The Proving

A Story of Faelon

Rising above the din, a scream.

Taglen didn’t think it came from one of his own, but neither had he heard any of them scream before.  He pressed his back against the large stone.  Megaliths lay strewn across the field, in clusters of five or seven, leaning every which way and on each other like drunken warriors after a good day’s fighting.  Darthak had commanded him to hide in this particular group of rocks until his Karl called for him to join the fight.  Around him the battle swirled unseen but not unheard.  The air filled with the clang of weapon on armor and the cracking of bone and the cries of the wounded.

He tightened his grip on his spear and shook his elbow to seat the strap of his shield.  Older warriors had told him countless times not to fear battle, but to fear the waiting.  Waiting could steal the heart of a man before he felled a single foe.  Taglen had filled a thousand enemy warriors with the point of his flint-tipped spear.  Yet those warriors had been canvas and straw, strapped to a stake awaiting his assault, silently accepting his victory without resistance.  Today, the man he thrust his spear into would be of flesh and blood, and would fight back.

War raged all around his rocky haven.  His freeband numbered six and he thought the enemy fielded twice as many.  The battle had begun only moments ago, after Keliva spotted the enemy scout.  But to Taglen’s ears, to his mind, to his heart, it could have been a battle of thousands that had lasted all day.  He had just crouched behind this stone or maybe he had been here for a year…he could no longer tell.  He wanted it over, his first taste of blood.  He wanted to be back in camp, on a footing with the others, putting the first embellishments on a story that would make him a hero to his grandchildren.  At this moment, he didn’t even know if he’d live that long.  Will I get hit?  Will I do well?  Will I cower?  Will I miss?  Will it hurt?  Will we win?

He found himself wringing his spear like a wet rag and made himself stop.  There had only been the one scream, but the sounds still made a din.  Shouts in the vulture tribe’s screechy dialect. Metal on wood.  Grunts.  Someone moaning.  The growl of a bear – Keliva – so at least she was still alive.

And then, his name.  

“TAGLEN!”  A roar above the roar.  Darthak had that way of cutting his voice through all other noise like a wolf howling outside the camp.  One moment, all clanks and yells and groans and running footsteps.  The next, only one sound that mattered.  

His legs moved before he knew to command them.  He leapt from behind his rock and turned instinctively towards the Wolfkarl’s voice.  He ran.

Chaos.  Someone down, on their back and moaning.  From the sound of her, Eberis the slinger.  A nasty deep cut down her right shoulder.  A vulture tribesman face-down in a pool of blood.  The axe of the boar warrior rising and falling on his opponent like a woodcutter at his business.  Keliva in the distance, her eyes rolled back and chanting.  In the midst, Darthak.  The big man swept his great wolfsword in wide arcs at the three men around him.  Instantly, Taglen knew what he wanted.  The Karl’s three opponents, a darkly tattooed clan warrior and two younger fighters, had their backs to Taglen.  Darthak wanted him to run straight at one and shove his spear in him.  

He crossed the ground in three breaths.  One of the enemies turned toward him, too late.  Taglen’s spear took him in the side, a sickening jolt of flint in flesh and a cry of horror.  The man flailed in his dying.  Taglen struggled to maintain his grip.  The other young warrior swung at him.  Darthak’s wolfsword took that one’s head off in a clean slice that did not even slow the big blade down.  Taglen ripped his spear free just in time to raise his shield against a blow.  The impact drove him to his knees and sent splinters scattering from his shield, which barely held.  Before he could regain his feet, the enemy warrior dove at him, knocking him flat on his back and landing atop him.  Struggling for breath, Taglen beat the man furiously with his fists.  Then he realized his foe was already dead.

Shoving the body off of him, he grabbed his spear…and found the battle ended.  The Wolfkarl stood over him, a beefy hand extended to help him up.   Taglen grunted with the effort, still short of wind.  He would have bruises all over.  The copper taste of blood tanged his mouth.  

“Done well,” Darthak said.

Taglen gathered up his spear and nearly useless shield.  “Knocked on ass.”

“Alive and on ass.  Did what asked.”

Taglen nodded and looked around.  From what he could tell, when Darthak had slain the last of their clan warriors, it had sent the dead man sprawling onto Taglen.   Other vulture warriors, with their bald pates and ugly tattoos, lay all about in various stages of dying.  One of his own clan warriors stood watch while the other started to bind the hands of the two surviving enemy.  Keliva knelt over the young slinger Eberis attending to her wounds.  Their victory was complete.

He went over to Eberis and knelt beside her while Keliva continued with her healing touch.  The girl looked in some pain, but out of danger as far as he could tell.

“Anything can help?” he asked the Mystic.

“No.  Will be fine.”

He looked down at Eberis, the only warrior in their band younger than he.  “Glad all right.”

She managed a weak smile.  “Alive is good.”


“Proven?” she asked.

Taglen considered this.  He had killed a man in battle and survived.  It had all happened so quickly.  Darthak had positioned him hidden in the rocks, telling him to come running at his call and kill the nearest man.  Then his Karl and the others had launched into battle.  He had seen nearly none of it, and had spent most of his own part in the fight crouched behind a rock or on his ass punching a dead man.  He wondered if they would mock him for it.  But the fact was…


Mealtime in Traazor

A Story of Faelon



For the most part, Jamaad loved his work. Serving as a soldier of the Empire conveyed honor enough, but doing so in a Velozar Cohort gave him all the freedom and power a man of his station could reasonably expect. Sleek, golden-scaled reptiles, velozars possessed the stature and speed of horses, but ran on two legs. Units of Velozar Knights ranked among the elite of the Empire and enjoyed much independence. By day, Jamaad hunted bandits and rebels, who usually moved on foot and employed improvised weapons. He scarcely had to fight them himself. Often, his velozar simply terrified them into submission or ripped them to shreds. Occasionally a more worthy foe would run afoul of the Empire’s edicts, and he and his fellow riders would have a real fight on their hands. By night, he sampled the fruits of the exotic towns and villages of the southern provinces with their strong drinks, unusual foods and mysterious women.

Today, though, he found his work decidedly unenjoyable. They had not had an encounter for several days and he had to take his velozar to hunt to provide it enough food. The beasts might be mighty in battle, but also possessed mighty appetites for meat. A dearth of foolish rebels to feast upon forced him to let the creature seek its own meals for the day, a process of loping about the arid countryside and grisly chewing that drove Jamaad mad with boredom. His only envy for the pale-skinned barbarians of the north continent derived from days like this. Their horses, being docile herbivores, could graze unattended. But a hungry velozar had to hunt, and its rider had to go along.

It could be worse, he supposed. Puffy clouds paraded past the sun. A pleasant breeze waved through the long stretches of tall grass. He stood adjusting his gear while his mount chewed noisily on an antelope, victim of the morning’s hunt. Jamaad planned to cut some of the meat free soon to have something better than hardtack for lunch. Not something he would do until the creature consumed more if its fill, or he could lose a hand. It is not that he wanted a battle every day, just enough action to break up the monotony in between. He bent to tighten a strap on his mount’s armor.

A high-pitched whistle whooshed past his ear. For an instant, it seemed to him a grassfly had buzzed him, but the sound that followed signaled no insect. An arrowhead plowed a tiny furrow in the dirt. Jamaad reacted as he had been trained to, dropping to a crouch next to his beast, using the armored body for protection while he assessed the situation and unslung his shield. His velozar continued its munching. These creatures notoriously lost all awareness while eating. As the knight slowly raised his head over the velozar’s back to locate his assailant, another arrow struck his mount in the side. The creature rose up on its legs and bellowed. The arrow had bounced harmlessly from its scaled flank, but anger filled its slitted yellow eyes. It turned toward the threat and tensed, ready to bound forward on thickly muscled rear legs. Jamaad knew it waited for its rider to command it to charge, but if he did not soon, the saurian would do so on its own. He flowed along the creature’s side, sliding low into the saddle. He grabbed up his lance and spurred the velozar to launch forward in a mighty bound. Only after the velozar’s first few strides did he finally spot his attacker, a figure veiled and wrapped in garments the color of the grass. The rebel fired again. The arrow thunked into his shield, piercing it. Jamaad spurred the velozar into a zig zag across the plain and the next shot went wide. He bore down on the figure at top speed and in the back of his mind wondered why the archer had not fled.

“Lakan!” Jamaad commanded, not yet knowing if his prey would understand the order to submit. It appeared so, the veiled figure dropping the bow to the ground. Jamaad reined in his velozar, which howled in disappointment – or so Jamaad always thought of that sound. Velozars would kill a man on command, but only on command. The training it took to get them to that level took years, but paid off in moments like this. The beast fixated on the enemy and a word from Jamaad or a sudden movement from the veiled figure and death would follow in a flash of serrated teeth and hooked claws.

The rebel apparently knew this, as he had yet to move in any way or make a sound since dropping his bow. Jamaad left his lance and shield with the creature but drew his sakhazet as he dismounted, the blade gleaming wickedly in the bright morning sun. His velozar sniffed the air and looked around, only to lower its head and return to staring down the rebel. No one else presented themselves. Using that knowledge, Jamaad strode directly toward the outlaw, dominating the scene with his presence. The man had a slight build and Jamaad had a hand of height on him. Or is this a boy? Being taken by surprise angered Jamaad, but that did not stop him from admiring the other’s work. The rebel must have crawled five hundred paces or more in the tall steppe to escape detection and reach a point where he could take his shot.

He reached the boy and kicked the bow away. The weapon seemed strange to him, reinforced at the nocks and grip. Where did a peasant boy get a bow like that? Jamaad strode forward and ripped the veil away, only to reveal a woman.

A woman.

Hatred boiled in her dark eyes, but she did not move or say anything. Jamaad spat in disgust. He had thought a Traazorite citizen taking up arms against the emperor to be the blackest evil he knew, but this outrage bespoke something even viler. A woman rebel, a woman using a weapon! The Great Lord of Darkness himself springing from the ground to steal his soul would not have not have compared to a girl stalking him through the grass. He considered killing her on the spot, but only for a moment. This one seemed too young, too raw to act alone. He could not put his finger on why, but he could not believe she had acted by herself. He kept his sakhazet trained on her and looked around again. Nothing moved in the grass except the breeze, no sound but the soft whoosh of the wind and the occasional buzz of an insect.

“Why did you not run?”

Defiant silence.

“Are you alone?”

A smoldering rage in her eyes, but no other response.

The girl could not have been more than sixteen or seventeen years. Her rustic clothing consisted of patches and poor cloth but nearly perfectly matched to her surroundings and serviceable in its simplicity.

A dreadful shriek yanked their focus skywards. A Ravager dove at an impossible angle toward something in the distance. Where had that come from? Jamaad stepped back to keep the girl in front of him and still see what transpired behind her and she turned as well, her first movement since he had dismounted.

Of all the saurians of Ryshael, the daklos inspired the most fear and awe, even with creatures far larger roaming the jungles of the south. Large enough to bear a man, the winged reptile served as a harbinger of death and justice. Ravagers riding daklos scoured the countryside for the Empire’s enemies with methodical inevitability. In peacetime, the Ravagers possessed one task – hunt. This one must have been searching for these rebels. Nice to tell us, Jamaad thought.

Jamaad now saw this one’s prey. She stood a hundred paces or more off behind his own rebel. Her garb reflected the other woman’s, as did her weapon, the strangely reinforced bow. He watched in disbelief as the woman stood and continued to loose arrows as the Daklos Ravager plunged toward her. Jamaad thought one of the arrows might have hit the mount’s wing, but no matter. The Ravager crashed down upon its quarry and pinned her to the ground, whereupon its rider promptly drove his wickedly barbed spear into her chest.

I should have listened to my instincts more carefully, Jamaad reflected as he turned his attention back to his own rebel. She returned her gaze to him at the same time, and with the same seething hatred, but also something new. A tear rolled slowly down her left cheek. These women feel for each other, some sort of disgusting sisterhood. Jamaad considered the utility of that fact in her coming interrogation. All thoughts of killing her had left him. He wanted to turn her over to the Ravager. He wanted credit for capturing one of these women and maybe helping gain some insight into these two and whatever friends they had. As they stared each other down he noticed a hemp necklace that had remained hidden before she turned. He took the point of his sakhazet to it, drawing out the medallion it held from beneath her smock. A black disc blotting out a golden-orange sun. An insignia. How deep does this conspiracy go? How widespread? How well organized? They had better…

She moved. Almost too fast. A dagger flashed from her long sleeve towards Jamaad’s side, aiming for a juncture in his armor. Her quickness challenged his training…and lost. Instead of striking home, her dagger thumped to the ground, still held by the hand Jamaad had severed from her arm with a deft slice of his sword. She crumpled to her knees with a moan, grasping the stump in a vain attempt to staunch the flow of blood. Jamaad stepped back away from her, nearly nauseous with loathing.

“Skotor!” he commanded the velozar, the beast practically in the air at the first syllable. Now you can finish your breakfast.

Midnight Meeting

A Story of Faelon


Adelika paused and looked back over her shoulder. The Black Rose’s camp fire flickered, still visible through the trees. She’d have to go a bit further to be sure none of Erolis’ minions would overhear, or worse, stumble upon her meeting. Her way was clear – the trail outlined by the light of the twin full moons – the same moons that marked her summons to meet with her mentor and link to Koronna.

When she reached a small clearing, Adelika stopped and checked again. She could no longer see nor smell the fire. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply of the mulch and mountan air, clearing her mind. “Beni birini krai mizrak, Beni gerek a harp,” she intoned, invoking her will over spirit. The Chaler words felt good, natural to her tongue. The translucent form of a Koronnan warrior coalesced before her. He stood at attention, clad in a mail shirt under a leather cuirass, bearing a maroon shield emblazoned with a twin moon sigil in one hand and a spear in the other.

“I serve, Priestess.”

Adelika straightened, rolled her shoulders back, and lifted her chin, just slightly. It had been too long since she was addressed by her proper title. The soiled woolen coat and leggings she wore were not the fine silk and supple leather of her office. By Koromen, I’m a Priestess of the Moons, and it is nice to be recognized as such.

“I have the business of Koronna to conduct, and must not be disturbed,” she stated.

The spirit bowed his head. “Nothing in this world, or the next, will interrupt you, Priestess”.

Adelika bowed her head in response, wheeled and continued deeper into the forest. The trees grew thicker, their branches and leaves blocking more of the moonslight. As she climbed over a massive fallen tree, avoiding broken branches and patches of thick, slippery moss, she thought she heard something. She paused, waiting to see what the noise had been. Nothing.
She continued climbing, and as she leapt down from the trunk, a loud screech and blur of wings startled her. She stumbled forward, snagging her leggings on a branch. She bit back the Chalish curse on her lips as she searched the trees above for the source of her ambush.

“Old woman,” she called, “your sense of humor is not welcome this evening!” Adelika blew hair up out of her eyes and continued searching. “Ha! There you are.” A gray owl peeked out from behind some oak leaves. “Was it necessary for me to ruin the only decent pair of leggings I’ve found in this cold, forsaken country?”

The owl sidestepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight. The bird shimmered, shifted, and a middle-aged woman appeared in its place. The figure sat on the branch, swinging her legs, ankles crossed.

“Are you coming down, Kamilah, or must I crane my neck for this entire conversation?”

Without a word, the older woman swung backward, kicked her legs, and then let go – flying through the air, and landing light as a feather on the branch before Adelika. She stepped down onto a dry patch of ground and leaned against a tree. “Now, Esmeray, Moon Priestess of Koromen, have you tidings to report?”

“Yes, mistress, Daughter of Koromen – I have.” The stars turned, and for a while Adelika was once again Esmeray – a Moon Priestess. She told Kamilah of her travels since their last meeting, and answered the older woman’s questions concerning Haradelan and Falkaraan cities. As Esmeray told her tale, Kamilah changed between woman and owl with the coming and going of the moonlight through the trees.

Throughout the conversation the spirit of the older woman guided her and gave her new things to watch for. Each meeting gave the Crystal Palace and the Aviary of the Towers of the Moons much-needed information, but it also gave Esmeray a better understanding of her mission, and of her greater purpose. She was fortunate to have Kamilah for a mentor. Not all spirits of former Priestesses were as wise, patient, or kind, and assignments lasted a very long time – through this life and the next. Someday when she began her second phase of service she would have her own young Priestess to guide, but until then she was grateful for Kamilah’s tutelage.

Finally the older woman’s spirit seemed satisfied and rose to leave.

Esmeray tried to keep her tone balanced as she asked, “Is there need of me elsewhere? Is there guidance requiring me to change my mission?”

Kamilah tilted her head, an expression that carried over as she switched to owl form. She fluttered up to a limb and preened her feathers, seemingly ignoring Esmeray’s question. After a moment of silence, Kamilah’s voice whispered in Esmeray’s head. “The Kalipha herself sent you here to gather information concerning the Bandits that roam Haradel and Falkaar. You have done well to insert yourself into the most infamous band in the region. Some say you are the only member of her Freeband the Black Rose truly trusts. Do you think the Kalipha would have you leave now? Do you think she should?”

Esmeray swallowed and looked away. She was tired of sleeping on the ground, tired of being on the run, and tired of never having hot water. But those were not things she could say to a former priestess continuing her service in the second life. Crossing her arms against her chest and bowing, “I live to serve,” she said. The owl nodded and took flight as Kamilah’s voice spoke one last time. “In this life and the next”.

Adelika left Esmeray behind and walked back toward camp, ashamed of her moment of weakness, but still wishing for a better assignment. Somewhere a little more “urban.”
Absorbed in her thoughts of the hole in her leggings and the associated growing bruise she nearly missed the movement to her front. Her spirit servant Red Spear and another figure circled each other in the clearing, weapons drawn.

She approached the pair slowly, trying to identify the intruder. When the newcomer’s back was to her, she made her move. “Laken ti Beni.” The man – and it seemed it was a man – jerked twice before lowering his weapon and standing still. Adelika cursed silently. The interloper’s leaf and vine covered cloak identified him as Sahol, a member of the Black Rose’s band.

At her signal, the spirit warrior spoke. “The man entered the woods an hour ago following your trail, Priestess. I did not harm him, but denied him passage or escape.”

Sahol was a former poacher that Erolis, the Black Rose of the Arlian, had only recently accepted into her band. The look on his face showed he did not understand the spirit’s words, and, more importantly, that her Charm spell would not hold for long. Something had to be done with him.

She turned back to the Red Spear and pulled enough spirit flow from him to send him back to the void. “You have done well, warrior, I will honor my promise.” Adelika turned and stepped close to the young bandit.

She did not know much about him, but she had seen enough of the Faeler countries to know most like him were a superstitious lot. They had superstitions about everything, but especially about Chaler women who practiced magic.

She shook back her long black hair, ran a finger along his jaw-line, and cradled the back of his head. She stared at him for a moment, shifted her honey brown eyes to white, and deepened the tone of her voice. “So Sahol, was it curiosity that pulled you into the woods, or did the Black Rose send you to spy on me?”