Plans Long Laid

The Burnt Lands – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom

Fane stood on the roof of a damaged building, his arms folded. He brushed his foot across the ground, sweeping the sand aside to reveal white stone. He looked down into the central plaza where hundreds of mages and priests of Efialtír were preparing for the crossing ritual. A pit sat at the centre of the plaza, multiple runic rings marked about its circumference. The pit was filled with thousands of Essence vessels that had been gathered across the centuries. The red glow was almost as strong as that of the Blood Moon itself. Even from where he stood atop the building, he could feel the pull of so much Essence gathered in one place. He would need every last drop.

He lifted his gaze from the plaza and looked at the beauty of the crimson sky. The light of the Blood Moon washed over the ruined city, the sand glittering pink and red in the air.

"We are so close now," the voice whispered in his mind. "My Chosen will start the next step. Achyron will send his knights, but you have prepared well. I have faith."

Footsteps sounded behind Fane. Garramon clasped his hands behind his back, looking up towards the Blood Moon as he moved next to Fane. "Brother Pirnil reports the inscriptions are almost complete."

"Good. We must begin the ritual as soon as possible. The armies are in position?"

"They are. All eighty thousand. A herald has been placed with each army. The other armies and their mages should all be in their positions by now as well, and our forces should be moving in the South."

"Good. That should keep the knights busy and thin out their numbers. This is the next step. We've waited a long time for this day, Garramon."

Garramon let out a sigh, staring up at the sky. "That we have, brother."

Fane pulled his gaze from the spectacle above, looking instead to his old friend. "What is it?"

Garramon shook his head. "Nothing. Just thinking."

"A lot has changed across the years. But I would like to think you still trust me enough to speak your mind."

Garramon glanced at Fane before looking back towards the horizon. "Do you ever doubt?"

"Doubt what?"

"Anything?"

Fane smiled, letting a short laugh escape. "What's brought this on? Have you lost faith in Efialtír?"

"Of course not. It's just… Hundreds have already volunteered to become hosts for the Chosen. And so many of them have seen no more than twenty summers. They're only children. It's a heavy burden."

"They are true believers, Garramon. They choose to be servants of their god. Strengthening Efialtír's hand in this world has always been our cause. You've always known this was coming. Not only will he reward us, but he will give us the strength to keep our people safe." Fane clasped his hands behind his back. Primarch Touran had accelerated the training of over a thousand Battlemage apprentices at Fane's instruction. Fane would have done so for the other affinities, but he'd wanted to ensure the strength of the candidates. The weaker the host, the lower the chance of a successful bonding, so said the conclusions of Kiralla Halflower's research. Though, Brother Pirnil's experiments since then had proved rather enlightening.

"I've been in the preparation tents." Garramon tensed his jaw, shaking his head. "Barely half are surviving their inscriptions."

"They knew the risks, Garramon. The survival rates as well as the process were explained to each and every one of them. All great things require sacrifice. From what Brother Pirnil tells me, those who do not survive do so because they lose their faith and their nerve. The runes feed off true belief as well as Essence."

"They're just so young."

Fane sighed. Garramon truly was his oldest friend. And 'friend' was not a word he liked to use. The man had strong faith in Efialtír, but he was also easily swayed by sentimentality.

Fane had no doubt Garramon's uncertainty in some way came from his son, Malyn. Malyn had seen only twenty-three summers when Garramon had come to Fane and told him that Malyn had been spotted providing information to the other side in the years following the fall of Ilnaen. He'd never seen Garramon so distraught. There'd been no choice, of course. The Arbiter could not be seen to deal with any situation in any way other than with impartiality – Fane told him as such. Fane had made sure to stand by Garramon's side at the headsman's block; it was the least he could have done. Fulya had never forgiven either of them, which Fane understood.

"The other gods care little for this world. You know this. They watch as we move through a cycle of endless, meaningless death. Varyn created dragons that could burn flesh from bones with their breath. What kind of god creates such things? Efialtír will grant us the power to bring true peace and to ensure that death is not meaningless. Would you stop someone from being a part of that because of their youth? Do the young not have a place in great deeds?"

"You always have an answer, old friend."

"And you always have questions." Fane let a silence fall between them before speaking again. "Your apprentice has risen to the rank of Battlemage. That is good. How is his commitment?"

"Strong," Garramon said. "He still questions Efialtír, but he is slowly understanding."

"That's to be expected. He is a young man much as I was – full of questions and thirsting for knowledge. Once he sees the ritual, he will not question again."

Garramon let out a sharp breath. "The letters…"

"Are a necessary evil, Garramon. We needed him to feel comfortable. But there will be no more. His parents were taken from Berona, along with another captive."

Garramon turned his head to Fane, shock on his face. "What… what do we tell him?"

"For now? Nothing."

"Why is he so important, Fane? We know the Draleid is with the elves in the Darkwood. We have our eyes and ears. Rist is exceptional, but I don't understand."

Fane smiled. Garramon was not an idiot, and neither was Fane. It was clear Garramon saw his son in the young man. It was better to be honest. "There is a saying by Sumara Tuzan that states 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer'."

"I know the saying, Fane." Irritation crept into Garramon's words. "Rist is not an enemy. He's one of us."

Fane allowed his smile to grow wider, turning his gaze towards the sparkling sand that swept overhead. "I've always felt there was something missing from that saying. 'Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and the friends of your enemies closest.' Eltoar Daethana is the reason The Order fell. Turning him to our side was our greatest triumph. Without Eltoar, we never would have gotten to Alvira. Without Alvira dead, The Order would not have fallen. If the Draleid survives tonight, your apprentice will be our next greatest triumph. We're all pawns in the great game of games. We all have our parts to play."

Garramon grew silent, and he and Fane stood for a few minutes, looking down over the plaza, until the light around them dimmed as though it had been pulled from the air. Fane and Garramon both turned to see a herald standing before them. A black cloak was draped around its shoulders, its skin white as snow. Fane had always been curious as to how the heralds drew in the light around them. He'd not, as of yet, found a satisfactory answer.

Garramon turned inclining his head. "Herald, the saviour's light upon you."

"Klinzen." Fane folded his arms. "How far?"

"The Uraks will be here in hours. They march with a host of over a hundred thousand souls."

Garramon turned to Fane, concern evident in his expression. "Should we recall some of the Dragonguard?"

"No, old friend. Eltoar and Lyina are needed to keep the elves in check up north while we are here. Besides, this is not a place he and Lyina would return to. The others are needed in the South. More Uraks means more Essence for Efialtír. He tests us still, and we will not fail. Klinzen, what word from Azrim?"

"All is in motion," the Fade hissed. "The city is no more, and the armies march."

"Good. We will rip this rebellion out root and stem. Come, Garramon. It is time."

Rist, Neera, Magnus, Anila, and the other Battlemages of the First Army, along with those of the Nineteenth Army, stood at the western edge of the central plaza. They'd arrived in the ruined city only a few hours previous, and the priests and Craftsmages had immediately begun preparing for the ritual.

The plaza was enormous, a few hundred feet in length and breadth. The pit at the centre had been dug by the Craftsmages and then filled with more glowing gemstones than Rist had thought existed. As he looked towards the pit, he became increasingly aware of the pendant beneath his armour, its touch cold against his skin.

Sixteen armies occupied the city – eighty thousand soldiers in total. While the infantry, cavalry, and archers had been set to defend the outer bounds and midsections of the city, all sixteen hundred Battlemages were gathered around the eight entrances of the central plaza, two hundred at each entrance. Their task would be to provide threads of Spirit for the ritual. Garramon had explained the core concept of the ritual to Rist, but not the intricacies of its inner workings, which irritated him to no end: with the Blood Moon risen, they would widen a tear in the veil between worlds, proving their dedication to Efialtír. And in doing so, they would allow the Chosen to pass through, granting them the strength needed to defeat the elves and Uraks.

In the past, Rist wouldn't have believed a word of it. But Efialtír was the only god who'd shown any proof of their own existence. Rist had seen what Essence could do. He had seen how what he had been told to call 'Blood Magic' was not as he had once thought. In his mind he could see the small hummingbird's wing snap back into place, feel the life flood its body as Fane healed it using Essence. According to Garramon, it was also that same Essence that had kept the madness at bay while the armies had crossed the Burnt Lands. That was not the power of a dark god. He still held reservations, but he trusted Garramon. The man had risked his own life to save Rist and had even lied for him when Ella and Farda had escaped. Garramon had stood by Rist at every turn. He'd earned his trust.

"I hate sand." Anila's voice shook Rist from his thoughts. He turned his head to see her leaning against a sand-dusted wall, her boot in her hand. She held the boot upside down, frowning as a thin stream of sand flowed from within, disappearing on the breeze. "It gets everywhere."

Magnus turned at Anila's words, his thumbs tucked behind his sword belt. The man's beard had grown back fully, thicker and blacker than before. "You're not the only one, Uraksplitter. Made love to a woman on a beach once, couldn't piss right for days."

"Shut up, Magnus." Anila pulled her boot back on, sand crunching beneath the sole. Rist watched in awe as she tied the boot's laces quicker with one hand than he could with two. When he'd first met Anila, he'd been curious as to how she could fight with only one hand – a question that had quickly been answered – but he'd never considered how she would have had to adapt the smaller things in her life, such as tying boot laces.

Magnus leaned in closer to Rist. "When I say that shit gets everywhere lad, I mean fucking everywhere. No matter what she suggests"—he nodded at Neera—"avoid the sand."

Neera glared at Rist.

"What did I do?" He raised his open palms in defence.

"You know what you did."

"Thanks, Magnus." Rist frowned at the big man, shaking his head.

"I meant what I said. Whatever you do, don't fuck in the sand."

Rist puffed out his cheeks, then looked back over the plaza. He'd found sometimes it was best to just not respond. "Have you seen Garramon?"

"He went to report Brother Pirnil's progress to the Emperor."

The mention of Brother Pirnil caused Rist to wince. The man's name seemed to reignite the pain in the many scars that laced Rist's back. Of course Brother Pirnil had been the Scholar selected to lead the inscription of the runes for the Chosens' hosts; the man would have delighted in causing the pain.

Rist tried to hold his tongue, but the question he wanted to ask was one that had been scratching at him since the priests had sought out volunteers to be hosts for the Chosen. Garramon had explained the Chosen were warriors of Efialtír who were too powerful to pass into this world in the way Fades did. But with tears in the veil created during the last Blood Moon, they could potentially pass into the world now, as long as they had willing hosts. Though according to the priests, the bodies of those willing participants would not be strong enough to sustain the Chosen without the aid of rune markings.

"Why would someone volunteer to have runes carved into their skin? It just seems…" Rist searched for the word.

"Really fucking painful," Magnus said with a grimace. "I agree with you on that. Look, lad. I'm a believer like everyone else, but you wouldn't catch me putting myself forward to become a host for one of these 'Chosen' or for ascension, for that matter. I don't even like sharing food, never mind my body. But faith is a strange thing. It manifests in many forms. Some, like me and you, are willing to fight for it but maybe not die for it. While others will give everything – body, mind, and soul."

Rist nodded slowly. He wasn't raised with Efialtír as The Saviour, but the others often forgot that. He wasn't fighting for Efialtír, he was fighting to keep people safe, but he understood what Magnus meant.

"It's an honour," Neera said, the slightest of irritations in her voice.

Rist turned his head sharply, eyebrows raised.

"Don't look at me like that." She narrowed her gaze at Rist. "I know your nods. That's the 'I don't know what you're saying, but I'm going to pretend I do' nod. I know you didn't grow up with Efialtír as your god the way we did, but if Achyron came down and asked you to be a vessel for his chosen warriors, what would you say?"

"Honestly? I—"

"Say it and I swear I'll set your books on fire. You know what I'm trying to say. There is no greater honour among those who are truly devout than to be a vessel for their god. I'm not in there having runes inscribed into my skin. But I understand."

"See, Uraksplitter," Magnus turned to Anila, elbowing her in the ribs. "Aren't they adorable? Like I've said, if you ever need someone to warm your bed…" Magnus winked.

"I'll set myself on fire."

Magnus laughed loud enough to draw the attention of the other mages nearby. "What?" he said, narrowing his eyes at a young mage who had only recently been assigned to the First Army in Berona as a replacement for those lost during the Battle of the Three Sisters. "You be careful, or I'll stick you at the front."

Magnus held the young man's gaze for a few more moments before winking again. He turned and looked as though he was about to say something when the light around them dimmed, and a chill swept over Rist. He'd grown so accustomed to the sensation during the journey from Berona he barely flinched. After a moment, a Fade turned the corner from a street ahead and started towards them, its black hood flapping in the wind. The creature's pale skin and brittle, bluish lips made Rist uneasy, but not as much as the black wells of emptiness that acted as the Fade's eyes. Rist had counted twelve of the creatures over the past few weeks though he was sure there were more.

"It must have heard us talking about it," Magnus whispered.

A moment after the Fade stepped into the street, Garramon followed, the wind blowing the hood off his head.

The mages of the First and Nineteenth armies stepped aside as the Fade walked through their ranks. The creature glanced at Magnus as it passed, light-drinking wells for eyes fixing on the man. As much as the power of Essence seemed that of a benevolent god, the Fades seemed the exact opposite. Just their presence alone caused Rist to shift uncomfortably.

Once the creature was through, Garramon approached. He nodded to Rist, Anila, and Neera, before stopping in front of Magnus.

"What'd he say?"

"Once the last inscriptions are finished, we begin."

Brother Pirnil sat back in his chair, letting out a long sigh. He looked at the lifeless body strapped to the cot before him, then back to the black, leatherbound book that had once belonged to Kiralla Halflower but now sat on the table at his side. He tapped his finger on the last note Kiralla had scribed within the book.

Note – the results of this runeset seem promising. Subject four hundred and fifty-three showed increased aggression and strength, lasting four days longer than the previous subject before expiration. Though it seems the elven constitution is not as suited to the gift as that of the Uraks, I maintain strong belief that this is the path to the Chosen. Sufficient information has been gathered to progress to the next stage. Subjects four hundred and fifty-four, four hundred and fifty-five, and four hundred and fifty-six will be trialled. The remaining subjects are to be terminated.

"That was what you missed, Sister," Brother Pirnil whispered. "They need to be willing. Unfortunately, even most of those who start the process willingly lose their nerve after the first few cuts."

Pirnil flicked the pages of the book back to his own notes, picked up the pen that sat beside the table, and marked down his, now definitive, observation. He had carried out enough of these inscriptions to be confident of his results.

Winter, Year 3081 After Doom, High Scholar Drakus Pirnil

Observation:

The success of the rune markings hinges not only upon the willingness of the host, but also on the continued willingness throughout the inscription. If the host's faith or conviction wavers, the runes begin to consume their Essence. If the host's willingness diminishes entirely, the runes will consume the life shortly after inscription is complete, or in some cases, before.

The creation of these Urak Bloodmarked shows a greater mental and physical fortitude that is lacking in humans. Though, the runeset used for inscribing Bloodmarked clearly differs from that used to mark a host for the Chosen. If a Bloodmarked body can be captured and the runeset mimicked, perhaps it can be recreated. It is likely, however, that there is more to Bloodmarked runesets than simply the inscription itself.

Note of clarification: Incorrect marking of runesets can result in blackening of skin, breaking of bones, and other undesired disfigurations.

Pirnil looked back at the body. It was that of a young man, hair dark brown, body gangly. He held about as much muscle as a mouse. All fifty-three necessary runes were carved along his chest, arms, and neck, the flesh red and bleeding. Pirnil looked back at his notes to check the man's name. Darran Maseker. Darran had held his screams in for eight minutes before Pirnil had had to offer him a gag. The runes had drained the young man of Essence. He wished there were an easier way to weed out the weak minded; so much time wasted.

He coughed, lifting phlegm from his chest and spitting it on the floor. He gestured to two of the servants who stood behind them, their faces pale. "To the fire."

The two servants picked up the young man by his shoulders and legs, carrying him from the room. Shortly after, a woman entered, naked as a newborn babe. Her muscles were thick, shoulders broad, and she had a scowl on her face that looked to be a permanent fixture.

Good. Pirnil gestured for the woman to lie on the cot. He'd made a mental note that the younger volunteers had a far higher mortality rate than the older ones. The eagerness of youth faded quickly when faced with the fleeting nature of life. The hardened warriors, like this woman, were more at peace with their choices. It was more conjecture than fact, but he was quite certain. If the trend continued he would add it to the book.

Pirnil went to close the straps around the woman's legs, but she shook her head. "There's no need, High Scholar. I am committed to Efialtír, mind and body. I am prepared to be his vessel. I am prepared to protect my homeland."

"Admirable," Pirnil said, smiling as he fixed the buckle in place. "But the straps are for my safety, not yours."