sickness or just…die. So it would not have been a big problem anyway. Some of them have already been replaced, so I’m sure we can figure out -some- of their names. But really, who cares, most of our prisoners are put here for a reason, and most of them are hardly ever granted pardon.”

“We can’t very well sort them as Lord Victas has commanded if we don’t know who they are or what their offense was!” Spoke Ictan, his usual collected speech now slowly filling with the aggravation of profits potentially being lost. “There are over fifty cells that could be used to house the prisoners we have under guard, do you -know- how much gold that is in ransom!”

“Calm yourself, Sir. Calm” Fulna slowly walked his way over to Ictan and put his arm around his shoulder giving him a light pat. He then slowly walked him to one of the cells and then gestured for him to look through the small slit in the wooden oak door to see inside. “Look inside there, tell me what you see?”

Ictan slowly leaned forward peering through the cast iron bars, to see the small cell, not much bigger then a horse drawn cart. Water was slowly running down the black bricked walls and a small amount of hay laid at the corner of the room next to a large bucket. The other corner of the room was several carved rocks to resemble figurines and man laying in a loin cloth curled in the corner, blue tattoos covered an entire side of his body which looked frail and thin.

“I’ll tell you what I see, Ictan. I see a bunch of weak, and broken men…Who, -if- they even remembered what crime they committed ,would never forget why they were put here. Thats assuming they survive whatever distance they have to make to get to their homeland, and assuming they don’t vanish along the way.”

Ictan’s only response was a slow nod, while he watched the form on the ground slowly stur.

“You know what I also see, Ictan?….” whispered Fulna.”I see fifty souls who simply need to be released, to make way for our profit” Fulna then smirked and gave Ictan an encouraging pat on the back and then stepped back away from the door. The form in the cell slowly crawled its way forward, laying a hand against the door and slowly ran its dirty nails against the wood, scratching it loudly.

Ictan stared ahead a moment and without turning replied.

“See them feed, they will be pardoned and released. Give them names, and assign them crimes against property in the ledger. I’ll expect the prisoners of war to be in these cells, as soon as each one is able to walk under their own power.” Ictan quickly turned away from the cell and then made his way towards the door to the stairwell, “Lets move on Fulna, we have many more floors to tend to.”

Forever Walking

Shortly before the
lifting of the Armaya

I had never known a life without the Company.  They were my regimen, my protectors and
brethren.  Most of all, they were
family.  My life was theirs as much as
they were mine.  So it was for all of us,
especially the Ataman.  The Ataman
guided the Company through the desert wastes. 
Not in any particular direction, but rather into the future.  Towards the currents that lay out of reach
beyond the Armaya.  Walking us, or me specifically, towards me
destiny.

He taught all of us the Annals and Code of the Company.

I am told that I am nearly 22 years old now, but I am not
completely certain of that.  How does one
count the days when all of the days are the same?  We trudge through the sands with parched lips
cursed to never find running water.  Bah!  That water could run is a myth.  I was sure of it.  Water evaporates in our land, water could
never run, and there was nothing beyond the desert.

Water is life and my job, as with many of us, was to find it
and bring it back to the company. 
Skulking in the shadow of the desert nights, I searched for the
signs.  Some nights were easier than
others, but more often than not, I would come back empty handed only to try
again the next night because giving up was not an option.  Giving up was betrayal, death, and
sacrificing your water to the Company. 
That was a rule that was never spoken but understood by all. 

When I found the water signs, they would invariably lead me
to encampments of people who did not belong to the Company of Roses.   Some of these encampments would contain the
dying; those whom the desert would soon consume.  They were the easy ones.  The ones whom I could easily breach to gain
their water according to the techniques I had learned.

Some were not so easy. 
While I tended to avoid the healthy ones, the desert can be a harsh
master, especially when we had not found water in many days.  Occasionally, I had to cross the line to
acquire the water.  It was not my job to
explain how I found the water, but it was my job to bring it back.  Such is the way of the Shadow Walkers,
whether for the purpose of acquiring water or something else entirely.

Water is Life

Long before the
lifting of the removal of the Armaya

I still remember when my parents, Joren and Xanthia, were
caught in that cursed Stygian sand storm while my adolescence was still dawning.  I kneeled at their bodies within the circle
formed by the rest of the Company and cried. 
They had not properly protected themselves in time; the storm had come
too fast.  The sands had filled their
lungs and shredded their skin bare.

“Do not leave me!” I cried.

Coughing up sand, Joren responded, “Don’t you dare waste
your water over me!”  And then he fell
into coughing fits.  I looked over to Xanthia’s
still body.  Joren continued softly, “You
know what you must do.  The water is
life.”  He coughed a few more times,
“Dear sweet little Nixia, help our water flow through the company.”  His eyes closed and his coughing ceased.

The surrounding circle of the Company was silent.  I wiped my tears with my finger and sucked on
them to keep them from going to waste and then screamed up into the sky,
“Nooooooo!”   The Company continued its
silence.

Regaining my composure, I pulled out my implements and began
to cut into my mother and father’s bodies to properly prepare them for water
extraction.  It took all I had to keep
from crying through the process, but eventually I had filled two skins.  I drank from each and then passed them to the
Ataman who was still silent.  “Water is Life”, I said.  He nodded at me, took a drink form the skins and
spoke, “Water is Life”.  Then he passed the
skins around the circle who reiterated the mantra.  When all had had their drink, the group
parted and that was it.

Prophecy

Long before the
lifting of the Armaya

I felt guilty and angry at myself after my parent’s
deaths.  I felt responsible, but no
matter how I played out the events, I don’t know how I could have saved
them.  The fates were cruel.  When I was younger Xanthia, my mother,  used to tell me that I was special.  She said that I was the 7^th generation
of daughters descended from Morilei and that I was destined for something
special, that the Shadow Walkers’ skills that were passed down from generation
to generation to me were meant to be used to prevent some sort of great
evil. 

And that was what I felt most guilty about; assuming that mother
would always be alive long enough to tell me more about my destiny.  I don’t know much about Morilei or my purpose
in life, beyond the Company and I’m not sure I ever will.  What use is it if I can never leave the
desert?  Sure that will not happen in my lifetime.  How long has the Company been walking?  Hell, I don’t know even know who my
grandmother was, nor whether she was in the Company or not.  When had my lineage joined?  I’ll probably never know. 

What little Xanthia had told me about my Destiny, was always
told in private.  I don’t believe anyone
else in the Company knows about it.

The Walk’s End

The day the Armaya was
lifted

The day the Company stumbled upon the stream was a day of
disbelief and relief.  I nearly gorged
myself on the river’s water which tasted so different than the water we had
been drinking.  It was quite literally liberating.  Morale had never been this high throughout
the company.  As the water filled me, my
joy turned to dread.  I realized that I
was free, but not really.  The certainty
of the Desert Walk was no longer and I now faced the uncertainty of my
Destiny.  My stomach twisted and at that
moment lost all of the water I had just drunk. 
My head was spinning and I realized that my journey was just beginning.

Over the course of the next several days, many of the
Company had started to part ways to learn about the world in general.  Most of us were still sworn to the Company
and would one day rejoin, but first the men and women of the long march needed
to rest.   I chose to explore the world
to see what I could learn about Morilei and my Destiny.

[size=12][b]Death[/b][/size]

Under the cover of night with the moon still below the horizon, Sarkan approached his small hut across a field of dying, untended rye in the starlight. There were no signs agents of the Priesthood were lying in wait, and he would have been surprised if such effort were wasted on him. Exiting the field and crossing the yard, Sarkan strode straight past the hut door to the nearby well. He drew up the pail and gulped down the cool water greedily. Sated, he made his way to the door and lifted the simple latch, quietly slipping inside. Feeling his way through the pitch black to the shelf for the flint-piece, Sarkan found the oil lantern and prepared to strike the tool with the attached steel rod.

[i]That would not be wise. I am sure your absence is well known. Or would you like to have curious neighbors investigating your return?[/i]
“There are things I must gather before we move on and I cannot do it in the dark. We will not get far without coin and me half-dressed, looking like an escaped slave.”

[i]Fine. Then close your eyes, and empty your mind. Think of nothing but the room around you. Picture it in your mind as you left it. Keep your eyes closed and I will lend you mine.[/i]

After a moment of rising protest, Sarkan did as instructed. It took a few minutes to focus on the mental image of the single-room hut, but as he cleared his mind his surroundings became clear to him: the simple bed in the corner with the crude wooden table beside it, the well-worn rug on the flagstone floor before them, the modest central table with accompanying chairs, and the shelves along the wall with the stone water basin and pail. In the corner opposite the bed, an iron rod was propped near the hearth for the cooking fire. Eyes remaining closed, Sarkan moved towards the rod and his perspective shifted accordingly. It was a most peculiar sensation, but he saw as though through his own eyes. He felt a surreal detachment as it occurred to him that he now shared a tangible connection with a spirit from the void.

Taking the heavy rod in both hands, Sarkan swept the rug away with his foot and placed the tapered end at the edge of a flagstone. Prying the stone upwards, he revealed a small cavity dug into the flooring. Tucked away inside the recess a leather pouch, a few scrolls and a number of severely worn books were neatly organized into the space. Daecora heard the unmistakable clatter of coins as Sarkan lifted the leather pouch, but the books especially piqued her curiosity.
[i]How interesting. I suppose you can actually interpret the scribbling in the pages, or are they full of drawings showing you how to plant crops?[/i] Daecora inquired with a mischievous tone. 

“Do not mock me, spirit. Many are in the trade language, which I can read just fine. A few of the others are in languages from the northern lands, some from the east. I know a man, a merchant that travels through the great trade routes. He leaves old books for me when he is finished and no longer wishes to carry them on his journeys. Some are his own writings about his travels, and he has taught me a little of the outland languages over the years.”

[i]I do not mock you. I am impressed, I may have more to work with than I first thought. Yet you hide these books in the floor. Why is this?[/i]

“The Priesthood has banned all written materials and records in possession by the lower castes. They are afraid for us to know of the outside lands, I think. Or perhaps they believe we will not realize we are being robbed blind by the Noble’s taxes if we do not have records.”

[i]They fear that you will gain the same knowledge they possess. But you will not need priestly scrolls or the writings of traveling merchants to overcome them – not with my aid. It is good that you value knowledge, however. We will have much to learn before we can locate the Ascero Obis. And I will take you places with more writings than you have ever imagined.[/i]

As Daecora spoke to him, Sarkan proceeded to fill a small pack. With his eyes still closed for the benefit of her sight, he took two sets of pants and shirts from the small chest at the foot of the bed, placing one set in the pack and changing into the other. There was no food in the hut due to his long absence, but the coin would see to that need. The few fruits of the desert he had found during his flight from the excavation site had sustained him, but he was in desperate need of a good meal. Adding the flint-piece to the bag, Sarkan returned to the recess in the floor and paused in thought. Finally he selected one of the books and closed the pack. He doubted he would return to the hut, but he replaced the flagstone and rug anyway and returned the iron rod to its corner.

[i]Why do you take that one?[/i]

“It is a story about a man of the north who protects his people from three great beasts. These beasts are fearsome, and few stand with him over the years, yet he succeeds in overcoming the challenges through honor and strength, and the bonds of kinship with his men.”

[i]He must have been very brave and powerful indeed, this noble man.[/i]
“In the end he dies from his efforts, but he succeeds in vanquishing the beasts and his people honor him eternally. He delivered them from a life of continual fear and hardship.”

[i]And you wish to do the same for your people?[/i]
“I have never considered it before,” Sarkan said thoughtfully. “A few of us assigned to work in this area have talked about leaving – setting off for better lands outside Stygia, but never taking a stand against the priests. They are too many, and wield terrible power none of us could ever hope to overcome. I have seen men set afire from a distance, or possessed and made to slaughter their own families before being sacrificed to Set.”

“But leaving these lands is not easy,” Sarkan continued. “My kind cannot travel freely without the blessings of those above us, or enter the great cities without business there. The Nobles want us to toil for them, but they do not want us near them or to reap the benefits of our labor. But the stories of distrust for our race reach our ears. We know that crossing the Styx into the northern lands or trekking to the east could lead to a quick death. The southern lands are wild and savage. There is no place for us to go that guarantees a better life,” Sarkan finished, lost in thought. “Setting off across the desert without a destination is not wise. How do you intend to track down the missing Obis?”

[i]As I said before, we must acquire knowledge of its travels through your history while I slept, imprisoned in its twin. Even during my time the Ocul Tritae were lost in obscurity. Few knew of them or how to use them properly, but there were bloodlines that passed the artifacts down through the ages in an effort to ward evil. But first, we must prepare you for this journey. We will need a competent apothecary.[/i]

“Then we should head for Caravanserai, though this idea of strength though death does not sit well with me. There have been days when I would welcome death, but your claims of latent power are foreign to me. Until the day before, I had no dealings with the arcane. Now you are asking me to trust my life to you, some voice in my head.”

[i]Then let us not call it death. Think of it simply as a deep sleep from which you will awake. We are bound, you and I. You have released me from my prison and I can trust no other. Though I am indeed powerful through knowledge, my spirit is weak and vulnerable. Once I prepare you, we will begin to eliminate that weakness, however. I selected you because I knew you would not betray me to the priests. We have a common enemy, you and I. So do not worry so much for your fate, you are under my protection now.[/i]

Sarkan shouldered the pack and latched the hut door behind him. “As you say, Daecora. To Caravanserai then.”

- – -

The town had begun as a simple oasis, a place for merchants to stop for shade and water and perhaps make a sale to those living in the region. Eventually the stops became regular. Structures were built, people began to depend on the availability of supplies, and some created permanent stores. Now Caravanserai existed as a bustling market, supplied by the river trade from nearby Bubshur.

Sarkan made his way through the busy marketplace to the stand maintained by the local apothecary. He motioned for parchment and stylus, and ignored the curious looks of the old sand-worn man as he muttered for Daecora to repeat one of the many herbs and quantities she was rattling off to him. Handing back the list, Sarkan waited for nearly an hour as the old man prepared the mixture. When he returned, the alchemist was given a significant amount of Sarkan’s coin in exchange for a sealed gourd containing a fine, light green powder.

Travel during the midday was harsh, and seeking to profit from this, an enterprising merchant had established a number of hammocks draped under the shelter of the palms and within a low-walled patio. For a small fee, one could nap during the hottest hours and resume travel as the sun slipped to the horizon. After parting with more coin, Sarkan made his way back to a far corner, away from the few customers already present.

Following Daecora’s instructions, Sarkan placed a small amount of the greenish powder in his palm and ingested it. The taste was bitter and acidic, and he immediately began to feel lightheaded. Using his pack for a pillow, he leaned back into the low hammock. He again questioned his trust for this spirit, but that was irrelevant now. As a sleep deeper than any he had ever known overtook him, all sound in his world ceased and he felt a relaxation he had never dreamed existed. Then all was silent, impenetrable, darkness.

- – - 

The song of crickets entered his mind. Sarkan blinked and the darkness around him frightened him at first. Despite Daecora’s assurances that no harm would come to him, he was sure he was blinded somehow. He sat up quickly and disrupted the balance of the hammock, which swiftly rolled him to the dirt floor.

Spitting dust from his mouth, Sarkan looked up and saw the stars through the trees. With no shop to close down, the owner had been content to let Sarkan sleep through the day and left him to his slumber.

[i]As I told you, there was nothing to fear. [/i]
“I feel no different. What is this great power you have given me, spirit?” Sarkan asked, still groggy from the drug, but feeling completely refreshed. He could remember nothing of the past hours, however.

[i]I have given you no power yet, only prepared you to attain it. Your bloodline has no tendency towards the arcane, but I have remedied that. Now that your physical preparation is complete, we will begin work on the sprit. This will take far longer, but I sense a great potential within you. Your mind is sharp but without training. We will add discipline and knowledge.[/i]

“You mean we will have to do this again? I must die over and over?”
[i]Yes, you will sleep for now. Perhaps as your discipline grows you will be able to simply enter a trance. I can teach you this, but it is ultimately up to your abilities. For me to influence your spiritual energy, it must be fully released – either through death or through complete openness to my presence through your willingness. But for now this method is most efficient. The death is painless and presents no damage to the physical body.[/i]

“I do not understand what I gain through this. You continue to promise me knowledge and strength, yet I only have more questions than answers.”

[i]Do not be hasty in this transcendence. The gifts I can give you will provide great power, but to rush to them would mean your destruction. Some priests can sense the gift in others, and for us to pass through the streets of Khemi, you must not draw attention. You know better than I that a priest detecting the gift in a passing peasant would lead to a very unpleasant death. And if you die outside the realm of my influence, we are both lost. No, we will be cautious until we leave Stygia, but for now we must make our way to the port.[/i]

=|~~~~~~

 This was her home,
not some storybook tale she’d once so utterly believed in and now cursed for
its deception.    Her father paid dearly
for the whitewash he had used to paint over the truth of his house.  He paid even more dearly for the perfume that
hid the stench of his misdeeds.   He’d
spent his life believing that it was the past, done and forgotten.   Now is
all that mattered.   Now he had respect,
wealth, pride and honor.    Honor. 
Ashspring spat the word out like a fermented fig. 

“I was young once, like yourself, and so full of myself,”
he’d whispered to her.  The rattling of
his lungs betrayed the effort of each breath.   

Ashspring had dipped the white muslin in wine sweetened
water and wiped the spittle from his lips. 
“Am I so full of myself?”

“No, not so much,” he’d replied.  “But I, I held the dragon between my
legs.  Fire blew across the seas, back
then.   Across many seas.”  

Ashspring rose from her father’s bedside, and carried the
bowl to the window.    “Is that what you
called me here to tell me?  A story of
dragon fire across the sea?  I think I’ve
heard that tale before.”     She poured the water out the window and
watched it disperse into droplets carried out to sea by the breeze. 

“Not this one.”  Her
father’s tone had grown suddenly serious. 

Ashspring remembered how dark the room had appeared when she
turned.  It was not dark as a room when
the light has faded from the windows, but dark as if all light had been sucked
out of it.  She could barely make out her
father’s face. 

Ashspring picked at a broken tile that framed the mosaic in
the wall.  Her anger still simmered as
she remembered that chill conversation.   
The tile came loose from its grout and she stood up and hurled it across
the docks where it bounced twice before plummeting into the sea.  

“A whore?  You
summoned me here to tell me about your debauchery with a whore?”  Ashspring had tried to leave but her father’s
hand had grabbed hers.   His hand was
cold, but his grip firm. 

“Not just any old whore. 
A shamaness, one beloved of her God. 
The God that has given you your education and status and wealth. “  He had gripped her hand harder pulling him to
her.  He was hurting her and she
struggled to pull free.   “She bound me
to her with a child, my son.”   Her
father lightened his grip on her hand then and laid back, wheezing.  The exertion had cost him.   “She gave me a choice,” he’d whispered.  “But such a choice no man should have to
make.” 

Ashspring’s curiosity overpowered her aggravation as her
father had known it would.  “What
choice?” she asked. 

“The life of one child or the death of another.”

Ashspring had looked at him then but she no longer saw her
father.   He was an old man with sunken
eyes and chalky white skin.   Nor did she
think he saw her.  Not anymore.  Now he only saw death.  “If I stayed with my son, my seed would dry
up and the dragon would never breath again.  
Or I could return home, marry the woman my family had chosen for me, and
Crom would grant me a wealth, success, and many many children.   But no sons.”

“It seems a fair exchange.” 

“And so I thought, for many years.  But now I am dying and none will live who
bare my name.   I would see my son.  I would give him my name.”

“But your bargain….”

“I am old, my seed is dry. 
There is nothing she can do to me now.”

“And us?”

“Crom would not deny my son his heritage.” 

“You don’t know that.”  
Her father’s casual dismissal pierced her heart with an icy cold.

Her father grabbed her hand again and pulled her to
him.  “Bring me my son.  Bring him, before I die.”

Ashspring had sat on the high wall all day waiting for the
sun to warm the icy chill from her bones. 
And now the bright orange ball was sinking below the horizons.  It was not safe to remain here at night.  Bands of thieves roamed the streets and she must
not be caught among them.   Yet she
lingered.    Though she would have
preferred the day had never begun, now she feared its end.   Tomorrow she must sail to find her father’s folly
and bring him home to destroy them all.  
Or she could refuse and watch as Mitra cursed them all for defying her
dying father’s wishes.   A choice no
woman should have to make.

[size=12][b]Rebirth[/b][/size]

The following morning, daylight broke upon clear skies and Sarkan prepared to journey northwest towards home. Terrified of drawing attention with the reflective silver disk, he had taken advantage of the night’s rain and covered the Asciso Obis with a fine wet clay from a quickly receding puddle. It was not perfect, but the sun-warmed metal dried the concealment quickly and the clay bonded well. The Sipordus now hung from its chain around the peasant’s neck.

Sarkan doubted the acolytes would bother to come after him, unless they somehow discovered he had taken the Sipordus. But there was no doubt instructions would be sent to the Nobles with orders to reallocate his assigned land to others, with a corresponding increase in demanded quota of course. Would his actions burden a family already unable to meet the ridiculously high output required by the higher caste? Those that could not meet the quota were required to pay penalty taxes, ensuring they would never profit from the meager wages and thus remain locked in perpetual poverty. It was just one more of a long list of injustices intended to control the lower castes. No, the Priesthood would not actively seek his death. They knew that without land he would simply end up begging on the street or working for some other peasant that could not afford to pay a livable wage. Without a noble education or references, further options were limited. They were all trapped in a prison of open air.

[i]You should relax, though this rage will be useful in the future. For now you will only tire yourself with such wasted energy.[/i]
“Stay out of my head, spirit,” Sarkan muttered as he negotiated an area of particularly rocky terrain.
[i]I do not read your thoughts, but I can sense the essence of your emotions. I have interpreted many souls throughout my centuries locked in the Obis as they passed on the sands above, and I have become quite adept at it. But sight and sound have returned to me through your touch… a sensation I have long awaited.[/i]
“It is hard to imagine being trapped alone for so many years. You must have the patience of a hundred desert cats.”

Daecora was far from alone. Though she had told Sarkan the spirits were condemned to oblivion, every presence captured by the Obis existed alongside her – in one form or another. For centuries her world had consisted of the blackest darkness imaginable with the spiteful energies of constrained spirits circling about her. The spirits did not know who or what they once were, only malice and hatred and a desire to strike out and consume the beacons of consciousness around them. Some had been men; some had been demon, all of various degrees of power. The weak were absorbed by the strong, and the strong became stronger. Daecora would have suffered the same fate had she not recognized the Ocul Tritae and uttered the preservation incantation at the last moment.

If the fool Lhatar had spent more time studying the priceless texts entrusted to the Oaiti Temple instead of enjoying the company of his consorts he might have saved himself as well, given the chance. How ironic the raiders had considered him the greater threat and practiced the foresight to silence him through beheading. The incantation only provided a buffer, however, and the very gift of singular self-awareness it granted within the Obis threatened to bring the recombinant spirits down on her. As time passed and the spirits became increasingly powerful, it took considerably more focus to prevent her detection. That would soon cease to be a problem.

The notes had been scattered across countless manuscripts that sought to provide instruction in the use of the Ocul Tritae, but once Daecora located the key pieces of information, the true nature of the artifacts had become clear. Even she might have been fooled if she had not happened across a set of conflicting notations. The incantation before the death of her body had been a last, desperate hope, as she knew the spell was never intended to hold for more than a few days. And the Oberis disks had absorbed far more malefic essence through the ages than the old Acheronian mage who created them could ever have dreamed.

It was late afternoon when Sarkan arrived at the Styx. It was time. Daecora allowed him a few moments to race into the waters and cool himself from the relentless desert sun. A crocodile splashed into the river from the opposite bank, encouraging Sarkan to make his swim brief.

[i]Take the Obis and wash it clean. It is time to release me so that we can begin your transformation soon.[/i]

With a weary eye on the water before him, Sarkan complied. As he cleared the dirt from the Obis, he marveled at the smooth silver. It was remarkably unmolested by dents and scratches. No one would ever suspect the artifact was countless centuries old. He returned to shore and placed the Obis upon an immense rock that formed a natural sloping dais.

[i]Remove the Sipordus from the chain, and place it in the center. It will align along the three protrusions.[/i]

The outer edges of obsidian locked the Sipordus around the inside perimeter of the indentation, while the central portion of emerald loops sat firmly around the three silver nodes at the center of the Obis.

[i]I am going to impose four words in your mind, and you must recite them as you rotate the Sipordus. Direction does not matter, but you must be sure you start reciting the words exactly as you begin and continue until the rotation comes full circle. Do you understand?[/i]

“What happens if I do this wrong?” Sarkan asked with some concern. He was also hesitant at the prospect of getting it right. Daecora still had not explained her declaration the night before — that he must die in order to become stronger for their journey. When he questioned her she spoke only in vague terms of the arcane and told him not to worry so much.

[i]I cannot be sure, but the spell holding me is fragile and I cannot afford any mistakes. The danger is only to me. Your spirit is far too pure for the Obis to react to you.[/i] In truth, performing the ritual incorrectly would be something equivalent to opening the gates of all hells, but this was not something Daecora intended to make known.

Sarkan hesitated. “How do I know this is not a trick — that your promises of an independent life are only meant to have me perform this act and trap myself in your prison?”

[i]While you will release my spirit from the Obis, I still need the Ascero Obis to purify my spirit and become whole again. If I choose to show myself to you after this is done, you will understand. Without your help, I can accomplish nothing. I am bound to you Sarkan.[/i]

Sarkan scanned the horizon as he considered her words, and finally leaned over the Obis. “Let’s get this over with.” His mind flooded with the foreign phrase as Daecora spoke the incantation. As he focused on the pronunciations he began to turn the Sipordus and spoke aloud: “Sir’of ox’i’me mu’los aro’ce’ad.”

The runes upon the Obis emitted a searing white radiance. Sarkan could feel the Sipordus turn under his grasp as he continued speaking the incantation, though no seams were discernible on the surface of the Obis. As the rotation completed, the runes returned to their crimson hue.

Sarkan looked around him and saw nothing out of the ordinary. He stepped away from the Obis and closed his eyes, turning his attention inward. He could sense nothing, not even the shadow-presence he had come to associate with the spirit.
“Daecora?” he asked the wind.
 
A relieved and contented sigh greeted him through his mind, transitioning to pleased laughter. Suddenly he felt the release of overwhelming tension as though it were his own; exhilaration at freedom lost and regained. The shadow-presence returned, but now it was much stronger and pervasive in his mind, almost as though it were standing beside him. It sent a chill through his blood.

[i]You did well.[/i]
“Did I? It doesn’t seem you are in any better predicament.”

[i]Oh but you are wrong, simple one. I am free of the Obis. Free to roam about the world anew. And free to start you on your journey.[/i]
Sarkan swallowed hard. “Does that mean you are going to kill me now?”

[i]Do not be foolish. I said that you would die, not that I would kill you. Death is simply a state of being, as I tried to explain to you before. In time, you will understand. Now, the Styx is quite deep here. Toss the Obis into the river.[/i]
“What? I thought you required both to be purified.”

[i]We will, but I am free of that hellish prison and we will not need it for sometime. It will only draw unwanted attention to you. When the time is right, locating it again will be trivial for me. No matter where it may lie.[/i]
“If it is so easy, why can you not locate the Ascero Obis?” Sarkan scoffed.

[i]Because I did not spend eight hundred years becoming attuned to its presence, simple one. The Oberis are twin artifacts, but they possess unique personalities. My arcane bonds to the Asciso have not been completely severed. But I am free enough, I assure you. Now, be rid of it.[/i]

Sarkan removed the Sipordus, replacing the chain and returning the artifact around his neck. Hefting the Obis from the rock, he walked to the water’s edge. Bracing himself, he flung the Obis far from shore where it vanished beneath the surface in the swirling current.

=|~~~~~~

Introduction

Approximately 10 years pre-Exodus.

The sandstorm was well into its third night and the Company was fighting desperately to keep the tsera from collapsing under the weight of the sands.  Several had already been lost.  A man, suffering numerous wounds and burns, arrived with two young, terrified children.  He used ancient and arcane Society pass-phrases to get past the pickets and be delivered to the command tent.  Debinani had just been named Ataman, and he, Anmoch, and ancient Ralben conferred with the man in private for many hours.  When dawn came (and, coincidentally, the end of the storm), the man had succumbed to his wounds and died and both children were presented to the Company as charges.  They were not, however, trained as soldiers of the Company and were instead educated almost entirely under Ralben’s tutelage.  Their presence with – and not within – the Company has been a source of some speculation – but the command staff has been tight-lipped and will reveal nothing.

Though few know exactly why, or indeed who began referring to them as such in the first place, the two children are referred to by the Company in general as “The Promise”.

“Quickly! Order! This place must be put to order, he’ll be here shortly”

====

Father always wanted a boy.  He blamed the armaya, the curse,  that held our people in the desert that he got me; for mother’s death he blamed only me.  Though I can maybe understand that.  Only maybe though.  I do tend to do the exact wrong thing when doing the wrong thing causes the most trouble. That’s my armaya.  I couldn’t even be born right; I had to come kicking into this world feet first.  I’m surprised he didn’t just leave me in the desert then.

To be honest, I call him father in name only.  A dozen different men of the company along with their women — wives, mothers, and sisters — were my family.  I was passed from tent to tent like so much laundry that needed looking over for a time before it was someone else’s burden.  There’d be brief interludes when I would be returned to his tent in some futile attempt to reconcile us.  As if that’d ever happen.  The only thing that came of that is I learned to dodge the fist and the foot, and how to hide the drugs in the food in ways he’d not notice so he’d sleep and leave me be.  Not that I think he’d care if he did taste the added ingredients.  I think the life left him on the day of my birth and all that remained was a shell that moved when the company moved and stopped when the company stopped.

It was during on of those in between times that they first noticed me.  By “they” I mean the shadow walkers — the small group of men and women the Captain sent out on special missions in ones and twos.  The ones that sometimes didn’t come back and nobody spoke about afterwards.  They seen me skulking around the quartermasters tent trying to liberate a chunk of sugar.  I thought I’d been so careful, so quiet.  I was just slipping out the back when a hand fell on my shoulder and my life changed.  I’m still not sure if it was for the better.

Like the rest of the children of our company, I’d been taught the ways of the desert.  The ways of sand and water, the ways of knife and arrow.  From listening to the recitations of the Annals at night I thought I knew my place and where my place would be.   The shadow walkers had other plans for me. 

They’d seen something in me that set me apart from the rest of the youngers and invited me into their circle.  Daily lessons in the life of the company remained the same, but at night they taught me the ways of the shifting darkness and how to make it my friend.  They taught me how to track the beetle across the windswept sands.  They taught me the properties of the plants, beyond what the surgeon and cook taught us all.  Most importantly they taught me patience and how to bank the angry fires I carried in me to temper and focus my will.  

Though they’d probably never admit it, but I think I taught them patience as well.  They had to have plenty of it not simply kill me and hide the body for all the trouble I brought down on them from the Captain.  Sometimes I’m surprised the Captain never ordered it himself.

Against all odds though they were able to shape me and tame me.  At least enough, and when I turned twice twelve and one year they were to present me to the Captain with their request that I formally join their unit.  Then the unthinkable happened.  The armaya was lifted.  Don’t ask me how we knew, but to a child, the whole company felt it.  Maybe it was something in the wind, or a clarity of the sky and stars that had never been felt, seen, or smelt before. 

Before anyone really realized, a good number of the indentured fled along with a scattering of the company bred with them.  I overheard the Captain and the wizard Ralben discussing it and what should be done.  The wizard counciled the Captain to let them run.  Either the desert would claim them or not, but they were beyond the border of the Company and those that remained were the faithful. 

In silence I returned the tent of my father.  I found him in a drunken slumber.  I suppose he was either celebrating the new freedom or drowning his sorrows yet again.  I guess I will never know though.  I quietly cut his throat then, and took down his tent to stash it with the spares the quartermaster always had.  Everyone just assumed he’d run off with the others.

We marched hard that night and by morning came to what they told me was river.  Before we left out on that journey, I turned to were my father lay in his shallow grave.  “You were right about one thing,” I said, “you said you’d never leave the desert.”  I then turned and joined my unit and never looked back.