The Glass Empires: Adventures Of Pipen The Aristocrat: The Glass Empires, #1 3i635

The Glass Empires: Adventures of Pipen the Aristocrat

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S. C. Coleman

© Copyright S. C. Coleman 2021, All Rights Reserved

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Summary:

Chapter One | A Rocky Paradise

Chapter Two | The Grey Rangers

Chapter Three | Fort Farenda

Chapter Four | Savage Barbarians

Chapter Five | Lost in the Grey

About The Author | S. C. Coleman

Books in this Series

Books By This Author

Summary:

It is the eve of the ceremonial g of the Treaty of Molina, a pact signed by all the nations of the Greater Continent. The dark forces, that once ravaged the continent, now threaten to engulf its inhabitants once more. Four champions stake their claims upon this world, but which will choose between selfish greed and a greater good for all. The mysterious priest from Molina, who calls himself Pipen, travels to the far reaches of a cursed kingdom. Surviving a journey through the Grey Wastes, a feat that is almost inhuman, our intrepid priest will face many perils along the way. The priest’s troubles will plague him through a journey of suffering and difficulty, as he is sent out on a difficult mission. Accompanied by a band of disloyal followers, Pipen cannot know which danger will claim him first. Will he succumb to the Grey Fever, which has already killed so many? Perhaps, he will be slain by one of the enemies that stalk their footsteps. None can say what shall claim him, or if he will survive and complete the task given to him. This story takes place opposite three other heroes: Doron Snake Keeper, the Red Dove, and Brouder. “To my fellow kingdoms, we gather in my halls of this great city of Molina to bring an end to this discourse that has torn our beloved land apart. Let this treaty, our signatures affixed, stand in protection of our realms; that our subjects might live in peace, that we may replace dread with hope, and our dead with children. Thus, I decree, Nicolo of the Rose Flower, King on the Mountain, Champion of the Waste, and Red Skeleton of the Shadow, that every autumn this treaty shall be renewed, with an accompanying feast.” -The Treaty of Molina, Signed beneath the last moon of the Age of a Hundred Kings and the Great Period of Shadow

Chapter One

A Rocky Paradise

Atop sloping ground , at the edge of the long arm, sits the once great fortress of Lluwaire. Its high stone walls cast a foreboding and hollow shadow over the grey countryside. While the old crag has not changed for centuries, with wind ceaselessly howling across its surface, the inhabitants of Lluwaire have changed many times. The ancient rulers have not seen their old city in nearly three hundred years and the current occupants just barely maintain their hold. The once mighty city lies in ruins around the old grey walls, as the battlements bristle with the mouths of iron cannons. The guards that steadily patrol the walls wear grey cloaks to protect against the biting northern winds. While these men stare out into the rocky desert around them, waves crash upon the sea wall to the north. The tide always threatens to one day carry an invasion force, but the inhabitants of the fortress have become complacent, believe any attack to be unlikely. The previous rulers of this land, pushed off onto the western islands long ago, eye the mainland like hungry wolves. Any sign of weakness will bring their ships. The fortress flies the skeleton arm of General Farenda the First, crossed by a field of red and grey, which are the colors of the Molinese House of Karolina. General Farenda, sent out to command the eastern armies, recently suffered a defeat and lost the fortress of Laene, which lies to the south west. The long road, now guarded by the bandit army and other inhospitable creatures, is almost imable, forcing General Farenda to hide behind the walls of her sea fortress. Laene has fallen to the self-styled King of Bandits, cutting off the only road to General Farenda’s home country and that of her soldiers. Corralled behind the walls of Lluwaire, Farenda’s starving and depleted army sees only a hopeless expanse of grey. The grave that awaits all seems to loom ever closer to the beleaguered general and her men. Following Farenda’s retreat, a cloaked figure arrives outside the stronghold’s walls.

A figure approaches from the rocky expanse beyond, not from the long road to the south, but rather from the wastes to the west. This person, with a cowl protecting the face from biting wind, stumbles along at a very slow pace. The stranger’s horse was lost many miles back and the individual seems to be continuing the journey alone. Likely starving and dehydrated this person hobbles along like an old crone nearing the end of life, in fact the stranger just might be. What would cause someone to brave the expanse to come here of all places? This question perplexed the guard that first spotted the stranger. “Kylio, come here,” the veteran guardsmen, Syllio, had walked these walls over a thousand times, but never seen a soul come from the waste. Likewise, his patrol companion was awed by the sight. The two wore the typical Molinese grey and red uniforms. However, from their grey watch caps to the cloth boots on their feet, the clothes they wore were weather bitten and moth eaten. “Do you think it is a spirit? Not even animals travel through those lands. They are cursed.” “No, you are thinking of the actual cursed lands to the south. Not even a curse could survive in the waste. Whoever, or whatever, they are, it must be something else.” “I think the General will want to see this. Syllio, what do you think we should do?” “Call the Sergeant of the Guard, he will want to see this as well.” “The captain is sleeping though, surely we should let him rest. After all, what if we are imagining this?” “If we are, then he will understand. Have you ever known Captain Hameln to be unreasonable? Sure, he is Hohen, but the image doesn’t fit him.” “It fits him plenty well, but I think neither of us gives a shite at this point.” “What about the General?” “She is a hard man.” The two guardsmen laughed as they continued down the battlements, all the while keeping an eye on the stranger. Hundreds of feet below, the stranger’s tattered and journey bitten clothes clung to the body like

sun baked seaweed. The two guardsmen stood at a similar height. While both Syllio and Kylio wore the uniforms of Molinese infantrymen, Syllio, was the more presentable of the two, with his rifle carried formally on his left shoulder. However, Kylio had abandoned his rifle in the guard hut. Rather than wielding the common smooth bore infantry muskets, the patrols carried far-shooters for longer range and accuracy. However, these weapons of iron and wood were very heavy and cumbersome, due to their length. After all, they would be shooting enemies from vary long distance, and required longer barrels for greater accuracy. Almost no one could sneak up on these walls. Syllio had used his scope to see the sudden appearance of the wanderer from the wastes, but after a while the stranger came into unaided view. Syllio would not have spotted the individual, had he not periodically scanned the horizon ever few minutes or so. Syllio was the more serious of the two men, as Kylio only wondered about where his next drink would come from. The two had been on watch together a countless number of times, but seen battle far less. However, the two were seasoned combat veterans, and even Syllio’s uniform had holes and month old blood stains. The last fight they were in, at the fallen city of Laene, had taken its toll. The two lived from day to day not knowing when their last would be. What a dreadful life these people lived and yet they carried on with only one purpose: fight and destroy the enemy wherever possible. Although, out here on the edge of the world, it was unlikely any would fight rigorously for Lluwaire. After all, the occupants were already low on resources, and not even a siege was required to starve them out. Rationing of food and water was going on three months now, and the situation was looking bleaker by the day. The appearance of this stranger was a welcome distraction for the two guardsmen. “Captain, sir!” The two men burst into the guard hut, at the southern tower. On the sixth floor of the tower, the Sergeant of the Guard slept on a bed of straw and sticks. His red bloodshot eyes opened slowly to meet the two men. “What is it? You fool; I didn’t hear any alarm bells sound. Why have you woken me? It better be for a good reason, or you both will be flogged until I lose count.” The Captain’s tired eyes wavered groggily as he half noticed the two guardsmen standing above him. “There is an uh...” Kylio stammered as he started to realize the strangeness of their news. “I spotted a stranger coming from the wastes, Captain. Kylio saw it also.” Syllio

interjected, to usher forth the words that had failed Kylio. “Kylio often succumbs to watch phantoms, but you Syllio? I suppose things get to us all at some point. Very well...” the Captain, Hameln, reached above his head and wrapped a hand around the scabbard of his weapon. The once elegant saber had seen many battles, and lost the shine to its copper hand guard. However, the weapon’s unpolished stone handle still held some of its beauty. Despite his best efforts, Captain Hameln was unable to keep his weapon pretty. He had polished every day for nearly five years, but it was a futile effort. Fortunately, the blade still held an edge, and Captain Hameln made a habit of sharpening it when he got bored, which was often. Using his weapon as a , Captain Hameln pulled himself to his feet. With a sigh, the Captain secured the weapon’s belt over his chest and waist. “Let’s go meet this phantom, shall we?” The Captain waived a hand towards the door. “Lead the way gentlemen.” Still tired, the Captain stumbled after his two guardsmen. Seemingly, the Captain did not notice Kylio pick up the rifle leaning against the guard hut. Then, the trio made their way out onto the battlements. The guard hut was connected to the tower and was the last structure before they went out onto the battlements. The biting wind and freezing mist struck Captain Hameln in the face like a wet fish, jolting the Captain out of his groggy state. “I fucking hate this place. I wish those crazy bastards across the sea never built this place.” As the Captain grumbled behind them, the two guardsmen ahead gave each other quick glances. “See! Captain, right there, to the east.” “Give me your scope.” Captain Hameln secured the weapon under his arm pit and looked into the sight glass. “Oh, well, we must all be seeing the same watch phantom.” The Captain lowered the rifle and seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. “What are your orders, Captain?” “You two do know that I am Sergeant of the Guard right now, correct? You don’t have to address me as Captain.” “This whole situation confuses me.” Syllio calmly retorted to the officer, who simply shrugged and stared out at the figure making its way towards the walls. “I suppose we must sound the alarm bells.”

“I will head back to the tower at once.” Syllio, saluting by bring his feet together and his rifle tight to his shoulder, spun around on his heels and away towards the eastern tower. “The General will have my head for this, I’m sure.” “Why would she?” Kylio immediately regretted his question as the Captain shot him a dirty look. “Do you not know what time it is?” “Apologies, Captain.” “Stop it! I’m just Hameln!” The Captain, his face red with frustration, exhaled heavily. “Well... let us hope the disturbance is not in vain.” The Captain trailed into silence, and, moments later, the hollow ring of the eastern tower’s alarm bell sounded. Then, the alarm was answered by bells from the Northern and Southern towers.

“YOU THREE LOOK TERRIBLE! Why are you on watch Captain Hameln?” General Farenda was in a visibly terrible mood, as she arrived at the eastern gate of Lluwaire. Her black leather boots were covered in a moth-eaten cloth layer, and she held her long frayed grey cloak tight around her torso. She had forgotten her grey bicorn hat. her dark hair fell wildly to her shoulders. Pieces of her hair would blow across her dry and cracked face, while one strand clung stubbornly to her mouth. The wound she had received at Laene had turned into a scar, that stretched from under her nose and down the right side of her lips to her chin, making the shape of a crescent. Her pale brow was drawn close and her iron eyes squinted against the biting wind. While her long nose cast a slight shadow over her cracked lips, the years of campaigning were visible across her wrinkled face. However, with a little work, her beauty could be restored to its previous splendor, albeit with the facial scar in-tow. The general was in desperate need of a vacation on sunnier shores. “I decided the Sergeant needed a break.” The Captain, maintaining a straight face, responded directly to the General. His body was stiff like a board and his hand curled into a fist over his right breast; this was the typical salute of the Molinese. “Surely, there is more than one Sergeant that takes over on the East tower.” “Yes, General, we have a sector that rotates the watch.” “I know, it’s the Black Sector over here.” “Yes, General. The men are tired, and many have fallen sick with the Grey Fever.” “Have they been put into isolation?” General Farenda’s twenty-man guard walked ahead of the group. She was proceeded by the Captain, and the two guardsmen that had sounded the alarm. The Captain walked just to her right, while the other two stayed ten paces back. General Farenda spoke more to keep her mind off the cold, rather than make relevant conversation. “Who are you two?” General Farenda made a ing glance at the two guards in tow. “Private Kylio, General.” Kylio stood erect and made the Molinese salute.

“Corporal Syllio, General.” Syllio followed in the same manner as his counterpart. “Ah, Private Kylio, what a grand surprise. I see you have brought another soul into your folly this time. Tell me, why are we opening these gates right now?” As General Farenda spoke, the ten-foot-high iron portcullis was being raised. “It was I, General.” Captain Hameln spoke now. “There is a stranger arriving from the wastes.” “What!” Caught completely by surprise, General Farenda turned about suddenly to face the Captain. “See for yourself, General.” “I will, Captain. Let’s hope this is no watch phantom. You what happened last time? When Private Kylio here sounded the alarm for no reason.” General Farenda smiled and everyone laughed, except Private Kylio. The three waited as the stranger approached the gate. “Halt!” The General’s twenty-man guard, with bayonets affixed, planted their feet and shouted at the stranger just below the shadow of the eastern tower. The stranger ignored the order and continued stumbling forward. “Halt! I say again! You shall be fired upon!” The stranger once again ignored these orders and the guardsman looked back at the General, not wanting to fire on a sickly stranger. General Farenda, slightly amused by the situation, waived the stranger through, who had not stopped hobbling and ignored orders. “Go help him,” Farenda waived a hand, and added “or her.” Hesitantly, the two men moved forward. “Or it.” Captain Hameln joked and Farenda winked over at him. The stranger collapsed in the arms of the two guards, as both quickly searched the body with their free hands. “Any identification?” General Farenda called out to her guards. While she spoke, Hameln noticed that Farenda’s hand never even flinched to the saber at her side. She was completely relaxed. “Here!” The guardsman, holding up the stranger’s right shoulder, shouted and

raised his other hand. There, clutched in the guardsman dry and cracked fingers, was an ornate dagger with a foot and a half long blade. The recognizable symbol of the Order of Populla was etched onto its blade, an ouroboros. This dagger was common among the agents of the order and it boasted a ruby at the pommel, with a snake wrapping around the top of the handle, to form a hand guard. The handle was wrapped in leather and gilded in silver, while the blade was made of skillfully crafted steel. These daggers were famous and prized among all peoples. The assassins of Populla were famous and protected by the crown of Molina. Witnessing the brilliant dagger, General Farenda’s mouth turned up in a sneer. “My sister has sent us one of her watch dogs.” General Farenda shook her head, in visible contempt at seeing the dagger. “General, who is this man?” Captain Hameln, confused, watched the guardsman return the dagger. “He came from the wastes.” “Yes, you are not familiar with these cultists, Captain. You should thank your cleansing for that.” Farenda waived a hand dismissively. “This man is an agent of our religious order. He is the eyes of my sister.” The General looked around at her men, with narrowed eyes and a suspicious look. “Our illustrious Queen thinks me incompetent.” General Farenda motioned for the stranger to be brought in. Then, she turned to the Captain. “See that the gate is closed and get some rest. You look horrid. Same with you two.” Farenda turned to the two guardsmen. “Thank the grey that you two witnessed something real this time. I might have had your heads, if that stranger was another phantom.” General Farenda clapped Kylio and Syllio on their shoulders. All three saluted to their general and hurried back up to the eastern tower. The portcullis rattled as it was raised behind the General’s guard, and the stranger. The stranger was a man with a head of curly black locks, and his thick black beard had grown wild from travel. His eyes were closed and it appeared as though he had fallen asleep. His long nose hooked over his small lips, while bushy black eyebrows grew like two caterpillars out of his pale skin. He posed a lack luster figure, and this effect was not made better by his sickly state. In fact, his pale skin almost appeared translucent in the overcast climate. General Farenda, deciding nothing was to come of talking to such an exhausted individual, left him in the hands of her guards. He would need some nursing, before any useful information could be had from him.

“What shall we do with him, General?” The guardsmen stirred the General from her thoughts and she paused before answering. “Give him a room in the officers’ quarters. See that he gets food and beer, but do not let him leave, or go nosing about.” General Farenda wagged her finger sternly and the two guardsmen nodded in reply, before they dragged the new arrival off into the town. Lluwaire was once a bustling fortified city, but now it was only inhabited by soldiers that were more ghosts than men.

WHEN THE STRANGER STIRRED from his temporary coma, General Farenda could be found in the Supply Master’s office. His office was located in the general’s quarters, so she could keep an eye on them, and the supply counts. Since the supply officer shared space with the quarter officer, the two gentlemen agreed to share living space, with two beds crammed in the quarter of the small room. The room was small for two men, let alone the addition of General Farenda. However, no one complained because this small room had a brazier, and the General could have them beheaded. It was generally considered dangerous to have fires near living spaces, but, with so much work to be done, none raised the concern. Also, it was bitterly cold, even in doors; a fact that men complained about daily. Although, the overt complaints had quieted down over time. Instead, the complaining had turned into a quiet and bitter sentiment among the men, and rationing had not helped this situation. Furthermore, sickness was taking ahold of many in the ranks. The supply officer was at his wits end, and the quarters’ officer wasn’t having a great time of it either. “We need that supply shipment,” an exasperated Supply Master suddenly voiced his thoughts, in an abrupt outburst. “We have cellars filled with metal and crystal, but we can’t very well eat or drink iron and emeralds.” The Supply Master pounded his fist on the table, as the other two stared at him in surprise. The three sat in the cramped quarters, around an oak table covered in documents of parchment paper. After the supply officer had slammed his fist on the table, ink spilled over one of his documents. Cursing, the supply officer tried to shake off the ink from one of the cellar manifests. “The General already told you, we have to wait.” The Quarter Master spoke sharply to his compatriot. “Having a meeting without me, General?” The stranger arrived and pushed his way into the tiny room. “I apologize master spy, but you will have to stand. We have no more chairs.” The supply officer smartly commented to the newcomer, receiving a smirk from the General. “What would you have of me, priest?” General Farenda smugly stretched out her legs, accidentally stamping her heels on the stranger’s foot on the process.

“General,” the stranger hissed in pain as he shook off the insults, “I am not here to usurp or undermine you. I am loyal to The Order, the crown, and you.” “In that order?” General Farenda raised an eyebrow playfully, but the stranger ignored it. “I am called Pipen.” “Really? I hear you priests each gain a new name with every new kill.” The Quarter Master ed the sarcastic comments of his comrades. “So, what will your new name become?” “Some... call me the aristocrat.” Pipen blankly replied, clearly without a proper response. “I’ve heard of you!” The supply officer held up a finger in sudden revelation. “Didn’t you assassinate a baby? That must have been very difficult for you. I bet the baby put up quite a fight, probably quite a fright as well. I can only wonder how you managed that impeccable operation.” While the supply officer derided him, the stranger simply curled his mouth in disgust, but made no reply. “Well... Pipen, if you managed to make your way across the wastes, then you must be a very capable individual.” All three, although they tried hard to hide their discomfort, were unable to hide it from this priest. However, Pipen, the agent of the Order, made no show of his knowledge. The Order of Populla was infamous, and nearly everyone was nervous around the order’s priests. They were said to practice the vilest and most powerful of magics on the continent. “I thank the ArchPopulla, may he live a thousand lifetimes, for my success in this journey. It was sad to hear of the loss of Laene.” “How did you make it across that frozen desert?” The quarter officer, although maintaining a sarcastic demeanor, crossed his arms and leaned away from the stranger. “Well... since the Long Road is watched by men of the Bandit King Ardel, I had no choice but to go by way of the wastes. I took a boat as far as I could go, on the eastern river from the Hohen Kingdom. Although, my guide wouldn’t pilot his barge far past the Golden Point. I took only a mule and myself into the wastes, but the mule died about seven days into my journey.” As Pipen spoke,

the awe showed on the faces of his audience, and all wondered how he had navigated the wastes, let alone survived its inhospitable environment. “That is no king! He is a mere bandit! A brigand!” The Supply Master, still grasped in the throes of anxiety, slammed a fist once again on the table. Having forgotten the earlier moment, the Supply Master cursed again as the ink spilled on his papers. “Yes, he does call himself a king. He does have many people under his command.” Pipen spoke matter of factly, with a cold tone to his voice that sent chills up the spines of his audience. “What makes a man a king?” “He is the least of our worries right now.” General Farenda dismissed the subject, wanting to move onto more pressing issues. “So, why are you here, master Pipen?” the General leaned forward and began absentmindedly scanning reports. “Would you like some wine?” General Farenda stretched out her hand, grasping a goblet, but kept her eyes away from Pipen’s direction. Pipen waived his hand in reply, wishing to see whether Farenda was watching him, and she was. The goblet was retracted, and the General took a long drink. “I know that you all think that I am a spy for the court, but, in reality, I was sent here on the direction of the Order.” “At the behest of my sister for sure. The Order of today is not the same as the previous one. It changes with every Populla.” General Farenda spoke coldly and would not look up from her reports. “She was the one who initiated the request sure. She simply wants to help and give you all resources at her disposal, to take back Laene.” Pipen calmly retorted, attempting to hide his disdain. “There is only one Populla. From shadow, he renews his form every generation.” “Really?” General Farenda finally turned to face Pipen. With the many subjects circling, Pipen was unsure to which Farenda had replied. “If she wanted to help, she would send reinforcements.” General Farenda’s answer told Pipen which subject was most important to her. “Do we look in any shape to retake Laene? We can hardly hold this fortress and we don’t even have any enemies in our vicinity. She hasn’t sent boots or food either, both of which we need more than a single sickly priest.” General Farenda waived a hand dismissively, and she was snarling. “Captain Rulino, apprise our esteemed guest of the situation here.”

General Farenda snorted and returned to the reports. “Yes, General.” The Supply Master breathed heavily and sat up in his chair, attempting to look imposing. However, the Supply Master’s efforts did nothing to the cold assassin, Pipen, who was now squatting in the corner. “We suffered a major defeat at Laene, and we lost nearly an entire legion there. Some were taken prisoner, but most are dead. We lost a further sector on the march back, and we are losing more to sickness by the day. Furthermore, we lost a line of the Canari. Thankfully, all of our artillery remained intact. In total, we have over four thousand men lost! We haven’t had a shipment of supplies from the sea for nearly three months now. We are low on all resources, except for the ore and crystal from the mines, but we cannot eat crystal, nor wear ore!” The Supply Master slammed his fist on the table again, cursing once more as the ink spilled. “You are shite with your memory.” The Quarter Master laughed, as he watched the Supply Master clean up the mess. “So, there is no plan to take Laene?” Pipen calmly and coldly posed a question, which enraged General Farenda. “Would you see the entire Protectorate Army in ruin! We have barely around twenty thousand, and even less that are fighting fit. We simply need more supplies to get the other, roughly eight-thousand, ready. They are in a poor state, and on the brink of catching the Grey Fever.” General Farenda calmed herself, realizing how she was sounding, and she hated Pipen for gaining a rise out of her. “We simply cannot handle more losses, which we will have if we try to seize Laene in Second Division’s current state. We also cannot divert too many forces from this fortress, or we risk losing it to the Kingdom of Lumaine. A further thousand is split between Fort Farenda and Front Water. They cannot be diverted either. Therefore, I was hoping that my sister would send Third Division to reinforce our position, but she only sent you.” “We have dispatched falcons to both the Hohen Kingdom and the Tribes.” The Supply Master, Captain Rulino, took up the banner of speaking. “The Hohen Kingdom denied our requests for supply ships. The Hohen crown told us that outlaws and pirates had taken control of the Serpent’s Straight and they are afraid of losing more ships. The Hohen King had the audacity to ask us to bring a shipment of ore over land!”

“We all know who sent that reply. It wasn’t the Hohen King, that’s for sure.” The Quarter Master ed in, momentarily touching Captain Rulino’s shoulder. “No, it certainly wasn’t.” The Supply Master was smug as he shook his head in disgust. “Are you talking about the Count von Broagh?” Pipen responded with a flair of his wrist. “That cunt is still bitter over losing a duel to the General. I know if the king received our letter, then we would get a shipment. That shite of a whoreson, Count Pisspants, would rather we all die and starve to death here.” “What about the Tribes?” Pipen was undisturbed by the imioned outburst of the Captain Rulino, nor by the General’s lack of regard for the Captain’s disrespect of royalty. The Supply Master was too upset to continue, so the Quarter Master took over. “They said they would send a shipment, but that was weeks ago. We fear that if they indeed sent a shipment, then it was intercepted by Lumaine or pirates. Also, I don’t know if you are aware, but an embargo was called on Laene and Ardel’s bandit kingdom.” “The embargo has been ignored, hasn’t it?” Pipen blatantly stated his assumption and the Quarter Master nodded in reply. “Indeed, priest, it has. An expedition to harass Ardel’s patrols around Laene discovered that Ardel is well provisioned. Furthermore, someone delivered shipments of fine clothing and spices to Laene. Spices! Those bleeding virgins have fucking spices!” The Quarter Master raised a fist to slam on the table, before winking at the Supply Master and retracting it. “We are at our wits end. Perhaps you could be of some help, after all.” General Farenda finally looked up from her papers and looked over at Pipen. “Do you want me to deliver your message to the Hohen King?” “You would go back into the wastes after just coming from there?” General Farenda narrowed her eyes, likely looking for signs of madness.

“If that is what is required me, yes. I am here to do my duty.” Pipen lowered his head, placing his right palm in the center of his chest, the salute given by of the Order. “No, even if you could reach the Hohen king, and survived the wastes a second time, no shipment would reach us before we all starved to death.” General Farenda placed an elbow on the table. “What do you have in mind, General?” Pipen, his voice rising slightly in curiosity, remained unmoving in his corner of the room. “Who wants to get out of this stuffy room. It smells like sack and pit sweat in here.” General Farenda slapped the table, cursing as the ink spilled again. “Will you get that shite off the papers!” She snapped at the Supply Master, who sheepishly place the cork on the ink well. “I’ll second that,” the Quarter Master replied, while laughing. “Here are the reports from the expeditions surveillance.” Farenda handed a couple papers to the Supply Master. “Come we have some prisoners held here. Perhaps you would like a crack at them. Perhaps, information could be had for the use of a whip, or maybe you could use your dagger.” General Farenda stood and stretched, before nodding at the dagger on Pipen’s waist. “Torture is not in my purview, General.” Pipen flatly responded, as the two Captains stood and stretched also. After, Captain Rulino doused the brazier next to the beds. “You have other skills that are valuable though, but I’m still not certain which those are, besides assassination. You did survive the wastes, so that is something.” General Farenda spoke plainly, as the group exited into the cramped hallway of the General’s quarters. The General had taken her felt bicorn hat, and placed it atop her head, as she exited the room. Her Captains wore two frayed tricorn hats, colored in grey with faded red embroidery on the edges. Pipen simply wore a plain grey cap with the sides rolled up. While the three continued talking, they made their way through a maze of stone corridors. Soon, they came to a spiral staircase, with torches lit along the walls. “How can I be of service, General?” Pipen asked after a period of silence.

“We are planning a new expedition to Laene, but there are some preparations to be made first.” General Farenda pulled her wild shoulder length hair, caked in dirt and sweat, back into a matted tail. She fastened the tail with a faded red strip of cloth. “Although, before any preparations, we must capture one of these traders first, and their shipment. Perhaps, if this expedition is successful, we will have supplies to hold us over another year, or at least until one of the Tribal supply ships reaches us.” “Hopefully, the supply ships will reach us sooner.” Captain Rulino off-hardly commented, as the group made their way down the staircase. “Captured shipments will bring valuable resources either way.” Pipen added a comment, to show that he was understanding the conversation. “Precisely, any sort of victory against Ardel and his men is desirable.” While the General spoke, the group reached the bottom of the stairs and a thick oak door. Captain Rulino took hold of the brass ring and pushed the heavy door open. Then, the group stepped out into the elements, and were immediately assailed by a brisk wind. They each squinted against the wind and pulled their cloaks tighter. Out in the courtyard, fifteen men were blindfolded and on their knees, with their arms tied behind their backs. A minstrel was playing a soulful tone. This was the song of Populla, ushered forthe from the minstrel’s old and rotting violin. Although the music was played very well, the minstrel’s instrument was in need of repair. Some of the musical notes fell off, or erupted in a biting screech. There were no more words to be had, not only because of the howling wind, but also the jarring music. A gathering had formed around the minstrel and the captives, and when the General stepped into the overcast courtyard, a cheer went up from the mob of grey and faded red uniforms. Then, these men, that loved their General, ed voices in a slow and deep song. The minstrel’s tune changed to an ecstatic rhythm, with an almost sarcastic tone. This was the odd song of House Karolinda, to which General Farenda belonged. Look, look, up there on that old mountain, Oh, see, see up there on that old mountain, Look, look up on that high rock, See, see that old fountain

Oh, see that old fountain of our iron and blood, Up on that old mountain so high Look, look, up on that old mountain so cold, See, see, where no rivers flow. Look, look here my brothers, we wear the cloak of a thousand years, See, see, as the mighty Populla ascends the height, Oh, my brothers, my sisters, never forget Oh, oh, never, never, forget, How the wind blows on that old mountain so near, How the wind blows on that old mountain so dear, The anthem of House Karolinda was carried by the wind, as General Farenda waived a hand. The blindfolds were taken from the prisoners. They all had terror written across their features, with most crying and urinating in their tattered breaches. Some were barely wearing any clothes, as the clothes had been stolen by their guards, and other soldiers. The Karolinda anthem was famous, and the captives all knew what it signaled. Their stifled pleas, made through gags of dirty cloth, went unheard, as they were drowned out by singing, and the minstrel’s violin. General Farenda held out a hand and Coronel Tilio, recently appointed commander of the second brigade, handed General Farenda a loaded pistol. She then simply pointed and fired. The resounding crack of igniting powder cut through the air sharply, and the courtyard fell silent. All held their breath, save for the minstrel, who kept drawing the bow across his violin. Then, the body of the prisoner toppled to the ground. A hole had appeared where his eye had once been, and thick black ooze seeped out onto the grey rock below his still pinkish face. The other prisoners were shocked, and then they started to whimper and cry even harder, as General Farenda unsheathed her saber. With one slash, another prisoner cried out. Red liquid blossomed from his shoulder, where a portion of his body now hung off, like a tree limb attached only by a strip of bark. She made three more slashes, and the prisoner’s mangled body fell apart. Screams and shouts of pleasure erupted as the mob ed in. General

Farenda backed away, and the prisoners were hacked to pieces by gleeful soldiers. Pipen looked on in cold understanding.

Chapter Two

The Grey Rangers

Within the old city fortress of Lluwaire, the grey clad band of Molinese warriors, and the agent of Populla, prepared to depart. Out of the few horses that Molina had, the group would take three for provisions, drawing a small and wooden two-wheel cart. Accompanying the cart, Pipen and a group of forty men were finishing up their final supply inspections. Pipen simply stood by, as he watched starving soldiers hurry about in their decrepit clothing. While the priest watched the others absent mindedly, General Farenda approached, followed by her entourage of twenty guards, which included five high ranking officers, and a handful of attendants. “Is everything prepared for your journey, commander?” While speaking, General Farenda strode up to the soldier in charge of the expedition. Standing in front of the cart with a scroll, Prefecta Arto Constonto had been directly assigned to this expedition by the General herself. He wheeled around on a heel and immediately saluted his General. “We will be ready soon, my General, but I must...” Prefecta Constonto was cut off by a raised hand from Farenda. “I understand your grievance, commander. This mission is too important to entrust to anyone else. You are a fine officer, and I put my faith in you. I and all the souls here depend on your success. You know all too well of the situation that we face here. I will here no more objections. You simply cannot fail.” General Farenda spoke quickly, and allowed no room for speech from Constonto, alluding to many heated discussions with the prefecta. “Understood, my general.” Constonto’s voice was somber, but his expression betrayed no emotion, it was a motionless slab of granite. After all, he was a field promoted officer, commanding the Eleventh Legion of General Farenda’s

division. Rising from humble beginnings, Prefecta Constonto’s appointment ruffled many feathers. He was the son of a miner from Molina. Despite this less than ideal upbringing, Constonto had set himself apart as a raiding master. He was General Farenda’s first choice when conducting missions of daring and danger. She had seen firsthand the tactical genius and tenacity of the young man, since he had ensured the Protectorate army’s escape from Laene. Additionally, the prefecta stood only a few inches above the tall Farenda herself, his stiff and black embroidered color keeping his chin up and eyes forward. The man had the military bearing of an iron statue, and a personality to match. His face was a clean shaven and well sculpted work of art, with muddy brown eyes set upon high cheek bones. Also, his face was oval, with a jutting chin and slightly up turned nose. His thin lips, set firmly under his perfect nose, were cracked and scabbed from days of extreme hardship. While he was rather lanky, the prefecta’s men could attest to the man’s strength and dexterity. Even dressed in a ragged uniform, the man struck an imposing figure of Molina’s military might. In fact, he was General Farenda’s poster child of excellence. “Where is the officer that spotted my approach from the battlements?” Pipen interjected, not turning around, nor betraying any sign of interest. “What gall does this priest show!” General Farenda turned towards the priest, her face flushed and hard. “Who? Captain Hameln?” General Farenda placed a hand on Pipen’s shoulder, with a curious expression on her face. “No, the other one, Syllio?” Pipen simply replied, unshaken by the General’s foul mood, caused by Pipen’s own lack of decorum. “Oh, I am not certain.” General Farenda was taken aback. “He must be that Sergeant from the Black Sector of the 10th.” General Farenda’s eyes narrowed in contemplation. “I believe you mean Corporal, General. I know him.” One of the band’s snipers, Finen Raveno, spoke up suddenly. He was leaning against the band’s provisions cart, while two horses were being attached to its front. The sniper wore a sad excuse for a uniform, missing many buttons on his grey coat. In fact, his coat was the only thing that distinguished the marksman from a commoner. “I know what I said.” General Farenda smiled and winked at the slovenly man. “I’ll go and get him.” The marksman sighed, stood, and headed off towards the

east tower. Some of the officers around General Farenda scowled in contempt. They were not happy about the state that the army found itself in, but most knew to keep their opinions secret. The last time punishment for insubordination, or lack of decorum, had taken place was under the command of the previous general. In fact, the appointment of General Farenda as supreme commander of the Protectorate had been met with sour contempt. Not simply due to her sex, the General’s qualifications and terrifying reputation proceeded her. This gave the other generals under her a fright like none other, which hardly matter, since they all perished at Leane. However, most other soldiers had warmed to the resolute and darkly humored general, save for those officers that held onto the belief of a uniform military, and desired the old generals to return from the grave. Also, ever since the flight to Lluwaire, the general had not bothered to appoint any to the old generals’ positions. Thus, she was the only to hold the title. General Farenda was distinctly aware of those that might usurp her power, but they were few. Molina’s Second Division had transformed into a family of cutthroats and brigands under her, and she was a self-proposed murderer herself. The men loved her, and she them, while those officers of a more noble nature apposed her elevation of commoners, but they could do nothing. This opposition led to many executions in the early days, and many of her ers blamed those particular officers for their defeat at Laene. “You must have been disappointed to get this posting.” General Farenda walked up beside Pipen, as the two watched soldiers going about their business. Fortunately, most of the final preparations had been complete, as the group simply waited on Finen’s arrival with Syllio. “I harbor no such feelings, General. I am a servant of shadow and the eyes of his almighty voice. I am his blade, his ears, his hands, his feet, and his soul. I serve nothing but shadow. I shall take no partner to my bed, nor any life. The shadows are my mistresses, and the darkness my desire.” “The Oath of Shadow...” General Farenda’s voice waivered slightly, as Pipen mechanically spoke the words of his order. “Will you give the Benediction of Shadow to the men before you depart?” “This is customary, as such there is no need to request it of me.” Pipen payed no mind to the searching look that Farenda responded with, but noticed a newcomer stroll up to the cart. “Who is this?” Pipen smiled and looked down at his feet. A

cat with grey and black fur, and two miss colored eyes, pressed up against his leg. “That is Finen’s cat.” Prefecta Sipio Herodito spat; the leader of the Ninth Legion, and a Lord of Molina. He stood by to watch, along with a small crowd, to watch the band of adventurers depart. “What is his name?” Pipen scooped the cat into his arms, as the grey creature purred delightfully. No one answered, and Pipen turned to General Farenda, who stared back blankly. “Illylia,” General Farenda finally replied, with no expression. “Named for our Queen Regent,” Pipen smiled, as he scratched the cat’s exposed white belly. “Yes,” Prefecta Constonto coldly replied to the question, before changing the subject. “We have no time to lose, the day is growing late, and we must depart, my General.” Prefecta Arto Constonto briskly approached from the other side of the supply cart. “All is ready for our march to Fort Farenda. We must depart before our journey is hampered by dusk. Our path is two days, unless we are delayed longer.” “I am aware of this, Arto.” General Farenda was visibly distraught. “Do not worry about the benediction, General. The shadows are with us always.” Pipen placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Then, he turned to Prefecta Constonto. “Let us depart then.” “You do not issue orders here, priest.” Prefecta Herodito harshly remarked to Pipen. “Go then, may the shadows follow you on your path.” General Farenda saluted Prefecta Constonto. In response, he returned the gesture and all other soldiers present, including the other officers, gave the same salute. Then, the caravan moved forward and the grey clad warriors took up positions. Fifteen soldiers marched behind, while twenty marched in front of the supply wagon. All carried their own provisions, which led Pipen to wondering why these much-needed supplies were accompanying them. Pipen himself, the Prefecta, and two marksmen sat atop the wagon, while two more of the Mountain Hawk far

shooters drove the cart. Pulling the cart, the breath of the two mares could be seen in the chilly eastern air. Their whinnies told of their exertions, as they trotted forward, pulling against the wooden frame.

THE SMALL BAND OF LULWAE Protectorate Raiders, in their Molinese tattered grey and red uniforms, headed south on the Long Road, soon to arrive at their first stop: Fort Farenda. The troupe chanted marching songs, sang upbeat ballads, and spoke about far away lovers, as a method to the time. The song of the Old Mountain and The Lady of the Mine were popular choices. In fact, Pipen had heard them so often that the songs had lost their meaning. Now, the group had taken to sharing rides in the cart and now it was Pipen’s turn. Unfortunately, he sat across from Finen Raveno, who had drawn his turn at the same time. Two other Mountain Hawk marksmen, Syllio, and three infantrymen, ed Finen and Pipen. Also, Prefecta Constonto had taken to walking in the vanguard, with the ten other soldiers that had lost all semblance of a formation. Behind, the rest of the tired group hobbled in tow, and some of their faces were covered by rags, ridden with grey dust. Meanwhile, this group resting inside the wagon, being driven by two legionnaire infantrymen, took out some of their personal rations. Pipen himself only had a small supply of the Molinese protein blocks. Their food came from dried vegetables, dried fruits, and meat, all packed together into bricks. Called a road loaf by the soldiers, the brick was held together by a hardened flour paste, and sometimes honey. Pipen broke off a piece of one of his five bricks and gulped it down in a bite. “You will feel less hungry if you spend more time chewing.” Syllio, sitting next to Pipen, nudged the priest with his shoulder. “I have grown used to the feeling; it bothers me no longer.” Pipen blankly replied, as he closed his eyes for a brief rest. However, the chattering soldiers around him would allow no respite. “Could you tell us of our homeland, priest? It has been many moons since any of us have laid eyes on the mountain.” With a tone of boredom, one of the soldiers addressed Pipen. “The forest of rock is just as you all left it. The snow still forms on the highest peaks, the wind still blows across the heights, and travelers still cross through the Old City.” Pipen replied without opening his eyes. “Much is as you left it.” “Come now, priest. Surely, there is more news. The Renewal Ceremony will be taking place soon.” With his long rifle wedged in his armpit, Finen Raveno

broke off a piece of his road loaf. “Yes, indeed, preparations for the Renewal Ceremony were taking place during my departure. If I might pose a query, how many moons has it been since any of you have seen the capital?” Pipen sat up, opening his eyes, and looked around at the dry and cracking soldier’s faces. “For me, eighty-four have ed, since I last laid eyes on the Old City.” Finen, slightly leaning to his side, looked over at Pipen with an empty expression. “There are many that were not so lucky. They saw few moons and will never lay eyes on the Old Mountain again. We have to take back Laene, before any of us will have leave to visit once more.” There was a bitterness to Finen’s voice and almost a hint of resentment. “I left my love at the Rose Guild, when I left. She always smelled like lilacs and honeybees.” Syillio had a smile on his face and a sad expression behind his eyes. “She had a perfectly shaped bottom, like two enormous goose eggs.” Syllio, still smiling, made a motion with his cloth covered hands. The cloth looked as though it had once belonged to a pair of frayed socks, but now used as gloves with moth eaten holes. “Honeybees do not have a smell.” One of the other Mountain Hawks laughed and kicked Syllio’s boot. “Tell us, what does it smell like? Sweat and lady crotch?” “Like this?” Grinning, Finen pulled a small amber vial out from under his tattered grey jacket. “Are you mad? You could be shot for that?” One of the other legionnaires glanced around to see if any others had noticed, but only blank stares looked back. “Pilfering can have you court-martialed, and then executed; by fire, hanging, powder and shot, or anything that strikes the general’s whim really.” “Oh, keep your skirt on, you will be happy that I only took a small amount. This is a long and perilous journey that we embark on. We will need it more than those lazy bones in the fortress.” Finen laughed, but he gained no applause for his lighthearted demeanor. “None of you are going to knife me over this, will you?” Finen grinned, almost daring any to try. “Only as long as you share,” The Mountain Hawk next to Finen, the one that had

kicked Syllio, glared at Finen with an antagonizing look. “Tell us, priest, do you have a woman to return to?” Finen looked over at Pipen, and all other eyes directed their attention to the priest as well. “I am an agent of Populla, we take no women to our beds.” Pipen replied calmly, but there was a venom behind his words. “This is a part of the Oath of Shadow, which you should all be capable of reciting.” “Our childhood schooling was many cycles ago, and now we are students of blood and fire, more so than shadow.” Finen scoffed at Pipen’s words, and the other chuckled. “Besides, no one believes that the order takes no mistresses. After all, there are rumors that Populla has a whole harem to himself. Most of you are simple frauds, speaking piety, but living a life of gross luxury. You do this while we bleed and die, out here in the Grey.” Finen lowered his head slightly, pleased at the expression of disgust that entered Pipen’s face. “Hold your tongue! Populla is the Master of Shadows. You are not worthy to even utter his name.” Pipen stood up in the wagon, his face flushed red. However, the priest quickly regretted this action, as the cart hit a bump, and he almost tumbled out the back. “This journey will be long indeed, if you are going to hold onto that holy manner.” Finen smiled tenderly, hoping to appease Pipen. However, the priest betrayed no expression of accepting Finen’s condescending gesture. Uncomfortable, the rest of the ride was taken in silence, until other soldiers rotated in, for a respite from marching.

UPON ARRIVAL AT FORT Farenda, Pipen realized that not only Lluwaire was in a perilous state, as far as nature was concerned. The sloped and weather greyed walls of stone, had the infectious grey moss covering their surfaces. Also, it covered the wood and earthen outer bulwarks. Even the garrison at Lluwaire took care to clear away the mildly toxic substance. In fact, many believed the moss to be the cause of the Grey Fever, but scholars at Molina had found no truth to this claim. Nevertheless, the presence of the moss at Fort Farenda truly showed the state of the place’s decay. “Brandel! Give me a status on those walls!” Close to five hundred yards away, Prefecta Constonto shouted for a Mountain Hawk far shooter to scan the battlements. The far shooter, strolling along the opposite side of the cart, hurried up to the front, where he had a clear sight of the fort. The caravan halted, while the marksman kneeled and primed his long rifle, should there be need of it. The rest of the group followed suit. Some, having a ball already loaded and powder in the pan, still rammed their charging rod down the barrel, despite the effort being fruitless. They simply wanted to ensure their charges were sufficiently packed down, otherwise they might not fire. Meanwhile, Brandel leveled his rifle and peered through the sight glass, all the while crouching to hide his profile. “There appears to be no one on the battlements, Prefa. Shall I fire a searching shot?” Brandel calmly reported his news, as though he were simply on a hunt for rabbits. “No!” a bedraggled veteran, with blood shot eyes, and his black beard leaning to one side, jumped out of the cart and landed beside Prefecta Constonto. Finen! Take the hawks and set up off the road.” This was the commander of the Mountain Hawks, and he had been sleeping through the groups arrival. “Do we have time to dig up some cover?” Finen, appearing from the other side of the cart, playfully slung his long rifle over his shoulders, as if it were nothing but a light piece of rotted wood. “No, just crouch, or lay down, I don’t care. Just watch our backs.” Prefecta Constonto replied and Finen saluted lazily. Then, he hurried off the road, followed by the rest of the Mountain Hawk far shooters. “Good thinking

Telipilio,” Constonto nodded to his groggy Mountain Hawk commander, “and you should probably go them.” After addressing the commander, the prefecta turned to his other men. “Keep your wits about you, we will now cut the horses loose and leave the cart here.” He motioned to the two that had been driving the cart, and another to help. “Captain Vadriano, keep some men here to keep watch.” At a gesture from the prefecta, the cart was to be a makeshift barrier for the remaining men, and then he turned to the others. “These rest of you, with me.” Then, Prefecta Constonto untied one of the horses from its yoke and swung up onto of it. “Priest, care to take the other mare?” Motioning to the other horse, Constonto gave a slight nod of his head. “No thank you, I will remain on foot.” Pipen calmly replied, waiting for the other soldiers to by him. “That was not a request, priest. You must flee at the first sign of trouble, and make it back to Lluwaire.” Prefecta Constonto looked away from Pipen and faced forward towards the fort. Begrudgingly, Pipen strode forward and mounted his steed, a brown spotted mare, appearing as though she was close to her last moon. “Where you lead I follow, should we into shadow, may it be quiet and comfortable; in our beds, and after many moons. Populla, the master of shadow will guide us through our ing. Should we fall, he will watch over us through the darkness.” Following the benediction, which only the soldiers remaining at the cart could hear, Pipen spurred his mount into a trot, as he followed behind the advancing formation. Prefecta Constonto rode to the head, drawing his saber in the process. “Come now men! We know not what awaits us, be it bandits or friends, but we shall meet them with all the vigor of men of Molina.” Prefecta Constonto shouted and raised his saber, to lift the spirits of the road weary men. “Come now! Quick March!” The formation picked up the pace and so did the two mares, carrying Pipen and Constonto. The quick pace continued all the way up to the Fort’s gates. However, a tall greyed oak door barred their entry, and it stood on the other side of a ditch, full of razor-sharp man-sized stakes. The fort’s smooth and angled walls loomed two stories above the party, and seemed unclimbable. The grey lichen and moss were everywhere, casting an even greyer look to an already weather-beaten surface. Everything along the walls of the fort was grey, even the walls’ material.

“There are no guards, Prefa.” Syllio, panting from the run, lowered his musket to rest comfortably across his arms. “Keep your weapon at arms!” Prefecta Constonto snapped and brought his mare to a halt in front of the stake ditch. Naturally, Constonto was speaking to Syllio, who scowled and returned his weapon to his shoulder. “All hail the Queen on the Mountain!” Constonto called out, but the challenge fell on deaf ears. Surprisingly, there was no sign of inhabitants beyond the fort walls. “Well then...” Prefecta Constonto was flummoxed, as he placed his saber back into its sheath. Then, he spurred his horse into a gallop, to ride along the fort perimeter. Along the fortifications, he stopped four hundred yards away at the sea wall, barricading and protecting the fort’s docks. Constonto then rode back to the group, his face stricken with confusion. “There appear to be no ships in the harbor. It appears as though the fort is abandoned.” After Prefecta Constonto had finished speaking, he was proved wrong, as the walls began to creak. Slowly, they swung open. A husk of a man stood across from the expedition party, wearing a tattered Molinese infantryman’s uniform. He looked as though he had aged many years, and leaned on a crudely fashioned staff. “From where do you hail, fellow countrymen? North or South?” “North!” Constonto called back to young infantryman, who appeared old. “I am Prefecta Constonto and Commander of the Eleventh Legion, under General Farenda of House Karolinda. To whom do I address?” “I am named Private Publiono, of the White Sector, in the Second Legion.” “What has befallen Captain Trixio that his presence is not seen?” Prefecta Constonto proudly paced back and forth, astride his exhausted horse. “It is regretful that I must report, Captain Trixio has succumbed to the Grey Fever.” While the soldier spoke, Pipen looked over for a reaction from Constonto, but the Prefecta betrayed no emotion. “Private, let down the bridge and allow us to ?” Prefecta Constonto calmed his horse, and waited patiently for the response. “I must inform you that many have succumbed to the Grey Fever here, commander. It would not be safe for you and your men to enter. It would best serve you, and the lives of your men, to back North to the fortress.” The Private

bowed his rag covered face, resisting the dusty cold breeze that blew from the west. “We shall enter all the same, soldier. Now, lower the bridge!” The prefecta barked gruffly, avoiding any threats of forced entry. Without reply, the private responded to Constonto’s words and disappeared for a few moments. Constonto was worried that he was being ignored. However, after a short period of waiting, the soldier reappeared with a long wooden plank. He was carrying the load with five other soldiers, three on each side. “What has taken place with the draw bridge?” Realizing this plank was the bridge, Prefecta Constonto called out to the soldier, as Constonto rode under the wooden arch of the fort. “Sadly, it is in need of oil and has lost function.” The answer from the soldier’s mouth was unsatisfactory to Prefecta Constonto, who grumbled as he swung down from his horse. “Pipen, if you be so obliged, ride out and collect the hawks, and the others at the cart. I will take measure of the situation here.” Prefecta Constonto motioned for the soldier to lead on, not waiting for a reply from Pipen. “Don’t forget to return with the cart!” Prefecta Constonto called after Pipen, as the priest disappeared down the road.

Chapter Three

Fort Farenda

The grey fort, named for General Farenda, was in a very dark state. However, with the arrival of new faces, the fort was lively again. Not yet restored to its former glory, the small outpost had a few meager patrols along the battlements. Indeed, the Fort had been on its way to complete restoration, before the grey fever struck. Pipen feared that Prefecta Constonto would keep his rangers here, to help manage the place. Pipen would voice his concern that there was a mission to complete, and General Farenda was depending on them, but these men would not listen to him. Sooner or later, the rangers would have to leave, or risk contracting the fever themselves. Adding to the mood, the fort had torches along the walls and candles in doors, but the fort remained mostly dark. The majority of rooms were completely occupied by the sick. With all rooms occupied, the rangers from Lluwaire were forced to sleep outdoors, and it was fortunate that rain was not expected. Pipen surveyed the dark landscape beyond the fort, and the lack of a moon made the night that much darker. Pipen was soon ed by his nemesis, Finen Raveno, and his ridiculous cat. “I will make a soldier out of you yet, and if not a soldier, then a friend.” Finen, his cat Illyllia on his shoulder, lazily strolled up next to Pipen. “I will be these things to you, if you make yourself more devout.” Pipen, wearing the customary grey robes and black cloak of his order, was well protected against the biting cold. Still feeling the night though, he drew the cloak tighter around his shoulders. Even though there was no wind, the air around the fort had a strange chill to it. “Hah! It is more likely that my puss becomes a boy!” Finen laughed and scratched his cat between the ears. Although, the cat seemed not to notice the attention, and kept her eyes closed.

“It surprises me that a cat has survived this long here.” “You speak of dinner, I presume.” Finen, clasping his hands behind his back, which might have looked statesmanlike, in a different place. However, his tattered uniform, and accompanying civilian clothing, marked him uncivilized. “A far shooter of Farenda has its perks. Once even, we were respected in Molina.” “The far shooters still are respected in Molina. Your complaint is not with Molina, but, apparently, with her queen.” Pipen, glancing judgmentally over at Finen, eyed the soldier’s nearly feral cat. “May I ask you a slight thing, priest?” Finen glanced over at Pipen, watching Pipen’s reaction towards the cat. “We are far from Molina’s Court and your Temple, why bring a lone dagger? This weapon is barely useful out here, on this grey frontier. Where is your powder and shot? Where is your sword, or axe? Even a spear would be more useful for protection, would it not?” “Were I to need powder and shot, I would be quite useless with those tools.” Pipen, his stare unwavering, turned to face Finen. Although a highly trained soldier, Finen waivered under Pipen’s hard stare. “What do you mean, were you to need powder and shot?” “Simply because the many souls on this continent base their protection around such objects, does not require one as I to do so.” As Pipen spoke, Finen realized how commanding the priest was, and that Pipen stood nearly a foot above the tallest soldier in the rangers. However, the feeling ed as quickly as it had come. Suddenly, Finen suddenly realized that Pipen was actually shorter. Then, Finen thought that the priest might simply be slouching. Nervous under the priest’s stare, Finen turned back to face the darkness beyond the fort. “I meant no offense, priest.” Finen, shaken, chuckled lazily, to regain some of his composure. “What gave you the impression of an offense?” “You! I have no words for your manners. Are all priests of Populla humored in this way?” Finen, angry that the priest had such an effect on him, snapped at Pipen, with venom behind his words.

“Many are, yes. We are to distance ourselves from worldly cares. Our intention here is to watch over the living shadow.” “You may believe this of your ArchPopulla, but I don’t believe he received that dispatch. Is not he forever at the queen’s court?” Finen smirked and shifted his rifle, which leaned against his shoulder, opposite the cat. “Hold your tongue! Populla is the master of shadow and demands your respect, lest shadow devour you!” “Yes! Yes! Priest, I know of these superstitions.” Finen glared into the darkness, his voice becoming more and more irritated. “See for yourself, do you believe these to be superstitions?” Pipen gestured to the fort around the two, and Finen scoffed in reply. “This is the grey fever that we see here. Not your precious shadow. I have never seen shadow harm any living soul, but I have seen a man cleaved in half by iron shards, from a cracked cannon barrel. Even, I have seen a man burned alive under molten oil. Tell me priest, have you seen a man die, or even seen this pestilence before us? You live a privileged life in the city. You have seen nothing like the horrors of this frontier.” Finen, growing tired of standing on the battlements, turned to leave. However, he waited for Pipen to follow. However, the priest did not realize this at first. “You are correct, I have never seen this grey fever, but I have seen many souls lost in shadow.” Pipen scurried after Finen, after realizing that the soldier was descending the wooden stairs of the battlements. While following, Pipen kept his hands buried deep within the sleeves of his tattered robes, and Finen happily hummed a tune, energetically swinging the stock of his rifle. Finen was exaggeratedly marching ahead of the humble priest, and this gained a sour look from one of Finen’s ing compatriots. “This fever is something else. I have never seen anything like it, not even combat fatigue has such an effect.” Finen slowed down, as he struck up the previous conversation. “How often have you seen this fever occur?” Decidedly not picking up his pace, Pipen slowly caught up to Finen. The night was the darkest that the priest had ever seen, but the lanterns and torches cast enough of a glow for inhibited sight.

“Should not a priest know of these things?” Finen glanced back skeptically. “All I know is that scholars at Molina removed the grey moss as a suspect.” As he took a detour, Pipen lagged behind, his face drawn up in thought. Meanwhile, Finen looked back and noticed that the priest was no longer with him. Finen hurried back to catch up. However, it did not take long for Finen to close the distance, as Pipen was moving at a very slow pace. “The fever bares the sign of combat fatigue, but the grey fever strikes without warning, and on-mass. This sickness is more terrifying than an enemy force, outnumbering us ten to one.” Finen off-handedly remarked, while walking absentmindedly, as he was deep in thought. “At least with the grey fever, there is a chance to live.” Pipen gave an empty laugh. “Now, on to better things. Come, let us take stock of the pantry.” “Why not.” Finen looked around, as he and Pipen turned down a body ridden alleyway. There were decomposing corpses strewn all through the alley, and many were next to the barely conscious bodies of the sick. They all had sickly pale green skin, but the dead had white eyes, their pupils and irises completely gone. Pipen shivered, as he looked down the alleyway of disease and death. “Follow me,” Finen nervously spoke, his breath forming clouds. “I know of a short-cut through the fort’s Shadow Quarters.” “None, besides a priest of Populla, are permitted entry.” Pipen gasped at Finen’s words, even as the far shooter led the way towards a wooden building, which was surrounded by a small wooden wall. “Brace yourself!” Finen grasped two large bronze rings, attached to the tall oak doors of the wooden building. The bronze rings were held by four iron skeletons. The skeletons, set into the oak doors, were crudely crafted, and as large as Finen’s lanky cat. The deformed skeletons loosely grasped the bronze rings within their thin iron fingers. Despite this, Finen trusted their sturdiness, and threw the large oak doors open. Then, the two were greeted with a sight that neither would have expected. The light from the outside lanterns and torches cast a flickering glow across a room of bodies. The long room, a place of worship for the Order of Populla, was soon to become a mausoleum. Slight puffs of breath, visible from those closest to the door, told Pipen that these men were suffering, but alive. However, both

Pipen and Finen were shocked to see a figure that was not laying down. While all the other bodies were wrapped in rags, and lying naked on the cold wooden floor, as their clothes had been stolen, one figure was not like the rest. The silhouette of a man could be seen, crouching over a body closest to the door. Finen and Pipen watched the man, hovering over one of the sick. Then, they realized that this man was drawing a blade across his victim’s throat, effortlessly killing his fellow. Seemingly unaware of the newcomers, this man moved to the next body and slit that man’s throat. Unsure what to do, Pipen looked over at Finen, whose expression was petrified. “Do you know what has possessed this fellow? Why is he killing his own men?” Pipen was visibly puzzled, and nearly breathless from shock. However, Finen slowly turned to meet the priest’s gaze. Finen’s eyes were wide in terror and his whole body was tense. He gave no reply, but simply walked away from the wooden building. Pipen decided to stop the killings and drew his knife. Cursing Finen under his breath, Pipen entered the wooden building, and approached the shadowy figure. Then, a hand pulled Pipen back, and Finen had returned. He was to keep Pipen from rescuing these sick men. “We need to leave this place, now...” Finen whispered sharply in Pipen’s ear, almost as if the far shooter was afraid of spooking the murderer. “We have to stop this!” Pipen barked at the far shooter, and wrenched his shoulder away from Finen. This outburst did startle the murdering figure, who immediately looked in the direction of the priest and the soldier. Then, the shadowy figure stepped forward into the lantern light. It was a Molinese soldier, wearing a similar uniform to that of Finen, and the murderer bore the same sickly skin color as the rest. However, this man had something strange behind his eyes. There was no recognition. In fact, it seemed as though this soldier saw nothing before him. Pipen felt a sinking feeling penetrate his stomach, as his eyes made with the sick man’s dead stare. “He is sick; we must help him.” Despite Pipen’s pleas, Finen’s reply came in one word. “Run!”

FINEN, NORMALLY VERY talkative, had not spoken since the party had left Fort Farenda. He quietly rode in the back of the cart and stared out into the grey expanse. On the other hand, Prefecta Constonto, regal as ever, rode behind the cart. Paranoid of an ambush, Prefecta Constonto would periodically look through his hand sight glass. However, apart from these interruptions, nothing of note ed for some time. Most of the party was exhausted and half awake. In fact, it had been nearly two nights since the group had fled the Fort, and all were lazily slumbering in the back of the cart, and only a handful were walking on the ground. Normally, Prefecta Constonto would have abhorred this laziness, as it put undue stress on their horses. However, the previous events had shaken the group. None dared speak about the occurrence at Fort Farenda, none, save for Pipen. “That was not the work of shadow, back at the Fort.” “You nearly got us killed! You nearly got yourself killed!” Finen snapped at Pipen the Priest, as Finen’s face flushed red in anger. “Nothing could be done.” Private Publiono spoke; the soldier that had greeted the rangers at the Fort, had fled with them in their mad dash south. “Quiet! Private!” Finen spat, as he shouted at the fatigued soldier. “You will infect us all with your presence! You should leave us now!” “Raveno!” Prefecta Contosto shouted above the crazed far shooter, and galloped up to the cart. Whacking Finen over the head with his riding crop, Prefecta Constonto struggled to keep his tired horse in line. After his punishment, Finen sourly pouted, and turned to stare at the coast, and the deep blue waves beyond. “We require a respite soon.” Sergeant Syllio, who sat next to Pipen, was the first to speak up. The two sat a few seats down from Finen and all were watching the rolling waves of the ocean. “I am aware, but we must put distance between us and the fort.” Prefecta Constonto absent mindedly looked off into the grey expanse, opposite the coast to their left. “Prefecta!” Sergeant Syllio barked over at his commander, who was roused from

his waking dream. Shaking his head into alertness, Prefecta Constonto looked around at the tired faces. “Ok, we will rest down by the beach.” Prefecta Constonto, exhausted and barely awake in the saddle, finally relented. “The water won’t offer us any protection.” Finen Raveno scowled and commented sourly. “Raveno, outside Laene, when the fever took ahold of our camp?” Prefecta Constonto looked down from atop his horse at his unraveling far shooter. “There are many fevers, but exhaustion has claimed more men than any other.” Finen seemed to calm down, as he spoke, but his face took on a look of dejection and sadness. “Yes, the words of our brilliant General are most useful now. The fever may catch us and kill us, but if we carry on in this state, then death is assured.” Prefecta Constonto spoke to the air, as he had forgotten to face his audience. His words were slurred and his voice low, and yet, somehow, all heard him. At the very least, everyone got the sentiment. Without a moment to lose, the exhausted band of far shooters and footmen marched, or rode, onto the beach. They moved onto the cold grey sand and almost up to the waves. Nearly all the soldiers, exhausted and reaching the end of their determination, fell asleep. Those in the cart fell asleep immediately, and the mule did the same, held up by his straps. Finally, those, that stood, immediately collapsed onto the sand, and Prefecta Constonto fell asleep in his saddle. All were asleep, but Pipen, who wondered why they had not simply slept in the cart, and remained somewhat awake. Although, Pipen had not thought of this solution earlier. Pipen wondered to himself; what a strange effect panic and exhaustion has on the mind. He too drifted into the cold embrace of dreamless sleep, as the calming sound of the rolling waves covered the footsteps of approaching men, further down the beach. The entire band of soldiers, deep in sleep, were unaware of these newcomers. They came up the long road from the south, and soon noticed the party of sleeping soldiers. These visitors were dressed in grey rags, wore very long beards, and boasted hairy torsos. They were lanky and wild. Their eyes lit up at the sight of the soldiers, as they were unable

to believe their luck.

Chapter Four

Savage Barbarians

The rangers, clad in grey and exhausted from their trek south, had been taken unawares. After reaching an extreme point of exhaustion, the grey rangers, of General Farenda’s Lluwae Protectorate, were taken prisoner. Now, Pipen the Aristocrat, and Priest of the Order of Populla, awoke in bondage. He was disoriented. In addition, he could feel bindings around his wrists and ankles. It didn’t take long for Pipen to realize that he was in the back of a cart, which was the very one that the grey rangers had traveled south on. At first, Pipen thought he might have been betrayed by the rabble of undisciplined soldiers that he was traveling with. However, after a brief survey of the cart, Pipen realized that he was not alone. Prefecta Constonto, still unconscious, was laying right next to Pipen. In fact, Pipen could feel the commander’s hot breath on the back of his neck. In front of Pipen, lay another far shooter from the group. From what Pipen could tell, all their hands and feet were bound also. Pipen rustled in his restraints and felt for the dagger in his belt. The sheath was there. However, after glancing under his cloak, Pipen realized that his sheath was empty. Voices could be heard outside of the wagon, but Pipen could not recognize the language. Furthermore, the walls of the cart were too high for Pipen to see over, from his prone position. He was careful to breath lightly, not wanting to give away his state of awareness. Once his wits had slowly come back to him, Pipen glanced around at the seats on the side of the cart. They were empty. Fortunately, Pipen was not lying on the hard-wooden floor of the cart, but on top of their supplies. The cart had been filled with sacks of food for the journey. Oddly, the purpose of these supplies had been unknown to Pipen. Even now, Pipen wondered why their captors had not helped themselves to the food. Also, Pipen had been aware that no extra weapons accompanied the troop south. Now, Pipen thought that he might know why. Whoever these strange robbers were, they had already collected up all the weapons from the group, but touched none of the supplies. Perhaps, they were simply transporting their newfound prisoners and the supplies together, to be more efficient. Naturally, these abductors would not leave weapons with the

prisoners, and had taken them. Surely, since the cart could not fit the entirety of his intrepid band, some must be on the outside of the cart. Therefore, Pipen assumed that they must have been thrown atop Prefecta Constonto’s horse. “Aye, Pipen, you awake?” A harsh whisper came from behind the groggy priest. This voice was easily recognizable as Finen Raveno. “Shh. You’ll alert our abductors.” “What? These smelly fornicators, they are simply swamp creatures; about as much harm as a deranged fish.” As Finen spoke callously and loudly, a thud erupted from the back of the wagon. Someone behind them had struck the wood with a heavy object. A response came from outside, in the language that Pipen could not understand, but he surmised the message. The angry voice wanted Finen to be quiet. Of course, Finen would not oblige the guard. “These are just the bird shit that live in the swamp and they only come out to tease the cocks of good soldiers.” Finen laughed raucously, as more hammering came from the back of the wagon. “Populla shall guide us through shadow, as we on from this world. Populla, the mighty master of shadow, will watch over us, as we descend, for shadow sees all, and we all will be judged righteously.” “What are you mumbling about over there, priest.” Finen still chuckling, had caused the grieved guard to climb over the back of the wagon. Pipen glance up, out of the corner of his eye, and perceived a man that Finen had perfectly described. The lanky, hunched, and scraggily man did look like a creature of a swamp. However, this man, smelling like a stale fart, was grey from head to toe. The first thought that came to Pipen was, how could this man be so grey? The thought left him quickly, as Pipen noticed the dagger in the man’s loin cloth. Pipen kept himself from gasping in shock. The man had Pipen’s dagger stuffed directly down the front of his loincloth. Because of this, Pipen bit down on the side of his mouth, to keep from making an angry outburst. Meanwhile, Finen continued to antagonize the strange man. “Come here angry swamp rodent. Bring your stale maggot cock here. I’ll make it happy for you so that I can be free and shove it down your throat.” While Finen continued to berate the ornery man, Pipen noticed the sharp hatchet in the man’s cloth belt, and the rifle the man carried over his shoulder. The swamp man was using the rifle to carry two large sacks, and Pipen wondered if the man even knew how to use the weapon.

He must have poached it from one of the rangers. Among other things, Pipen also wondered how the skinny man was not cold. The grey man did wear a tattered heavy grey coat, which was a familiar Molinese military cloak, but not much else. As Pipen studied their captor, the grey man savagely stomped on Finen’s body. The brazen far shooter grunted, as a barefoot landed on his ribs. Still chuckling, Finen coughed from the blow. “What of all the whores in the shadow world is this?” Another of the soldiers in the cart awoke from the commotion. This seemed to aggravate the grey swamp man even more, who shouted something in his strange language. Prefecta Constonto, who Pipen felt rustling from behind him, replied to the man in his own language. This started a conversation between the two, bringing more questions to Pipen’s mind. After a brief exchange, the man left the inside of the cart, and disappeared behind the cart’s wooden wall. “What was that about?” Finen, still chuckling and coughing, requested answers from Prefecta Constonto. “Shut your face hole, Finen.” Prefecta Constonto’s reply came with an annoyed tone. “It looks like we’re going to the swamps. The supplies that we brought appeased these warriors somewhat, and he said all will be well, as long as we make no trouble.” “Will they let us go?” Pipen realized how stupid the question was, after he had asked it. “They’re more likely to fuck us and then eat us.” Finen gave a sarcastic reply, which gained another shout from the stranger behind the cart. “We are lucky to be alive.” Prefecta Constonto interjected, before Finen could further complicate the situation. “We have a way to go before we reach the swamp, and it looks like there will be no respite at Front Water.” “Populla will guide us through this shadow.” Pipen attempted to console the prisoners, but only gained sounds of annoyance from the others. “This is a sad predicament we find ourselves in. Nothing good has ever come out of forgetting to post a watch.” Prefecta Constonto, in a dejected tone, stated the obvious to himself.

“If only we had rested earlier.” Finen smugly stated, as he had suggested as much after fleeing Fort Farenda. “There is not much to do about it now. We must work on the situation at hand. We cannot dwell on the past.” Prefecta Constonto, ever a proper commander, resolutely began making plans. “We must first escape from these bondages, before we reach the swamps. We do have some luck though. We are safer here, than in the hands of the bandits from Laene.” “We should wait until we make it to the swamps, before escaping.” Another soldier added to Prefecta Constonto’s musings, but Finen was not going to allow this hair brained conversation to stand. “You lot must still be in dream land, what happens if we wait until the swamps to escape? We can hardly navigate through it, and we are just as likely to die there, as in the stomachs of these vagabonds.” “For now, we are alive, and we have an armed escort.” Prefecta Constonto attempted to alleviate the negativity of their predicament. “Besides, the bandit king’s forces are less likely to attack a group of swamp men.” “How many do you presume there are, Prefecta?” Another of the soldiers spoke up, but he quickly quieted when the angry voice replied from outside. “This lot usually outnumbers us, so I would say about eighty.” Finen, somehow, had a tone of playful excitement. “Your brains were lost in shadow long ago, Finen.” Prefecta Constonto, although attempting to scold Finen, had a tinge of humor behind his voice. “On the contrary, your holiness, the shadow cursed fever gave me something more, fearlessness. Nothing will make me want to crawl back inside my mother, like a good bout of grey fever. Nothing is quite like that whore’s disease. I would rather die with a bullet in my belly, than succumb to the madness of the grey fever.” Finen’s voice held a tone of underlying terror, as he spoke of the sickness that had taken Fort Farenda.

PIPEN AWOKE TO STARS overhead, after an uncomfortable ride; being tied up in the back of a wooden cart. The only benefit to the desolate place was the clearness of the sky. However, it was normally cloud covered, so this was a special treat for the starving prisoners. They had not eaten or drank for a whole day, as the swamp people refused them any sustenance. This was probably to keep the prisoners weak, and deter any escape attempts. Due to their forced starvation, Pipen felt a gnawing in his stomach, but it was a feeling that he was accustomed to. His priestly robes had long since been turned grey and decrepit, and he felt the same decay happening within his soul. It was hard to form a cohesive thought, with the hunger and thirst in his bones. He felt weak and on the verge of death. On the other hand, from previous experiences, Pipen knew this was an ailment of the mind. In actuality, he could survive much longer in this condition. Pipen’s main worry was the lack of water, as this caused death more often than hunger. It was, perhaps, due to this state that Pipen did not notice that his bindings had been cut. He shifted slightly, bumping up against Prefecta Constonto and the soldier in front. Pipen’s body refused to budge for a moment, and he was only able to wiggle his body slightly. The jabbing pain that erupted in his rib cage took a few moments to reach his brain. Once the pain was apparent to him, Pipen glanced down. The silhouette of a small creature was standing on top of him. The familiar pain in his rib cage could only have come from cat claws. It was Illyllia, Finen’s cat, which had been named after their queen in Molina. The cat, after being startled and digging his claws into Pipen’s side, sat back down and curled up. Pipen grunted slightly at the pain and foolishly decided to sit up. This movement was immediately stopped by Prefecta Constonto, lying beside him. “That would be unwise, priest.” Prefecta Constonto quietly hissed in Pipen’s ear. Constonto’s tone was harsh and direct, carrying a severity behind it. “I’ll crush your neck, before I allow you to give us away.” “Leave it to the priest to get us all killed.” Finen’s sarcastic voice chimed in, but he spoke in a barely audible whisper. “You taught your cat to bite through rope?” Pipen, unable to hide the surprise, made sure to keep his voice low. The threat from Constonto was at the front of his mind. Pipen was in awe of Finen’s ability with animals, as training a cat was unheard of, across the entire Greater Continent.

“She has a name, priest.” Finen hissed in reply. “What other purpose does a cat serve, beside food that is.” The cat silhouette raised its head and glanced over at Finen. “No one would ever eat you though, my darling Ilyllia.” Finen cooed quietly at his pet, who went back to resting on Pipen’s ribs. “Where was the cat all this time?” Pipen could tell his repeated questions were making Prefecta Constonto nervous. “Are you going to complain all night and alert our guards?” Prefecta Constonto snapped at Pipen, but Constonto quickly lowered his tone, realizing that he had raised it an octave. “You’re going to get us caught, Constonto.” Finen chuckled and Pipen felt the hot breath of a sigh from the Prefecta. “So, when are we making our move?” Another voice chimed in, from a few bodies in front of Pipen. “No time better than now.” Finen offered up his strategic advice, about to lift his head up for a look. “Does anyone have weapons?” Voicing an important question, Prefecta Constonto’s hands could be felt searching through the supply bags. “Hands should be good enough.” Another soldier interjected. This did it and a voice outside the wagon shouted in the foreign tongue. “Oh well, now it is.” Finen spoke, normally now, as the back of the cart was pulled away. Pipen glanced down past his feet, to see a swamp man, different than the earlier one, standing at the edge of the wagon. Past him, a group of them were gather around a campfire. Still more fires were collected at the periphery. Pipen knew their small crew had only thirty-eight, as some had been lost at Fort Farenda. Although, others had been gained from survivors of the Fort’s original garrison. The swamp dweller guard, carrying a spear in hand and hatchet in belt, looked over the prisoners. His bare skin was decorated in red tattoos, unlike the previous swamp man. Also, he wore a heavy and tattered Molinese military cloak. Pipen still wondered what hot blood ran through their veins that these people could resist the cold so well. After a cursory scan, the guard was about to

depart, until he noticed the silhouette on top of Pipen. The next event happened in the space of a breath. Two flickering green eyes appeared on the silhouette, as if they were conjured out of air. The guard’s face was in shock, as his gaze met the predatory look of the small creature. Then, Finen hissed and his cat launched itself. Shooting though the air, feet first, the cat’s claws flashed in the moon and fire light. Landing upside down on the man’s face, the cat’s fangs immediately dug into the man’s throat. Pipen lost sight of the cat, and the man, as the bodies around Pipen all arose in unison. The cry of the swamp man was drowned out by war cries from Pipen’s companions, as each leapt from the wagon. As all of this action was taking place, Pipen attempted to arise himself. However, he was jostled about and stepped on by the bare feet of the others. Unsurprisingly, the swamp people had liberated them of their boots. Pipen grunted under the damage, but it was over quickly. Then, Pipen found it still harder to get up, as his body seemed to still be resting. After a large exertion, Pipen was able to sit up in the wagon. All around was a scene of chaos. Soldiers were running around everywhere, fighting the swamp men. The unlucky guard, that had taken a cat to the face, lay dead behind the wagon. The man’s face was clawed savagely, and his throat had been opened, but it was the gash in his chest that had killed him. Every so often, amid the cries and shrieks, Pipen heard the cry of a baby. This strange sound confused Pipen for a moment. Then, he realized it was the sound of Finen’s cat. This caused Pipen to suddenly the streets of Molina, which seemed almost peaceful in comparison. The city was flooded with stray cats that would often fight in the alleyways of the Lower Quarters. These wild fights often sounded like babies crying, which gave Pipen an endless thought exercise; whether a baby was crying, or cats were fighting. However, Pipen was not pondering this oddity now. It disturbed him, as a man’s shriek of pain would soon follow the cat’s yowl. In fact, Pipen now felt extremely useless. A cat was out-performing him in battle, a cat. Even though Pipen was no warrior, he did have pride, and being outdone by a cat would humiliate the frailest of people. This caused Pipen to climb out of the wagon. He realized this mistake after he made it. His whole body collapsed under him, and Pipen grabbed the side of the cart for . He hardly noticed the splinters that bit into his hands, but a wayward swamp warrior noticed him. Even as an enemy was bearing down upon him, Pipen was struck by an odd thought. The swamp people had shaken off their robes, cloaks, and other garments. They were all fighting with either a loin cloth, or nothing at all. Their pale skin, and

red tattoos, reflected in the dim flickering light in an eerie manner. The man charging towards Pipen was completely naked, with his long sexual organ completely erect. The man’s body was covered in blood, from the dead Molinese soldier that he had abandoned, in order to attack Pipen. The vision of the man’s first victim was burned into Pipen’s brain. The unfortunate soldier, that had fought this berserk naked man, was seriously disfigured. The dead soldier’s face was a crisscross of gashes, likely from the naked swamp man’s axe. One of the soldier’s arms and legs had been hacked off, and the soldier’s clothes had been sliced open in the front. This image imbedded itself in the back of Pipen’s mind, and it was about to happen to Pipen himself. Then, something odd happened. Pipen met the berserk eyes of his attacker and the wild swamp man froze. Their eyes stayed fixed to one another, for a few moments; both men holding their breath. Suddenly, while this stare took place, Finen’s sarcastic and giddy laughter broke the spell. Coming to Pipen’s rescue, Finen and his cat came out of nowhere. Finen swung an axe, which he had liberated from a swamp warrior, and hacked at the man’s genitalia. This seemed to have no effect on the swamp warrior, who turned to face Finen. Unfortunately, Finen had not completely separated the berserk warrior’s penis, as the wild swamp man had turned just in time. Instead, the man’s penis hung off him by a small portion of flesh. The severed member of his body sprayed blood, as it swung around in the crisp night air. Finen’s cat, who had been perched on his soldier, sprang into action. With the eerie cry of a newborn baby, the cat leapt through the air. Catching the swamp warrior in the left side of the face, the cat’s small body swung around behind the man’s head. The cat’s claws ripped long lines from the man’s nose, across his jaw, and down the side of his neck. Surprisingly, this did not seem to bother the berserk warrior, as he swung at Finen. The slick talking Molinese far shooter, Finen, easily ducked the wild swing, and buried his own axe blade in the man’s stomach. With a grin slapped on his face, Finen twisted the blade of his axe and drew open his enemy’s stomach. Even as blood from the gut wound soiled Finen’s pants, this strike drew no effect from the enraged swamp warrior. Also, the cat had clawed down the swamp creatures back, and leapt off into the dark. With his guts hanging out, penis barely hanging on, and body heavily scratched, the swamp warrior still stood his ground. However, the swamp man’s next attack was very weak, and Finen buried his axe blade in the side of the man’s neck, imbedding the metal head deeply into the swamp man’s collar bone. The badly savaged swamp warrior collapsed on the ground, completely dead.

“You’re missing all of the fun, priest!” Finen laughed raucously, as he tossed Pipen the skeleton handle dagger. Pipen was unable to voice a thank you, as a gleeful Finen leapt away to find another fight. Pipen pulled himself up to a standing position and looked around. Outnumbered and starving, a madness had swept over the Molinese soldiers. While only a few swamp warriors had gone berserk, something else had taken over the Molinese soldiers. They were all mad. Pipen even noticed a group of the Molinese soldiers, stringing up one of the naked swamp warriors, and they were fornicating with the body. This and other odd activities seemed to shock the remaining swamp dwellers, who scattered into the night. They were harried by whoops and insults from the Molinese soldiers. The priest was unsure how to process this scene, as he had never seen such barbarity before. Then, Finen came dancing out of the darkness, brandishing a severed head by its long grey beard. He was laughing and splattered with dark blood. Even the always stoic Prefecta Constonto was smiling. It was apparent that Constonto had been bludgeoned in the face; from the swelling in his cheek, and the blood staining his teeth. “That priest stick anyone?” Pipen heard a voice from the group, somewhere in the darkness. “Nah, he’s got snakes in his gut.” A reply came sailing out of somewhere else in the darkness. Pipen decided to remain at the cart, not wanting to antagonize any of these bloodthirsty men. However, Pipen could not take his eyes off the group that was fornicating with the dead body. They had tied the man to the spit over one of the fires. Furthermore, they were grunting heavily, as they took turns plowing the body, like a bunch of rabid dogs. “You three, hurry up and finish!” Prefecta Constonto barked at the group that was defiling the corpse. “You are offending the priest.” “I’ll offend his mother!” The angry reply was shouted back from the soldier currently having personal relations. “Boys will be boys.” Prefecta Constonto laughed as he placed a hand on Pipen’s shoulder. Pipen jumped in surprise, as he had not seen Constonto approach him. The middle-aged Prefecta was leaning down from the cart behind Pipen. The startled priest turned around to meet the gaze of Prefecta Constonto. Fortunately, the fire behind Constonto’s eyes had dissipated somewhat, and Pipen could tell that the Molinese commander was exhausted. “We have won this night.”

Chapter Five

Lost in the Grey

The tattered and beaten -down caravan of grey rangers appeared in their lowest state. Even after his journey across the Grey Desert, and the sight of an encampment taken by the grey fever, Pipen could never have imagined the perils of this journey. Ever since they stepped foot outside Lluwaire, the numbers of the party had steadily dwindled, the bulk being killed at the abandoned fort. Even as they traveled south, their party had lost more and more men. He counted only ten of them, now, including Finen’s cat. The spirits of the men were about as low as possible at this point. Yet, somehow, the group continued south, along the coast. Any venture inland would prove certain death, as the swamp men had not left the party. Ever since the fight at the cart, which had been abandoned days ago, the swamp men had pursued the rangers. At every opportunity, an attack would be mounted by the swamp dwellers, claiming the lives of one or two soldiers. At this point, none would venture beyond the group, even for bowel excretions. An air of impending dread hung in the air, as all had accepted death as a certain outcome. At least five of their number had been killed in this manner, as they ventured just outside the camp to relieve themselves. Three were killed during the first fight on the beach, when a successful escape was mounted against the swamp men. A further eleven died in defense of the cart, which was ultimately set ablaze by their enemy. Still, others died to random attacks, or succumbed to the grey fever. Additionally, one died from a brief swim in the ocean, being swept away by an underwater current. While the desperate defense of the wagon was unsuccessful, some of the supplies had been saved. However, Prefecta Constanto’s party was nearing the last of those rescued supplies, and yet more distance was left to travel. Constonto had instituted a difficult to enforce rationing, which hardly mattered at this point. Each member already rationed what they had, but it was barely enough to maintain any energy. Some had voiced the idea of attacking the swamp men, while any of them still had energy. However, this was quickly ruled out. The

swamp men would simply retreat inland, where the grey rangers could not follow. A last stand scenario would only invite starvation and certain death, while the enemy would simply surround and wait them out. The situation was perilous, and few options were left the men. Yet, somehow, the group continued, stumbling along the rocky southern coast. Constanto’s horse had been killed by a thrown axe, in the battle of the supply wagon. Additionally, the wagon’s two pulling horses had bolted into the darkness, when the wagon was set ablaze. It was at this point of heightened despair that Prefecta Constanto ordered the party to halt and rest. The rocky cliffs were wet from salty spray, but one soldier continued fruitless attempts to build a fire. As if struck by madness, this soldier continued to strike flint against a bed of torn up paper. As if not noticing that the paper had become wet, the soldier continued striking sparks, even as he was continuously doused in ocean mist. Pipen and the others looked on with indifference. They were all in an empty state, barely able to form thoughts in their minds. The men were like empty husks of flesh and bone. “The swamp men may have left our trail?” One soldier commented absentmindedly, watching the other soldier striking the flint. “I have great doubt in that regard,” Prefecta Constonto replied in the same flat tone of the soldier. “Perhaps Illyllia shall tell us,” a groggy Finen Raveno lazily blinked his eyes, as he scratched his cat under the chin. Dark circles and fleshy bags had formed under everyone’s eyes, showing complete exhaustion. Even Finen’s cat appeared downtrodden, with her ribs showing, and a sad look in her cat eyes. That cat stuck around for a few moments, quietly allowing Finen to stroke and scratch her matted fur, before she sauntered off into the darkness. In a few moments, the cat had disappeared, leaping down into cracks in the rock. “Someday, I will need to get a cat like that.” One soldier commented, with a gravelly voice, as mucus poured from his nose in a liquid stream. “All cats are like that,” Finen replied absentmindedly. “I have never seen a cat act like she does,” Pipen interjected, hoping to take his mind of the damp cold. “What would you know of it, priest.” Finen growled and scowled at Pipen. “You sit here and eat our precious little food, while muttering your prayers and

preaching to us of piety. You are dead weight, and you will be the first we eat when the other food runs out.” This response gained a pained laugh from the others, which barely rose above chuckles. With the group against him, Pipen was downcast, and decided to keep his mouth shut. At this point, Prefecta Constonto did not even attempt to come to his rescue, too exhausted to put up an objection. In fact, Pipen believed even the Prefecta was of this same mind. “All in jest, priest.” Finen commented, as he watched Pipen’s gaze slowly shift towards the ocean. “The touch of shadow is but a natural occurrence, one which we all must experience.” Pipen commented, more to himself than anyone else, but this only garnered groans from the others. “Illyllia doesn’t always understand, but she is far more useful than this priest.” Finen looked over as his cat returned, carrying a rat in her mouth, and blood caked over her whiskers. This had been a common occurrence, as Finen’s cat attempted to feed the group, with all the small creatures that she found. This was an impossible task, but no one complained about the welcome additions to their meager diets. A part of their weight loss program, Finen provided the little creatures to a different soldier each day, and it was time for Prefecta Constonto to eat from the cat’s bounty. However, some had grown extremely sick from these caught rodents. Continuing the tradition, the cat dropped a dead rat into Finen’s lap, and then lay down next to him, using Finen as a shield against the ocean spray. “Delicious,” Prefecta Constonto sarcastically commented, as the others watched on hungrily. He took a small bite of the dead rat, making his face crinkle up in disgust. Finen grinned, as hunger took over Prefecta Constonto, and he began to savagely devour the rat’s carcass. Momentarily interested, Pipen glanced over, but returned to watching the violent ocean waves. The day was cloudy and dreary, and Pipen had lost track of all time. The only sign of night was the pitch black, when their vision would be greatly reduced. Travel at night was far more dangerous than daytime, and much colder. Pipen wondered how long the party could keep this up, before they all died from dysentery, or taken by the grey fever. Unable to help themselves, the of the party produced their small bags of rations and gobbled up a few morsels. Taking up the cue, Pipen produced a strip of salted pork, his breakfast, lunch, and dinner. However, he was unable to savor the flavor, as his body greedily devoured the strip of meat. On the other hand, his stomach felt even hollower now, than before. Next, the of the

party each took one swig of water from their canteens, as they were taking part in an almost religious ritual. Unfortunately, this respite lasted only a few minutes, as cold began to sink into their bones. Any longer spent on these rocks would surely spell the end of the journey, with none having the strength to carry on. Sensing this, Prefecta Constonto ordered the group to stand, and they continued on their journey south.

ONE NIGHT ON THEIR perilous journey south, the small band of grey clad warriors took refuge on the edge of a crag. Their path was blocked by a deep ravine on the coastal cliff. In the morning, they would travel inland in search of a crossing. Tired and exhausted, many of the soldiers fell asleep as soon as they lay down. They began snoring when their heads touched rock, but two had watch duty. Pipen was among those with this task. However, due to the inhospitable situation, Pipen had not slept in nearly seventy hours. His brain hardly functioned, with no thoughts ing through his head. Instead, he mindlessly investigated the distance. The night before, a watchman had sounded the alarm, but there were no enemies in the vicinity. The panic-stricken soldier had to be wrestled to the ground, as he attempted to flee. It was assumed this soldier had seen an exhaustion induced phantom, viewing enemies where none existed. This incident invited a fear into everyone’s minds. They had seen the signs before and were acutely aware of this new danger that they might face. The grey fever struck suddenly, and without remorse, taking all within its path. If this was the fever, then it might spell the end of their journey. Nevertheless, the band carried on, each keeping a wary eye on one another. What was a phantom one night, might turn into reality, as brother would turn on brother, slaying each other without mercy. This night the moon was out, casting a bright glow across the rocks. Fortunately, the group was elevated far above the ocean, as the wild seas below beat relentlessly against the rocks. Fortunately, the band was far from the stinging salt spray. Their uniforms had become tattered and grey rags. All had grown wild beards, and all semblance of military bearing had gone. The only difference between these soldiers and the wild men was the amount of clothing they wore. Although none of their clothes protected sufficiently against the biting wind, they still wore more than the wild swamp men. Searching for warmth, Pipen crouched down among the sleeping bodies of his companions, drawing his corroded coat tighter over his shoulders. A few feet away stood Pipen’s counterpart. The man was a tall soldier, but his drooping shoulders made him appear shorter. This soldier looked stoically into the dark depths below and Pipen wondered at the man’s thoughts. Perhaps, this soldier had given up, and contemplated throwing himself over the edge. With each ing moment, Pipen watched the man come closer and closer to the cliff edge. The distant sound of waves could be heard washing into the inlet below. The endless violence of those waves might have been speaking to this soldier. Without emotion, Pipen simply

watched the soldier step onto the edge. His head bowed, the soldier stopped at the edge and stared into the depths, unmoving. Pipen watched, as time ticked by, with mild curiosity. With every ing moment, Pipen imagined the soldier disappearing into the depths. Pipen would not sound the alarm, nor would he make any notice of his awareness. The soldier would disappear and Pipen would forget, as quickly as he had witnessed the accident. Suddenly, the man reached down to his tros, and unbuttoned the flap in front of his scrotum. Pipen recognized this action, but the sound of the man’s evacuation was drowned out by the waves below. Then, the man turned around and squatted over the edge. During this whole process, Pipen’s morbid thoughts returned to him. Perhaps, the man might fall backwards into the darkness. He had precariously stationed himself over the edge, and one strong gust could send him plummeting down. Without cleaning himself, the man stood and pulled up his tros. Suddenly, he caught Pipen’s eye, but gave no apparent reaction. Although, even with the moonlight, Pipen would not have been able to notice any expression. Pipen’s hair bristled as the soldier walked towards him. “Aye, my good priest.” The soldier knelt beside Pipen, ing himself on a knee. Pipen gave no response, but simply stared back at the man. Hot clouds of breath puffed from the soldier’s lips, as he wheezed slightly. “At your pleasure, I would close my eyes for a spell.” Pipen still gave no reply, and the soldier took this as confirmation. “One of your nice sermons would drive the spirits away. So many stalk us at this hour.” The eloquent soldier laid down, but Pipen’s lips remained shut. This did not seem to affect the soldier too much, as he was snoring within a few seconds. Pipen watched the soldier for an amount of time, before returning to his mindless surveying of the rock shelf. He was unaware if the moon had begun to move, or if he was dreaming, but the shadows seemed to become distorted. He felt a brisk chill move up his spine, but that might just have been the breeze. The shadows of small rocks and boulders seemed to become longer, and simultaneously move towards him. Pipen watched the rocky landscape with fascination, as they began to ripple, like the surface of a breeze swept lake. The rocks rolled up and down with the lapping tide of the rocky surface they sat on. Confused, Pipen decided that dreams must have come. In fact, a shadow grew so close, as to be within a few feet of him. Puffs of air, like those of the soldier’s breath, beside Pipen, began to emanate from the shadows. Pipen felt a coldness across his left shoulder, but it felt different from the breeze. The coldness was like that of a wet rag, suddenly draped. Pipen looked behind him, and there stood a phantom. With an indistinct arm outstretched, Pipen saw a long shadow somehow cast over his shoulder. This long shadow was attached to

a tall black pillar. This pillar appeared solid, like another shadow that had grown the wrong way. Soon, a black shape formed, appearing like a giant of a man. Slowly, the figure shrunk in size, until he stood at Pipen’s crouched height. Unmoving, Pipen’s exhausted mind made no move to sound the alarm. Pipen simply watched the shadow take form and become a naked man. The man’s skin was as pale as the moon, and its featureless eyes matched this color. Strangely, the moon man had no hair. Curious, Pipen peered downwards, between the naked man’s legs; a eunuch. This white person had no genitals. In fact, there was no sign that he ever had. Suddenly, Pipen felt the cold wet touch under his chin, and his head was lifted. Eye to eye, Pipen stared into the two white orbs of the specter. He felt the cold wet touch moving over his body. The eyes began to move away, towards the darkness, as the moon man backed away. Then, Pipen realized that he was standing. Looking down, Pipen saw his dagger in his hand, and Pipen was standing over the sleeping body of Finen Raveno. Pipen stared blankly at Finen, as the priest barely noticed a shriek behind him. Pipen was only startled into awareness, when a searing pain erupted in the side of his neck. Without thought, Pipen swung his blade over his right shoulder. A small body now lay at Pipen’s feet. The cat Illyllia had fallen to the rocky ground, unmoving. Looking back at Finen in the moonlight, Pipen saw the man’s bloodshot eyes blink open. Finen appeared confused and groggy. So, Pipen made no motion, as Finen rubbed his eyes. Suddenly, Finen’s face became flushed, and his eyes widened in terror. Scrambling backwards, Finen gasped for air, as he stared in horror at Pipen. Finen’s mouth moved, but no sounds came out. The man appeared to be attempting to scream, but the man’s terror had paralyzed his tongue. Scrambling about, Finen awoke another soldier who gave the cry that Finen could not. “The fever!” This soldier screamed, and others began to wake up. Pipen felt the familiar cold of an ocean breeze climb up his spine, or was it a breeze? Pipen could hardly tell anymore what was real or not. “The fever!” Another soldier cried in the distance, soon ed by others. It took a few moments for some of the exhausted soldiers to get to their feet. However, Pipen noticed the flash of steel out of the corner of his eye. Looking in that direction, Pipen saw Prefecta Constonto. Standing erect and proud, the Molinese officer had drawn his dress saber. The two stared at each other for a moment, as shrieks of “the fever” echoed across the crag. Pipen began to feel a confusion and fear grip him, as Prefecta Constonto charged, shouting the cry of the red horn, and Pipen’s legs gave way.

“Sanganto!” Prefecta Constonto swung his saber wildly, his exhausted and fear driven limbs removing all skill in his attack. The saber cut the air above Pipen, and the charging Constonto tripped over the priest’s body, having fallen over the rocks. Fear now flooding his own veins, Pipen scrambled to his feet. Even as the soldiers around him gathered their weapons, Pipen ran. The pounding of the waves mixing with his heartbeat, a dazed and confused Pipen fled. As he rushed inland, towards the dark safety of the swamps, Pipen could hear the shouts of the men behind. Pipen had lost count of his steps, and none of the men dared follow him, but their shouts still filled his ears. Even as the shadows grew darker, and the moon became less visible, Pipen could still hear the men’s cries in his ears. The sounds of the ocean had died out long ago, but the cries of his fellows haunted him still.

About The Author

S. C. Coleman

S. C. Coleman has written stories since a child. Among many published works, he has a long list of accomplishments outside of writings. Serving honorably for five years in the Marine Corps, S. C. Coleman also retains fluency in multiple languages, including Spanish and Portuguese. Growing up in Ohio, S. C. Coleman always wished to explore the world, and has traveled to many places, but writing stories has always been his main ion.

Books in this Series

The Glass Empires The Glass Empires: Adventures of Pipen the Aristocrat The Glass Empires: Adventures of Doron the Snake Keeper The Glass Empires: Adventures of the Red Dove The Glass Empires: Adventures of Brouder the Crow King

Books By This Author

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Israeli Fighting

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Language I Am: The Path to Language Success

A practical guide to language learning, and how to better oneself in this learning discipline.

The First Valkyrie: Dawn Bringer

The arduous journey of an orphan will culminate in a great battle, when her powers become fully realized.

The Tournament of War [Out of print]

Follows a fictional tournament of war, between different nations and on an uninhabited island.