《Deathless》 Chapter I Vice-captain Saara Vesqon was sitting alone at her desk in the keep¡¯s war room, distractedly leafing through the bleak accounts the garrison¡¯s quartermaster had sent up that morning. If things continued down this path, she realized with dismay, it was unlikely they would last the winter. The captain would undoubtedly give the order to start rationing any day now. She got up and headed to the window, looking out from her vantage point over Forsot¡¯s snowy rooftops. As great plumes of black smoke rose from the foundries in the city¡¯s mining district Saara reflected that it had been exactly seven months since they had taken Forsot. They had been so naive back then, she thought, caught up in the enthusiasm for the war, thinking their freedom would be so swiftly and easily won. Things had gone well, at first. Cairiss joining the Rebellion had taken many by surprise, not least the defenders of Forsot, who had been promptly overcome in a daring night attack. The mines had been taken next, and most of the Hold¡¯s remaining forces had quickly surrendered, not wanting to risk their lives against the might of the Silver Spears. The Hold had been secured by the end of the month, the few embers of resistance snuffed out with ease. The Spears had then marched south, the pride of Cairiss, three thousand battle-hardened mercenaries, clad in well-worn leather and gleaming mail, sunlight glinting off their enchanted speartips. The best army in the realm, it had been said, they were known as ¡°athanati¡±, immortals, and it had seemed the world was theirs to conquer. All those ambitions had turned to ash after the defeat at The Horns. Eight hundred Spears returned, battered and beaten, armour caked in blood and grime; and of the twelve hundred volunteers that had gone with them, less than fifty remained, the rest annihilated by the Duke¡¯s army. Matters had only grown worse since the defeat. The infrequent reports they received from the capital painted a dire picture: a city besieged, blockaded by Morovite dragonships, strafed day and night by wyvern-fire, its citizens sick and starving, the garrison outnumbered and outmatched. Defeat seemed to be drawing ever closer, and with it would come reprisals and revenge, and the Issir would once again be slaves. If the situation in Cairiss was grim, thought the vice-captain, it wasn''t much better in Forsot. Though the blue pennants bearing the silver horn of Cairiss fluttered proudly from the keep¡¯s squat towers, out in the country the gains made during the summer had all but vanished. Threatened from west and south, the remaining Issir forces had been ordered to pull back to Forsot, capital of the Mininghold, abandoning all other positions with the exception of Osrec, necessary to guard the road back to Cairiss in case the retreat was called. Even so, circumstances in Forsot were worsening: a third of the garrison had been recalled to Cairiss, leaving three hundred foot and seventy horse to guard a town of over twenty thousand inhabitants, most of whom, having initially seen the Issir as liberators from the magnate''s oppression, now realized their lot was only growing worse. The mountain town was in the icy grip of a hard winter, and with supplies running low and trade disrupted by the war, the city seemed on the brink of revolt. Saara¡¯s thoughts were interrupted by knocking at the door. ¡°Yes?¡± The vice-captain looked up as her bodyguard, Lennar, opened the door. ¡°There¡¯s a runner outside for you, ma¡¯am.¡± ¡°Let him in.¡± The runner entered the room and saluted, looking slightly out of breath. ¡°Captain¡¯s called for you ma¡¯am, some trouble in the tanner¡¯s quarter, two of ours are hurt. Says to bring Ser Alvar, or Villem.¡± Saara sighed, cursing internally. Discontent was growing, with brawls and worker¡¯s strikes now a daily occurrence. It was the third time this week guardsmen had been hurt, and since they¡¯d started patrolling the streets in force things had gone from bad to worse. ¡°Lennar,¡± Saara called, ¡°get Villem and three horses and meet me at the gate.¡±Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. She dismissed the runner and rose, donning her mail hauberk and grabbing her war axe, whose well-worn handle and polished blade were testament to its owner¡¯s experience. Saara found Lennar and the horses waiting for her at the gate with Villem, a huge bear of a man clad in a patchwork of leather, mail and brigandine, a black-iron greatsword strapped to his back. A woodcutter from a tiny village near Ariss, Villem had been one of the few volunteers to survive the massacre at The Horns, where he had supposedly slain a Crownlander knight and taken his greatsword as a war prize before joining the retreat. Whether or not that was true, no one could deny his fearsome strength in a fight. The gate having been opened, the three rode out towards the tanner¡¯s quarter, its foul stench greeting them before they even got there. In the time it took them to reach Glover¡¯s Square, at the heart of the tanner¡¯s district, the situation had grown much worse. She noticed the captain and at least a dozen soldiers facing a restless crowd, most of whom were brandishing knives, mallets, and other leatherworking tools. She saw five men lying unconscious on the snow-covered flagstones, noting with dismay that two wore blue cloaks, marking them as soldiers of the garrison. Here, far from the safety of the keep¡¯s thick walls, the hostility was palpable. Red banners depicting the closed fist of house Razden hung from the windows of the half-timbered houses overlooking the square, openly declaring support for the Crown and loyalist cause. The citizens were growing too bold, Saara thought, a few weeks ago such an open display of hostility would have met a harsh punishment from the garrison. Were that to happen now, she realized, the situation would almost certainly spiral out of control. If they didn¡¯t get the citizens back on their side soon, they would be forced out of the city and back to Cairiss, losing all they had gained so far. ¡°Captain.¡± Saara saluted, riding into the square ahead of her two companions. Captain Moore turned to greet her, fury written all over his face. ¡°Lady Vesqon,¡± he curtly replied, his formality betraying his foreign origin. An exiled Rodalian noble, stripped of rank and title, Jasper Moore had fled to Cairiss just before the start of the Rebellion, and when the Issir had begun assembling a volunteer army, he had agreed to join as an officer, rapidly rising through the ranks thanks to his competence and military experience. Though he was a good fighter, he made a much better captain, and Saara believed that if they lasted the winter in Forsot it would only be thanks to him. As she neared the captain, she realized with growing horror, that the unconscious men she had noticed earlier were lying on red snow, tainted with their own blood. Two of them emitting soft, ragged breaths. The other three, one of them a soldier, lay silent. Captain Moore turned to face the mob, looking over them all from his destrier, ¡°Silence!¡±, he roared, his stern voice cutting through the crisp wintry air. He looked upon the crowd, his gaze icier than the frigid winds which often howled through the town. ¡°People of Forsot,¡± he called, ¡°beneath the eyes of the gods today blood has been needlessly spilled. Three men lie dead before you, and more may follow if this continues. And for what!?¡±. He paused, looking around the square at the red banners of house Razden. ¡°Do you truly wish for the magnate¡¯s return?¡± he asked, incredulous. ¡°You believe ¡®the Butcher of Felgor¡¯ will be as forgiving as I!?¡± he spoke, referencing Magnate Razden¡¯s moniker. Some of the citizens grew uneasy at that, perhaps remembering their former ruler¡¯s cruelty. At that moment, when the mob seemed to be losing its resolve, one of the rioters shouted ¡°You foreign scum!¡±, ¡°So what if Razden put us to work? He was still an Ukbrian just like the rest of us! Better to serve him than some foul invader¡±. His words drew some nods of approval from the crowd, and seemed to steel their resolve somewhat. The square grew silent, the captain glaring at the crowd, his troops standing stalwartly beside him while the mob faced them defiantly. The tension was so thick one could almost cut through it with a knife. A single wrong move and violence would erupt. It was at that crucial point that the sound of marching boots was heard down Cobbler¡¯s Lane, to the mob¡¯s rear. Suddenly lieutenant Kirsi appeared on horseback, followed by Ser Lukas and Ser Aller, their armour gleaming steel. Behind them the garrison came in force, over fifty spearmen entered the square, fanning out behind the mob, encircling them and blocking their escape. As the rioters realized the danger they found themselves in they started to waver. One of them, a stocky, well-built man wielding a heavy mallet suddenly threw his weapon to the ground. ¡°I ain¡¯t dyin¡¯ for no Razden butcher, even you foreign lot ¡®re better¡¯n that.¡± he said, looking up at the captain, and with that he started walking away. Most of the rioters soon followed, and with that, the mob dispersed. Things hadn¡¯t boiled over today, Saara thought, relieved, though she knew they had only bought a few more days at best. Then, as she was turning towards the captain she noticed the danger, but it was too late. Hidden by the commotion in the square, one of the rioters had taken out a crossbow, and now she fired it. Captain Moore had seen it as well, he belatedly raised his shield but by then it was done, the bolt pierced his mail gorget, blood bubbling out of the wound. He tried to speak, but only red emerged from his mouth. He remained, slumped in his saddle. Motionless. Lifeless. Chapter II Reclining in the sprawling encampment¡¯s command tent, sipping a spiced Orosian wine, Lord Sevrin Mindau was eminently pleased. The magnate of Glosom and Lord of the Shadowhold had just that morning received the most delightful news, when a rider had arrived from the north, exhausted and breathless, to deliver the following letter: ¡°Beloved uncle, I regret to inform you that our barn burned down during the night, and we lost at least thirty chickens in the commotion. The southern fence collapsed due to strong winds, and it might take some time to repair. I am also sorry to say grandfather caught a bad chill three days ago and sadly passed on. I hope you will visit us soon, love, Martyna¡± The message, of course, was coded. Had anyone intercepted his rider on the road, they would not have been able to decipher its true meaning. What it actually communicated, much to Lord Sevrin¡¯s satisfaction, was that his agents, which he had sent to infiltrate Forsot over a month ago, had at last achieved their aim and provoked a revolt against the Issir garrison. The note revealed that at least thirty guardsmen had died in the riot and, much to the Lord¡¯s pleasure, the mob had actually taken hold of the town¡¯s southern wall. Lastly, it informed that his assassin had successfully killed the garrison¡¯s captain, which would make taking the city even easier than expected. He had left Glosom that very morning in full haste, marching north with his vanguard and making camp on Salemon¡¯s Hill, the northernmost point of his Hold. The rest of the army, a vast host over seven thousand strong, slowed by supply wagons and siege weapons, had arrived as nightfall came, raising a camp so large it resembled a city, its torches blazing in the darkness of the cold night. As he rested on silken pillows, snacking on a bowl of roasted nuts and cubes of aged Omlar cheese, Lord Sevrin considered his plans for the campaign. As they entered the Mininghold the next morning, the Lord thought, his army would be joined by the tattered remnants of the Razden forces, led by the young lordling Jonos Razden, son of Forsot¡¯s magnate, who was being held prisoner in his own keep by the Issir. The Lord¡¯s plan was daring, but success promised immeasurable gains. Using the Razden forces as guides through the mountainous Hold, his army would cautiously march through the wintry, snow-covered passes, taking care not to alert the Issir rangers to their movements. They would continue in this fashion until reaching Asot, a walled village less than ten miles from Forsot. So close to the city it would be impossible to conceal such a large army for long, which is why it had been essential to incite the town¡¯s inhabitants to rebellion. Preoccupied with the rioters and undoubtedly disorganized due to their captain''s death, the defenders would not be expecting an attack in the dead of winter, and, with the little advance warning they might have, the garrison would not be able to mount a successful defence. Thus Lord Sevrin¡¯s forces would triumphantly enter the town, hailed as liberators by its citizens, while the garrison, defeated and outnumbered, would be forced back to the keep. Though Forsot¡¯s stronghold was a formidable fortification, the intricate network of tunnels and catacombs beneath it would be unfamiliar to the foreign soldiers, and thus, using the Razden¡¯s knowledge of their ancestral home, would his own troops enter the castle, ambushing and annihilating the garrison within. With Forsot taken, the remaining Issir troops in the province would quickly fold, retreating back to Cairiss, while the house of Razden, which had long rivalled Lord Sevrin¡¯s influence, would be victorious but weak, and have no choice but to submit to the Lord''s power. He was, of course, aware that there would likely be obstacles, and that even the best-laid plans rarely survived first contact with the enemy. However, the Lord of the Shadowhold was confident he would succeed. He was reaching his fiftieth year now, and had led many campaigns on behalf of the Crowned of Ombrun. When he had heard the news of Geidric Lorien''s murder, orchestrated as it was by the rebel lords of Akenhold and Erebos, Lord Sevrin had vowed before the gods to avenge his sovereign''s death, but before turning his attention to the southern rebels he would have to eliminate the northern threat posed by Cairiss.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. The following morning Lord Sevrin¡¯s army reached the village called Stangs, a place which many held to be cursed. Though small, it was situated at an important crossroads, in the southern part of the Mininghold, where the Shadowroad met the Silverway, which led from Forsot all the way to distant Raisenai, capital of the Hexarchy. Stangs'' strategic position made it a key location to hold in wartime, and it had, in matter of fact, been the site of a major battle several centuries ago. It was believed that the ghosts of the slain still haunted the surrounding fields. An odd place, surrounded by magical barriers, the fortified settlement seemed to exude an air of death. As he passed the hamlet''s enchanted defenses Lord Sevrin felt sick to his stomach, as a rotting miasma seemingly enveloped him and his men. He quickly accepted the peasant''s submission, eager to leave the village''s boundaries and curious how anyone could stand to live in such a place. The Lord refused the generous supplies offered to him by the inhabitants, knowing his troops would refuse to eat or drink anything given to them by the villagers. He made camp a mile away, on a small rise upwind of the settlement, so the rotten air wouldn''t reach him and his troops. There they waited for the arrival of Razden''s forces. It was late afternoon when Jonos Razden finally arrived, leading a ragged group of men and women that Lord Sevrin would have likened more to a bandit gang than a feudal levy. Most of them wore tattered pieces of mismatched armour, and the weapons they carried would not seem out of place on a peasant''s farmstead, which, the Lord reflected, was probably where most were from. Some of the troops looked to be injured, and were walking supported by their comrades. A few, perhaps hurt more severely, were being transported on wagons. The young lordling himself rode at the head of the unfortunate band, accompanied by his bodyguards and a dozen or so knights, the only mounted troops in the company. As they neared the encampment Jonos sped up to meet Lord Sevrin, and was closely followed by his guards ¡°Lord Razden¡±, greeted the commander, using the honorific out of courtesy more than anything else, as Jonos Razden held no title of his own, ¡°I trust your journey was not unpleasant.¡±, he said, eyeing the wounded soldiers. ¡°Lord Mindau¡±, replied the young lord, ¡°some bandit vermin tried to give us trouble on the road, nothing more¡±, he said, attempting to reassure Lord Sevrin, adding ¡°We dealt with them easily enough, they lost at least two men for each one of ours.¡± The two nobles exchanged pleasantries as the Razden forces slowly made their way into the camp, following which Lord Sevrin excused himself, inviting the lordling to join him for dinner later in the evening. As he slowly made his way back to the command tent, inquiring as to the needs of his troops while he walked, and reassuring those who feared the curse of the nearby village, Lord Sevrin reflected on what the young lord had said. In all his years as a ruler and leader of men, never had he known a bandit gang, no matter how large or well equipped, to attack an army. It might be they had grown desperate, even during peacetime there was little enough food to be had in winter, and the war had made matters much worse. But even so, raiding a village or one of the few caravans which still travelled the passes would have been much safer, and just as profitable. What was more likely, the Lord reasoned with growing apprehension, was that some of the Hold¡¯s minor lords, many of whom had never been the most ardent supporters of Razden rule, were following the example of Cairiss and seizing the opportunity to eliminate their overlords once and for all. Were that to be true, it would make travelling to Forsot in secret almost impossible, as Lord Sevrin had counted on using the region¡¯s minor castles and redoubts to secure and conceal his advance north. Unfortunately for Lord Sevrin, his suspicions would be confirmed that evening. Interlude - The Seer Deep in the underground vaults of Cairiss¡¯ citadel one could occasionally hear the sounds of the battle which raged above. The city¡¯s thick walls and towers relentlessly pelted by stones from dragonship-mounted catapults. These great Morovite vessels, their hulls reinforced by enchanted dragonbone, were relics of ages past, from a time when great beasts of flame ruled the skies, tamed and ridden by the most celebrated of heroes. The kingdom¡¯s dragonships were not the only danger to Cairiss, however, as the famed wyvern-riders of Morovas ruled the skies above, raining fiery death on the unfortunate souls below. The sounds of battle were occasionally punctured by great thunderous blasts, as the tempestarius of Morovas, the kingdom¡¯s storm mage, blasted the cities¡¯ magical wards with bolts of lightning. The Seer heard none of this, transfixed, as she was, in a trance-like state. Effortlessly floating in the city''s Infinitarium, her naked skin was etched with incantations and painted with ancient symbols, glowing in spellbound waters. Her mind was a hundred miles away, her thoughts travelling along the ley lines which, invisible to the untrained eye, criss-crossed the world¡¯s surface. The Seer, accessing these magical currents through the Infinitarium''s waters, was able to perceive vague impressions, clouded visions of what was to come. She dreamt of a winged man, stinking of rot, wading through deep winter snows; a city ablaze, its people screaming in horror; and throughout it all, a horn calling, its ear-splitting wail growing louder every moment, the sound an ominous portent of doom. The Seer suddenly awoke, her eyelids snapping open to reveal the empty blackness beneath, the horn''s mournful lament still ringing in her ears. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.