Then, on with the chapter...

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Twice in summer doth it occur, once in spring’s delight

On mid-winter’s waxed full moon and by autumn’s first of light

When the heavens shall reveal truth beyond the mortal sight

Pure and holy, firm and final, timeless blaze of godly might

Shall again they wax and wane, over fifteen full decades

Seventeen centuries of the cycle, yet their might never fades…

Durham Dwin Salvem sat silently upon the golden throne of Cumaria. His legs were crossed over in worry and his hands clasped in thought. Below him sat the Council to the throne; a group of caustic nobles ready to go at each other's throats if needed. Durham kept them silenced by ritualistic taps of his foot. Each tap sent a dissonant slap of dissent spreading through the marble floors and up the sandstone walls until they reflected off the tapestries and curtains as dull vibrations.

He ran his eyes through the circle before him, counting the thorns by his side. The High Lords were quietly disquiet. Most staring into their empty glasses of wine as if they would fill up miraculously. The High Commanders beside them were eagerly subdued. Twitching like hunting dogs wanting to be released. Then there were the four old counsels he would rather did not exist. They were little help beyond small conspiracies. Although King Durham regarded these people as friendly, he wished they had been enemies. They would have been so much easier to conquer and subjugate.

“My King,” Welmar coughed beside him.

“Yes, indeed.” Durham sighed. He waved a hand and some more people entered the distant half of the circle, seating themselves beside the nobles. Five Guild Meisters from the Union of Guilds were mostly reserved and obedient. But the Archpriest and the Archpriestess clearly did not like being sidelined. Durham took the displeased cough of Baala, the Archpriestess of Irilea, with satisfaction. It eased his tension to see her tensed. He thanked Irilea mentally, praying that her Archpriestess would soon die of fits. Mercifully.

“Gavin,” Durham voiced. “Is everything in order?”

“Yes, My Lord,” Chief Minister Gavin bowed and pulled out a scroll that threatened to roll down the floor and out of the court before he restrained it skillfully and held it taught to the light.

After long unpleasant pleasantries and frivolous formalities that Durham silently slept through, a small blow of horn awoke him to the real meeting. Durham coughed loudly, tapping once more at the innocent carpet below him. “Very well. Before I begin, Lord Warywell, you had something to say?”

Gavin nodded at one of the High Lords. “High Lord of Haal, Cantwin Warywell.”

“Your Majesty,” Cantwin started in a firm, persuasive tone, “if I may, have you heard that the army strength in the north dwindles? Commander Welmar's recent visit bears evidence to that.”

Durham raised an eyebrow. A High Lord did not deal with military matters. He had taken special care to make it so. He asked Warywell to continue.

“Your Majesty,” the High Lord resumed with the High Commander of North glaring daringly at him, “we have lost more than just lands to the orcs. We have fewer men and lesser crops.”

Durham raised his eyebrow higher. Where was this going?

“We cannot force more men into the army. We have fewer hands to work and more mouths to feed. I beseech you, please take back the law on conscription. Haal cannot afford it anymore.” Cantwin finished with a curtsying bow.

“Froddel,” King Durham asked the High Commander of North, “how many have we recruited this year to the northern regiments?”

“Four hundred so far, Your Majesty,” Froddel answered stiffly.

King Durham scratched his chin in thought. 'We will need at least a thousand,' he pondered, 'and more when the time comes.' He looked at Gavin in query.

“Your Majesty, their yield has declined twice over the past five years. I'd say it has more causes than Lord Cantwin speaks of,” Gavin answered politely.

“You are blaming me? We are the poorest province in the nation and yet we send more to the army than any other.” Cantwin went defensive at the accusation.

“Indeed,” the High Lord of Bassyn chimed in. “Though I heard the taxes under your reign have gotten rather unjustifiable. Your men may find the army a better place than the fields.” He smiled cunningly at Cantwin.

“You say that after you refuse to supply us with grains and goods, Neverenuf?” Cantwin retorted bitterly. “I sent you enough petitions to fill your castle whole. While you sent us half-spoiled grains in shoddy carts.”

“Please,” High Lord Justus intercepted, “let us not indulge in pointing fingers before our King. It pains me to see what the High Lords have become.”

Baala chuckled softly after him.

“You have something to add, Holy Archpriestess?” Justus raised an eye.

“Pardon me,” Baala covered her mouth elegantly, “I am not very used to seeing men justify faults with reasons.”

“A brash accusation,” Gavin remarked.

“Is it?” she replied with a smile. “I am not one to say but isn't it common knowledge that the central provinces have been hoarding wealth while leaving both North and South to bleed dry?”

“How convincing. Will we next be blamed for the drought and the landfalls too?” Justus asked smilingly. “Such groundless accusations cannot even be masked under a shallow visage, Your Holiness,” he added towards a slightly miffed Baala.

“Groundless?” Cantwin repeated sharply. “Then why is it you produce twice your need and sell less than a quarter of the excess? Even the Merchants Guild is no help beyond pleasantries and pretenses.”

“Do not accuse us of such trickery, Lord Cantwin. We deal with trade and not policies,” a Guild Meister countered. “That is your domain.”

“Enough!” Durham announced from his throne. “I have not assembled you all so you can tear my kingdom apart. It is already down to its last vestiges.”

“I beg your pardon, my King,” Archpriest Godill said, “But I am indeed intrigued over why you have summoned all of us to this. Was it not enough to call the High Lords alone?” The old man's eyes gleamed with a light that Durham despised. He had not wished to invite either the Archpriest of Thiracus or the Archpriestess of Irilea. But he had no choice. The Orders held their own prestige in his kingdom.

“You should know why, Archpriest of Thiracus,” Durham answered sternly. “I had hoped to resolve some issues before you all met the heroes.” Faces lit up at his comment.

“Most graceful of you, My Lord,” the Archpriestess Baala perked up. “I had my misgivings that our King had lost his faith.”

“And what faith do you speak of Your Holiness?” Gavin enquired solemnly. “Surely you do not question his faith in merciful Irilea?” His face went hard in reproach.

“Pardon me,” Baala replied with another smile, “I only spoke of his faith in his own subordinates. Trust, as you would say.”

“I wonder if you play with your faith the same way you play with your words, Holy Archpriestess,” Gavin insinuated.

“Enough, Gavin,” the King restrained him. “No good will come of this. Warywell, I will deal with your problem in time. Let us move on to the real issue.” He cast a cautionary look at Baala but she did not twitch an eyelid. Her face was a mask of masks, draped in so many layers of powder and perfumes that Durham sometimes wondered if she even had any skin beneath.

“My apologies, Sire,” Gavin bowed and turned to face the Council members formally. “As you may know, His Majesty Durham Dwim Salvem conducted the seventh successful summoning of heroes under the first light of autumn. The ceremony was of utmost secrecy and due to some considerations, you were denied the right to meet the heroes in person. Such considerations are however circumstantial and His Majesty has decided to finally hold a celebration to allow you acquaintance with the heroes.”

The members of the Council, especially the High Lords, beamed at the proposal. They had been long wanting to meet with the heroes who would fight the next Infernal war, but the King had vehemently denied their requests.

“The heroes shall be returning after successfully completing great ordeals, including subduing multiple bands of bandits along the eastern territories. Incidentally,” Gavin continued without a shift in his tone, “the heroes also discovered an abandoned labyrinth near the cliffs of Marbess. It lay beneath a hideout of bandits and was filled with demons.” He dropped the bomb in the courtroom without a crease of his brow.

“Slikhand,” the King asked the High Lord of Raelly, “would you have any idea what a horde of bandits was doing with demons inside your territory?”

Slikhand turned pale at the sudden revelation. He rubbed his greasy hands under the table in terror. He had some notion of what had transpired near Tabin and he had ordered the village burnt to save his hide. Had he known that Sodor was smuggling in demons somehow, he would have stabbed the bastard's heart instead of shaking his hand. No amount of gold was worth Durham's displeasure. “Your Majesty,” he swallowed, “I assure you I had no idea—

“That makes you all the more worthless,” Durham interrupted. “Tell me Slikhand, do I appoint you High Lords so that you can sleep upon a pile of gold while bandits ravage around. And do I pay the Explorer's guild,” King Durham ran a glare into one of the Guild Meisters, “so that my heroes can discover demons in my territory for you? Or is it so they may stumble across labyrinths that none of you have any idea ever existed?”

“Why is it that I must deploy my army for your responsibilities?” the King asked rhetorically. The Council fell into a subdued silence and shock. Many of them had no news that demons had invaded inland. Those that did were not about to expound that fact before their displeased King.

“Even more entertaining are the reports from the Maiden of Light who followed a trail right into the forest of Laur,” King Durham continued. “She had found a labyrinth there, full of the Cult's followers. And she reports,” the King paused, “that it had goblins and an ogre, summoned by the Cult.”

The Council members gawked at each other in bewilderment. Godill and Baala almost went red from the King's revelation. “That can't be,” High Lord Slikhand proclaimed.

“Your word against hers,” Durham rebuked coldly, “Which do you think is more reliable?” He eyed the other members disapprovingly and stood up, raising a heavy hand to keep them seated. Durham descended slowly from his throne and circled the room in heavy, threatening steps, as if indicating it was his domain. Eyes followed him like the moon followed the sun—ever a beat too slow and hiding inside the darkness, but always steady.

“I have waited and waited and waited...” King Durham began, “not pointed a sword at Sumaria, not a spear at Sturmhelm. I have swallowed all the bitterness and enmity... and regret.” He climbed up to his throne again and stared back from above his shoulders. “My patience is not indolence,” he said with narrowed eyes, “and it is not surrender. It is not forgiveness. I have been waiting and preparing, for the moment when we can take back all that we have lost. Our lands, our mines, our ports... our wealth.” He looked at the High Lords in emphasis. “Our rightful place too,” he added towards the Archpriest.

“And now, when my preparation must bear fruit, when I have finally summoned heroes by the strongest alignment ever,” Durham recounted, “I find myself faced by the failures of my incompetent subordinates. You sit like a bunch of buffoons watching a parade of monkeys and hooting along! Should I stand and watch as we lose everything to traitors and savages?”

“No,” the King stressed, “I swear by Iriliea's mercy, if any of you, and I mean any of you, continues this charade of incompetence, I will have you skewered and set to flames,” he said in a low, serious voice. “I will feed your ashes to the demons and your bones to wyverns. Do not make me do so...”

The court froze into a sense of dread. Some considered Durham a fool but the King followed his threats well.

“I want every goddamned labyrinth entrance mapped,” Durham ordered. “Send scouts and mercenaries as you wish, but be prompt about it. And I want these entrances manned and guarded. Do not let a single Cultist into them! Collapse any labyrinths they occupy. Show no mercy, for I will show none if you fail.”

Durham issued specific orders for each person in the court, reminding them where their responsibilities lay. He was almost finished when the Archpriestess of Irilea stood up in petition.

“If I may be so forward, Your Majesty,” Baala posed daringly with a slight bow, “I am honored to hear you speak so truthfully of the Cult's evil. Truly, you understand the trouble they pose to our lands since time immemorial. But your men,” she cast an eye towards the High Lords, “seem ill equipped to deal with them. Despite decades of effort, I see Solomonists sully our lands like never before. Is it not your intention then, to use every method available to root out this evil?” she questioned softly.

“What are you suggesting, Archpriestess?” King Durham looked at her skeptically.

“That you would ask of us, Your Grace, to deal with them. They are our greatest enemies after all and we know them better than any man of yours,” Baala pointed to herself and the Archpriest beside her demurely. Durham did not like where she was leading. Whispers passed between the Council members about the implications. Some of them felt at ease from passing the responsibility yet some others felt even more threat from Baala's words.

“Your knights are an unpredictable force, Archpriestess. Rusted but zealous, they may lead to an end far less desirable and expected,” Durham brushed her off. Currying favor with the Orders was unfavorable. Given a foot, they could take a mile.

“I beg your pardon,” Baala persisted, “zealous they may be, but rusted they are not. And their zeal makes them faithful to their cause. Should you allow them, Your Majesty, they will not fail. And you will not need to divert your resources in a time when you most need them.”

“Would you then take the responsibility for their actions?” Chief Minister Gavin asked. He cast a meaningful look at the King and Durham nodded.

“I intend to,” Baala replied, “What do you say Archpriest Godill?” she asked the Archpriest who was holding a look of mild amusement by now. “Indeed,” Godill answered firmly, “as long as they are Halberds of my Order, they shall remain faithful to me, and I to the King. For the glory of Thiracus, I shall stake my honor for the King.”

“You do not do the King a favor, Your Holiness, may you remember it well. It is the King that does you favor if he ever allows you to wage your holy war,” Gavin clarified smoothly. “And that favor you shall both owe him lifelong.” He looked at Baala and Godill decisively. They nodded in agreement and Durham smiled with satisfaction. It was as he expected of Gavin to spin the situation around. Instead of him owing the Orders, now the Orders owed him.

“As you wish,” King Durham accepted, “I shall allow your knights the authority to proceed against the Cult. They will receive aid and compensation if necessary. Should they fail, however, be prepared to face the consequences,” he added a stark reminder.

Discontent whispers went around the Council but none of them opposed the decision. Durham assuaged some of their worries as the meeting continued and when it had ended, most left with a sense of satisfaction and a greater fear within. Welmar accompanied the High Commanders to a further meeting and the court dispersed.

“Gavin,” Durham called the last person left.

Gavin Redmay walked up to the king in humble, measured steps and bowed. The man carried himself with a sense of suave humility, a manner that King Durham found both rare and admirable. His clear cut brows and clean shaved chin looked smart and his copper eyes were humble with regard. And yet it was his voice the King preferred, a tone devoid of sycophancy but full of respect. He was one of the King's favorites and his recent absence did nothing to change that.

“Yes, Your Majesty?” he asked softly.

“How went the issue with Sturmhelm? Did they lend a ear at all?” The King had been far too busy with other troubles to ask this before.

“With all due respect Your Majesty, Sturmhelm still holds us in disregard. They think of us as cowards holding the crutch of heroes and a fair amount of them doubt the summoning too. As it stands, they will not send any help before we march on or compel them to do so otherwise. Their Emperor is a ruthless tyrant after all. He has no sense of fairness or etiquette. He merely follows his whims,” Gavin replied scornfully.

“Much like the last one, eh?” Durham remembered bitterly.

“I apologize,” Gavin bowed again.

“Do not bow Gavin,” Durham raised an arm, “I do not blame you. It is just our fate to end up with brutal savages as allies. But I still hope we can use them. For we need every force we can get, no matter how hateful or faithless, if it is worthwhile.” He paused in thought and added, “Except the Sumarians, never the Sumarians.”

“As you wish, My Lord,” Gavin complied.

“As for the Halberds and Shields, keep an eye on them,” Durham ordered.

“Indeed I will. But they are already trapped,” Gavin said.

Durham smiled pleasantly. “Of course. Should they fail, we will disband them. Should they succeed we will reward them. And no matter which, we will make them into a new force. One that obeys the King and not the Order. You played that well, Gavin.”

“Your praise overshadows me, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t be modest. How are the preparations for the heroes? I trust you have enough measures to keep those sycophants from misleading them,” Durham added.

“Do not worry sire, I have a staff of skilled retainers for that purpose.”

“Then I will leave that to you. I swear though, the heroes have not even awakened and trouble is already knocking our door. Just when will the Scourge come.”

“About that,” Gavin paused, asking consent.

“Speak,” Durham ordered.

“My Lord, is it truly wise to trust the words of the Maiden? She is but a woman and a rather clever one at that,” Gavin expressed his distrust.

“Have you not kept an eye on her all this while?” the King smiled knowingly.

“I have, Your Grace. But even though she appears harmless, it's a woman we are—

“Desist, Gavin. I trust her to do what is right and that is what she has done all this while. She may have a woman's heart but she has a soldier's mind. Elaine Sithe is truly fit to be the Maiden of Light and under her, I trust the Legion to prove of great use. Would you now cast a doubt on Grey's granddaughter as well? The only archimage capable of summoning heroes this time? And on Diana of Silverdeens who once stopped the Tragedy of Dunsig and fought our war against Sumaria? We have enough enemies within and we know whom to trust and whom not to. Do not doubt your King, Gavin, for he shall doubt you in return.”

“Forgive my insolence, sire,” Gavin apologized.

The King waved a hand in amnesty. 'Besides,' he repeated inside his head, 'the blood of heroes will never betray the light and never accept the darkness.' It was something he had been told again and again. It was something he had witnessed. But some truths were too precious for even the most faithful of his men. “Of course, I only intend to keep Violet alongside the heroes, the rest are not as amenable to my commands. In fact, I am thankful Diana left with the inept.”

“The inept?” Gavin asked curiously.

“Ah, you have not heard have you? Well, that is as expected. I suppressed this information before it could go outside. This time we had a little trouble in the summoning. A companion of the heroes somehow wandered in.” The way Durham narrated it was as if it was a small mistake, as if a horse had wandered outside its stable at night.

Gavin looked wide-eyed. This was not something he had known. For a fourth one to be summoned, would the sun rise from west next?

“A small inconvenience. No matter, it has been dealt with and he will not be coming back anymore,” the King stated with a flimsy wave of his hand.

“But it is out of order, unheard of. If this is true, then have not things been going wrong since the very beginning?” Gavin asked anxiously.

“What has happened has happened Gavin. I waited until the most opportune moment. I got the best I could. We need to deal with the troubles before us now. And the Cult comes first. I do not want a civil strife before we even step foot into the demon lands. Let us work on that for now.”

"Alright," Gavin gulped and begged pardon from his attendance. King Durham condescended and Gavin Redmay turned to walk away. Now that he was back, there were tons of problems to deal with. By Irilea's benevolence, he would not let things go downhill even if he had to stake his life and honor. Gavin doubted it would come to it though. He had prepared for everything to come, be it God or the Devil himself. He heaved a sigh of relief as he passed into the courtyard, taking in the beautiful sight of flowers blooming despite the winter. The scent brought pleasant thoughts to his mind.

Although the King still trusted that woman, he had judiciously excluded her from the heroes' party. It was a wise decision. Elaine Sithe was trouble. She was faithless and barbaric, and impure of blood. Even her life was shadowy. Secrets made a woman sinister. Oh, if only all the women were made in the merciful image of Irilea, Gavin lamented. But there was no like to Irilea's mercy and compassion. She had plucked a thorn in his path and granted him peace. The prince would no longer be led astray and the heroes would walk the path of true light.

Gavin drew an artifact of Irilea from within his clothes and held it to the light. The holy Amaurstone shone with an otherworldly gleam. Gavin's eyes reflected the shine with veneration and his lips kissed the gem humbly. "Bless me Irilea, for I walk thy chosen path in faith undeterred," he prayed.

"Amen to that," a voice alerted him and Gavin hid the pendant hurriedly before turning to face the person. "Oh, Your Highness, I apologize for my unworthy behavior."

"There is no shame in faith, Gavin. My father would never hold you high otherwise." Prince Vervan smiled at him in appreciation. His blue eyes reminded Gavin of the late queen, a memory he tried to forget.

"I am most honored by your praise, Your Highness Vervan. It seems you have just returned from a long and arduous journey. I pray you have been well. I had heard you had some change of heart along the way," Gavin replied smoothly.

"As you said Gavin," prince Vervan replied, "those strongholds are impenetrable. We will need a gargantuan force to penetrate an inch into the Orc defense."

"Do not despair My Lord, for Irilea's mercy extends to all. You have yet to see the gargantuan force the Scourge are."

"Then I will trust you and pray that Irilea bestows upon us more mercy than she does upon the orcs," the prince replied playfully. There was a candor to his behavior that people, even Gavin, found majestic. The prince would make a great King one day and Gavin wanted to ensure he kept away from vile influences like Elaine.

"Ah, true that is. And Irilea loathes the vile and brands the sinners, so may they turn in their shame to death and disease."

"Strong words. Are those from the Archpriest?" The prince enquired.

"Hardly," Gavin scoffed, "they have never read the scriptures in enough depth to speak so."

"Hah, well I suppose someday I will read the same scriptures then. Good day, Gavin," Vervan waved him away as he said so.

Gavin bowed goodbye and, for the briefest of moments, his eyes caught a glint of familiar red inside the prince's clothing. The next instant it was gone and the prince had turned away from his sight. Gavin took to his own way, doubting what his eyes had seen. He decided he had seen wrongly. After all, there could only ever have been one of it. The Amaurstone was a relic to be bestowed and not a gem to be bought.

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Boris ran fiercely behind the wagons, disregarding the weight of stones pressed against his body. Cold wind slipped through his clothes like a shy animal, ruffling them up noisily. It tickled his skin through the droplets of sweat and dulled his thudding heart. Then it took off without a word, leaving him strangely comfortable.

Despite himself, Boris hummed while he raced. Two snowbills followed his tune playfully, chirping around and circling him. He didn't allow them to settle—it would be a nuisance—and willed them a safe distance away whenever they tried to get closer.

They were long, slender birds with blue-green plumage and a flowing bifid tail that left a thin vapor trail in the air. Alone, the vapor line was barely perceptible but up above, where these birds migrated south in flocks of hundreds, the sky itself had become their canvas. Evanescent, abstract patterns emerged and morphed in the sky, and imitated snow drifting amongst the clouds. Boris had little time to admire it currently. A Scythian guard raced eagerly beside him.

“Nasty little bugger!” Halkone barked at Boris. “You won't last much longer! That's three hours since dawn.” They were both keeping up with the rear wagon where they had been posted. Boris had stones strapped across his body. Diana's gift. The Scythian, in contrast, carried a heavy bastard sword that swung monstrously while he ran.

“Give it up old man. You're out of breath. It would become a joke if you died trying to outrun a kid.” Boris mocked the Scythian while breath escaped his own lips mechanically, in little puffs of air that turned his tone raspy. His windpipe then swallowed greedily and his lungs pumped. He had to thank Diana's breathing exercises for this. He had never imagined he could keep pace with the wagons so long. Endurance had not been his forte.

“Joke is on you, boy,” Halkone retorted. “You can't outlast a Scythian.” He sprinted in heavy spurts and slow jogs while Boris kept an even pace.

“I would outlast you to the end of the world,” Boris replied in the same crude dialect Halkone was using. He formed a habit to talk in the same manner he heard and did it unconsciously, fluently even. He changed tongues the way people changed expressions. And though he did not know it, it had earned him a reputation among both merchants and guards.

In time, the long run started to take a toll on both of them and Halkone waved a heavy hand through the air in resentment, aiming at Boris. Boris dodged and changed his course a little. “Hey now,” he grumbled at Halkone, “that's not fair play.” The Scythian was now slightly ahead of him and just a little shaky, but as snobbish as ever.

“Huh?” Halkone bluffed. “I don't know what you are talking about? I just felt like waving my hands around a bit, they've been getting stiff lately.” As he said so he waved both his hands wildly yet again, putting a show of the enormous muscle they contained.

Boris stressed his will in response and let out killing intent, trying to intimidate Halkone. Halkone twitched, his face refusing to betray surprise, and continued defiantly. “That again!” he bawled out. “Those tricks won't work anymore little boy. A warrior's spirit doesn't work well in a weakling's body.”

“We will see about that,” Boris mused out loud. He had started feeling drained. Focusing his will was taxing. He had to repress his mind, subdue his emotions and impulses, and channel the entirety of his intent on a single impulse, then aim at a target. It looked perfect in theory but never worked in practice. It was like channeling a dam through a straw and using the water jet to shoot someone. Exhausting, awkward and unreliable.

Boris turned his attention back to the caravan as it slowed and the horses whinnied in approval, ready for a break. The merchants seemed to favor efficiency over comfort. They moved briskly with a few short rests when the drivers tended to the horses, had a meal and confirmed that everything was in good order.

Boris slowed along with the wagons and used his will on the snowbills instead. A smug Halkone took an easy lead but soon found his face assaulted by a flock of birds. In that moment of distraction the scythian waved his hands in fury, scattering the noisy birds. The next moment, Boris had vanished.

Halkone swore as he forced his legs to go faster. They disobeyed shakily and he felt a weakness to his ankles as he tumbled over like a barrel, rolling on the cold ground in frustration before he regained himself. A figure flitted past him the same moment.

“Hey!” he cried out loud at the figure that was now running faster than ever, catching up to the stopped line of wagons. “You pulled my leg!” Halkone shouted and brushed his grazed hand that hurt more than it bled.

“I don't know what you are talking about,” Boris replied only once he had jumped into the rear wagon and claimed his victory. He had both his hands raised in a sign of honesty and a sinister smile upon his face while one of the guards patted him gladly. One of those who had won the bet. “It looked to me more like you pulled your own leg,” Boris added.

“Trickster,” Halkone insulted.

“Loser,” Boris replied.

“This is not over boy,” Halkone grumbled. “Let's see how long you can keep up.” He had just lost a sum of money in the bet. Although it did not go to Boris, the other guards were gladly enjoying their earnings.

“Some other day,” Boris told Halkone, Diana was already waiting. And Diana disliked waiting. He promptly untied the weight of stones and wrapped away his usual meal of corn and eggs mashed in some strange bread. He disembarked the wagon and went to receive his pounding a little distance away where Diana stood. All breaks were training sessions.

Diana came at him like a storm, daggers dancing in arcs to that shredded the air with a whistle, and pressed her will against his in stark oppression. Despite having left the forest of Laur, her torture sessions had continued unaffected. They had worsened somewhat actually. Since Diana had lesser time to spend on him she made it that much more effective, and some.

Boris dodged her thrust and slipped his hand at her joint, trying to hook her arm in a lock and throw her down. She disentangled craftily but Boris continued. His other hand went straight at her wrist and he tried to twist it back and away behind her, jerking her forward while he jerked her arm back. It all happened in one swift motion, just as he wanted. But instead of coming down, Diana spun in the air above Boris, rendering her twisted arm straight again and leaving his back free to assault.

Boris knelt with a shudder, feeling serious killing intent on his back, and tried to evade the blow from behind. It came instead at his sides and flung him at the ground before he could block it. He rolled over to a stop, using his feet rather than his hands to brake.

“Playing dirty?” Boris complained while getting back in position. He found it difficult to use his will to attack while Diana flaunted hers and used it as feints. He would feel an attack coming from the front and it would instead come from below. That was ridiculous and underhanded.

“Dirty?” Diana scoffed. She started towards him again. “Do I need to announce my attack and position for you to defend? That is not fairness but stupidity.” She vanished, shifting into diversion, and came at his blind spot. Boris guessed her blow and dodged narrowly as her dagger swiped where his neck had been. He marched in before Diana could reverse her swing and gripped her other arm that was about slice his abdomen clean, cautious to avoid the dagger. Metal still hurt him, weapons much more so. Even if he could bear the pain—he often tried with coins—the distraction could cost him dearly in a battle.

Twisting aside, Boris guided Diana's left away from him as it soared upwards. He clashed his will against Diana's in opposition and thrust his shoulders under hers to throw her over while she was still advancing. As Boris spun to add his own momentum to Diana's, she kicked his feet away and disrupted the throw. He tottered and twisted back around to face Diana, using her left arm as hostage.

Diana surrendered her left readily and Boris slackened. Instantly, the dagger in her right curved up in a blinding glint of silver and drew a streak of blood from his escaping neck. Boris shuddered and stepped in, finding an opening. He aimed a thrust at her right shoulder, hoping to have her abandon that dagger. She dodged and kicked his knee hard, making him falter.

“You pay too much attention to the weapon,” Diana warned with an elbow to his left shoulder. Boris let go of her wrist in alarm and received a kick to his guts, spitting out full force and bending over. This was why he saved his meals for later. “You are fighting me and not my dagger,” Diana finished with a sweeping kick to his waist that sent him toppling across the ground.

Boris grabbed the mud as it grazed his hands and pushed away while his legs tried to regain balance. Better a bleeding hand from the fall than a broken arm from Diana. He could sense her coming again, her will billowing like a storm. He extorted the mana veins in his leg and they tore through his muscles, squeezing them for each ounce of strength he had. Boris sprung to his feet comically, like jack-in-the-box, and ran at her. He did not know why he was smiling. Just that he liked it. There was an emptiness to his mind he admired at times like these. He could not feel or think. The world became a slow, predictable blur of motion.

Boris reined his will in and flung it at Diana, eager to unfaze her. She smiled disastrously and tore at him like a lion, then continued to pound him away. By the time it was over, the caravan was moving again and Boris was propped against the wagon's floor, painful and breathless. Diana did not heal him anymore. He pushed himself up and started to scrub his wounds clean with cheap liquor.

“You have the strangest of habits I have ever seen,” Halkone remarked seeing him wince.

“That's because you are still behind the times,” Boris told him while he wrapped the bandages in strips over both hands. “There will come a day when you will remember my wisdom with respect.” Another guard snorted beside them loudly.

“You will too, Gabe,” Boris scowled at him.

“Big words from someone who cannot land a single blow on the elf,” Gabe said, and resumed his watch behind the wagon. Including Boris, five guards sat in the rear wagon, with two of them active at all times. Boris had earned his position with proper effort and a little help from Diana. He did not like it when the others treated him as a weakling.

“He does have a point,” Halkone agreed with Gabe.

“You bet on Diana again, didn't you?” Boris asked skeptically while he searched the floor for one of the books he had borrowed from the merchants for a portion of his pay. “How much did you earn of it?”

“That's not even a bet anymore kid,” Halkone held the book up and stared him in the eyes. “Now we only bet on how long before you lose and how many hits you can take.”

“Says the guy who lost to me,” Boris added. Gabe snorted again and Halkone frowned. “It’s not over,” Halkone grumbled. “We are barely a week our way. There's plenty of chances left.”

Boris swiped the book away and started flipping the pages.

“Hey, are you listening to me?” the Scythian grouched but Boris filtered his voice to focus on the explanation on glyphs.

Quote:It is sometimes questioned why we need glyphs when all they are is a representation of spells…

Just like chanting, a glyph can help shape spells better, sharper and more accurately. It takes time but sometimes, it is the only way. There is a limit to how large or complex a spell a mage can cast just by a mental image, a limit to imagination. One may imagine a hundred different spells but one cannot imagine all of them at once. A glyph is the most rigid yet perfect means of invoking the most complex of spells successfully…

All straight lines are channels and all curves are modifiers. A singular ori determines the origin and thus the orientation…

He had read this book at least twice in hopes of learning something more, unsuccessfully. He hoped to ask Diana more when he got time. If he got time. Between juggling guard duty and Diana's training, he felt busy. In some ways it was a solace. An idle mind was a devil's workshop. There were worries he had rather not be worried about.

A tap on his shoulder alerted Boris to another guard. Kale was a reserved fellow; he had not spoken at all since their journey. Boris nodded at him and plucked the telescope from his hands. “I am taking the shift, Halkone, don't be late on your turn,” he warned the scythian and moved on with a nod at Kale.

“Oh you needn't worry,” Halkone spewed. “We will reach the Water's before dusk. No night duties tonight. Just booze and beds. How sweet the comfort dwells, at duty's end and death.”

“You are sick,” Boris spat before he moved out on watch. He passed between Gabe and Wylf and climbed up the wagon's sides to the roof, balancing himself softly against the wooden skeleton. Almost immediately, a couple of snowbills wandered down their passage along the sky. Boris proffered them a perch on his shoulders and they succumbed.

“There you go.” He scattered a few bits of his meal at the birds while he chewed on the rest. He kept a watch around through the telescope. The first part of their journey was supposed to be safe and now he understood why. The landscape was almost barren, without cover except for naked trees that dotted it sparsely. Winter had mellowed the wildlife and left the land desolate. And safe.

They crossed a few other caravans and some horse riders in safety. A silent stretch gave way to fields, tilled and ploughed. Awaiting their turn to prosper. Small dwellings erupted now and then. Then a few hills emerged. The grass had persisted all along the route but now it sprouted shrubs and thickets. And among them, flowers presented themselves to the icy apathy of winter. He recognized those.

“Winters'ins.” Boris recognized.

“Correct,” came a voice behind him. “That's a fickle name for a flower that grows perennially but only gets noticed in winter.”

“I thought you didn't want me dawdling when I was on duty,” Boris remarked with his back still at Diana. He did not know how she had come up behind him from her own wagon. He did not want to either.

“Are you questioning me?” Diana swiped the telescope from his hands swiftly.

“Not really,” Boris replied, peering in shock at his empty hands. 'How does she even do that!'

“Good,” Diana answered. She lifted a snowbill from his shoulder and willed it away. “Because it's time you learned your lessons in observation and detection. You will need them soon.”

------------------------

It was a familiar dream. A large swathe of darkness raged and ravaged while he stood distraught. A harrowing pulse of his heart gave way to the bone chilling cold of his skin. Yet he wasn't about to surrender. In his hands was a shield of gleaming blue and it rippled softly, like a force field, as it threw away the endless onslaught of the monster's writhing limbs. His sword could barely harm the monster much. Still he persevered, slicing away with every fiber of his being. Dodging, parrying and attacking relentlessly. And when the monster shrieked at last, he thought he had won.

How wrong he was. For it came at him like lightning—a twisted arm of writhing black. He heard a scream of caution as a hard shove sent him aground at that last moment. And there, saved by a hair's breadth, he looked in disbelief at the one who had shoved him and died instead. Boris was nowhere to be found but for a trail of gore that stood evidence to his demise.

“Ray. Ray, get up,” a voice roused Ray Edson out of his troubled sleep and back into reality. He jerked alert and shook his head severely while his hand went for his sword. “What happened?” Ray asked Violet.

“What happened? We are nearly back. Do you want to greet the populace looking as you are right now?” she said, lifting a hand to pluck at his disheveled hair. Ray brushed her hand away and looked around the carriage. Furnished with plush cushions and curtains, their carriage was about as comfortable as it could possibly be, but it could not replace a bed. Both Sylvia and Claire were still peacefully asleep. It had been a drain on them to fight so often. He wished they hadn't followed him so readily, despite their feelings.

“You should wake them up too.” Violet gestured while softening the creases of her clothing.

Ray simply glanced out at the distant walls of Orin, as peaceful in winter as they had been in autumn. And for all he had witnessed, he found it difficult to believe.

“Say,” he started, remembering his skirmishes, “can the Cult make it this far into the nation.” Over the past month he had fought the fanatical Cult twice.

“Unrestrained, they might,” Violet said. “But you don't expect us to sit and watch silently do you?”

“I sure do not,” he replied with a faint smile and eased back in his seat. “Violet...?”

“Hm? Shouldn't you wake them up by now?”

“About... about Boris.”

“Regretting your outburst already?” she said sarcastically. “Both of you are idiots of first degree.”

“No. No... ” Ray replied pensively. “I think… well I don't know how to put it but… we are better off without him. So let's not pull that issue again.”

“Are you for real?” Violet sounded annoyed and repulsed at the same time. Ray felt her eyes prick at him.

“Yes. I have decided,” he answered unhesitatingly, “I have my ways and he has his.”

“It will be too late to regret it later.”

Ray smiled again. It was a charming smile but not a very convincing one. “I have never regretted my decisions. And I never will.”

------------------------

Still upon the wagon's roof, Boris received a smack from Diana with a grunt.

“You are doing it wrong again,” she announced as the other guards laughed loudly below. Boris snarled and received a second smack. “Wrong. How many times do I have to tell you not to let the mind wander?” Diana remarked. “Remember again, what do you do when you fight me? Do you look around at people? Do you hear them? Do you even feel anything else?”

“I am trying to focus,” Boris gesticulated.

“You are not. You are fighting your emotions, stabbing your thoughts and stressing your mind. Do you do all this when facing death? No. You ignore it all. Let it be as it is. You do not let it matter. Do you understand?” Diana explained strictly.

“So it doesn't matter?” Boris asked curiously. The snowbills pecked at his hair annoyingly. He drove them away but they kept returning obstinately.

“Correct. Do it again.”

Boris calmed his breath and closed his eyes. He relaxed, ignoring everything around, even Diana. Would she kick him now? He received another smack and ignored his fear. Slowly, very slowly, he imitated the same calm he felt when he fought Diana. It was mute and eerie.

“There,” Diana remarked. “You are getting a hold of it. Open your eyes now.”

He did so and looked at the world again. It looked so much more... bland?

“Do you see it?” Diana asked.

“See what? It's dull as heck.”

“No,” Diana smiled. “It is how it always was. You changed. You stopped adding useless thoughts to everything you see. The sky is not dreamy anymore. It is simply blue. The ground is not dirty. It is brown. The trees are not running. They are still. Do you see?”

“How do you—

“Remember this state of mind kid,” Diana cut short Boris's question. “It is the zeroth form of Svenda. The true formless form. You will need to practice this a lot. Talk less, listen more.”

Boris nodded and continued. The calm grew over time becoming a vast swath of emptiness. Everything felt detached, trivial. He himself felt the same.

“Now, you should begin to feel it,” Diana added very softly beside him, “something like a lake forming inside your mind. That is your will.”

Boris tried to figure out a lake inside his mind. It was not there.

“There isn't any?” he questioned in a whisper.

“That cannot be,” Diana told him. “It is there, I know. Your will has eased itself into your mind. I cannot feel it anymore. So look inside, what is there that wasn't before?”

'An ocean of silence,' Boris realized. Full but empty. Endless. Dreadful.

“Did you feel it?” Diana asked.

“Ah, yes,” Boris hesitated.

“Good. Now you know your own will. Keep it calm and concealed. It is your greatest weapon. When you are like this, even animals will find you feeble and inconspicuous. It is good for stealth and surprise attacks. It will take a promising mage or scout to find you.”

The snowbills around Boris now ignored him as if he were a tree.

“Now comes the difficult part,” Diana said while looking around through the telescope. “If you had mana, you could meld it with your will and channel it. Since you do not, just try to sweep your will around little by little. Let it emerge like a film of water. Thin, faint and fluid.” Diana made a small sweeping motion with her hands.

Boris breathed out and let his will flow, not repressing it but guiding it along. Since it was calm and easy to manipulate, it proved much simpler than before.

“Do you feel the people below?”

“Four of them,” Boris nodded in answer.

“Do you feel how they feel?” Diana enquired further.

“Mostly alert, a little anxious may be?” Boris reasoned.

“That is so,” Diana agreed and Boris felt her will now. Unlike his own, it was sharp and stilling.

“Yes,” Diana reminded him, “that is my will. It terrifies most people if I let it.”

“I couldn't agree more,” he answered placidly.

“We will move on,” Diana brushed him off. “Observation requires using every available sense to inspect things. There should be no bias and no guessing.” She followed it with a lengthy explanation of details as she asked Boris to describe little things from weeds to pebbles. She would point out fallacies and let him correct them. When Diana felt it was enough for the day, she asked Boris one last thing. “Use your will to find what is inside that wagon ahead.”

Boris swept his will like a small wave while observing the wagon. Two impressions on the outside of its canvas delineated the piled up goods inside. They bounced softly when the wagon jerked. So it wasn't wood or iron. When his will sneaked into the wagon, it quivered awkwardly. Something tugged at him and wouldn't let go. Just as Boris realized who was in the wagon his concentration broke apart and his will turned into a mess of confused emotions.

“You failed,” Diana concluded.

“I forgot she is inside,” he grumbled, “and still angry.”

“Did it feel so?”

“I don't know,” Boris shrugged, “It felt weird, like something was pulling on me. That's like how her eyes always feel.”

“That's your last lesson for today,” Diana nodded approvingly. “When you try to touch someone's will it reacts to your own. The trick is to be delicate and subtle. Most people only grow a little anxious. They will not realize someone is probing them. But those who do,” Diana pointed ahead. Elaine glared fiercely from the next wagon. Her eyes narrowed accusingly at Boris. Boris held both his hands up in surrender and smiled apologetically. Elaine frowned but said nothing. Diana continued unaffected, “Let's just say, they will counter. That woman is one of the few who instinctively know how to use their will and hers works like a charm that draws everything in. You should have seen how the people behave around her.”

“So you taught me another way to tick her off. Many thanks, I am already very good at that,” Boris shook his head sarcastically. Elaine had not talked to him a whole week.

“You are welcome,” Diana patted his head in condolence. “If you can make her that riled up, consider it a talent.”

“Are you joking?” Boris asked with disbelief. He noticed Elaine recede back and sighed.

“If I was,” said Diana softly, “you wouldn't be asking.” She then retired to the same wagon as Elaine.

Left to his own, Boris resumed his watch in silence. He kept his will concealed and the snowbills rarely wandered down his way anymore. The vegetation started to thicken as the caravan progressed and hills became prominent by their cover. Boris made out a settlement hugged by the hillside just before the denser forest ahead. The Water's Fill, or simply the Water's. This was their stop. A small river fanned around it. Its canals made a funnel that irrigated the fields and filled a reservoir in the center. Pockets of smoke blotted the evening sky with patches of grey and the faintest scent of food sent his stomach into a loud growl. He grimaced at this ever present hunger and heard a louder laugh below.

“Guess we reached our spot, eh?” Halkone said gleefully as he poked his head out.

“You win another bet?” Boris guessed.

“You have no idea,” the Scythian retorted and Boris climbed back into the wagon as it ascended the hillside towards the village. They relaxed and the caravan came to a small halt by the gates.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Thanks for reading ^^.

Just to clarify, I deleted a part of this chap because it already exceeded 8k words (initial draft was about 15k). If I do add it here or in the next chap, I will inform you.

Sorry for the really long delay but I had to rewrite this, literally. I have shrunk the heroes side to few paras but the king still gets a long ass scene in the beginning. Well, thank you for your patience! I am still working on the next few chaps. Oh right, here's a map tentatively...

Map link

A- abandoned fortress near Tabin, B- where Boris and Diana fought the cult and C- Forest of Goodwill

I messed up some directions in writing so I will correct them slowly but this map is how I have imagined it till now. Sadly, it is not final and not to scale. Also, I am not good with digital drawing so this is hand drawn. Still better than nothing, right.

Note that the sea in he north is farther away and the cities are smaller than shown. Also, since the wind flow is south-east in summers but northwest in winters in general, the northern part receives heavier rainfall in early months while the southern part receives heavier rainfall near winter. The central plains have perennial water supply because they receive rivers both from north and south. Also, the Islet of Berl was once a part of the main landmass but separated due to "landfalls".

PS2: Oh shit, I marked Cumaria wrong. That southern nation is Sumaria not Cumaria. Cumaria is the one with all the features. I mean, how did I mess that up?

PS3: Right, tivanenk, like your review. (Some very relevant points, others I will justify as the story goes on.) Thanks dude. You will get a surprise next chap.

A tidbit- Wintersin is derived form Winter is in = Winter's in.

I have stopped capitalizing Will. Does it make it worse or better? Opinions needed...