Brothers in Arms (Prince of Nothing)

[Imperial Overlord]

Early Summer, 15 New Imperial Year (4128 Year-of-the-Tusk)
southwestern Galeoth

The merchant half turned and craned his neck backwards when he heard the riders approach. The clattering of his wagon and the clomp of his horses' hooves had drowned out the riders until they had drawn close. His brother in law reached back to the weapons that were just behind them. The sranc might have been driven from this part of the land, but the men who now inhabited it were just as predatory and individually far more dangerous. Most of the Scalpoi were little better than bandits.

His brother in law, Heuthos, gripped a spear tightly but did not raise it. Heuthos was five years Kothwa's senior, a caste-menial soldier who had served in the Unification Wars under King Saubon until an arrow had lamed him. He could no longer march, but he could drive a cart, watch Kothwa's back, and take the place of two men in a fight and while he was not blood, he was family. Kothwa had made him a junior partner in his business and learned that his sister's husband had another valuable skill, namely that he could drive a very hard bargain.

The riders drew close and slowed their pace. The road that they shared was merely a wide beaten track over the hills and through the trees. Both men were handy with a hammer and they carried two extra wheels for when breakdowns occurred, an event that was inevitable. At least there was enough wood to fashion a crude replacement if it became necessary. Mules would have been a better choice of transportation, but mules could only carry so much and he had a cart full of beer barrels. The money he could get for beer in Marrow made the trip worthwhile. After they traded their scalps for the Hallow Bounty, the Scalpoi would glut their appetites with drink, drugs, and whores.

The riders were a mixed group, three Norsirai and three Ketyai. One of the Norsirai rode slightly ahead of the rest of the group. He was tall and lean, wearing travel stained leather and wool. A worn scabbard held a sword and a horn bow and quiver hung from the saddle. He wore armour of boiled leather. His eyes were piercing blue and a short, blond beard.

The other two Norsirai and two of the Ketyai surrounded the other man. They had longer beards and wore scarlet tunics under long coats of black mail. They had long rectangular shields slung on their horses, infantry man's gear, and were not comfortable in the saddle.

The last man was not in the mold of the rest. An olive skinned Ketyai, with a clean shaven face and hawk-like nose. His black hair pulled back in a braid that fell just passed his shoulders. The roots were beginning to show grey and crow's feet were beginning to form around his eyes. He wore fine wool and leather, but no armour. The only weapon he carried was a dagger.

The man carried himself with all the arrogance of the caste nobility, but his lack of weapons, especially in this country, marked him as something else. He wore no beard, carried no war mask, and did not wear the cosmetics or tattoos of High Ainon. The rest of the men had the look of formidable fighters, but they were too clean and too uniform in appearance to be Scalpoi. The mix of races, as well as their leader's lack of weapons, suggested that they were not the retainers of a caste-noble. That being said, the only conclusion that remained was that they were Imperials.

They passed Kothwa's wagon with barely a look back. The road wound down the escarpment, a path flanked by boulders and heavy bush. The Long-Braid Falls twisted and turned down the scarp face to plunge into the forest below, throwing up a curtain of mist and spray at the base. Beyond the falls Marrow, the trading town where the Scalpoi bought their supplies for their ventures into the wilderness. There brokers would pay good silver for the scalps of the inhuman Sranc, which they would carry back into civilization and turn in for the Hallow Bounty, which even after being dropped in value was a full silver kellic.

One of the leader's retainers leaned over to speak quietly with his master. "There it is," said Wanhail. "Marrow." He was almost of age with his master, a veteran of countless battles. The other Javreh said the captain was as hard as iron. In his own mind, he thought himself almost as hard as he needed to be. He was a Galeoth, Norisai, but this was the first time he had been in the land of his birth since he had been a child. "By reputation, a snake pit. Scalpoi are just one side of bandits. The bad side."

Mizoukas shot him a look, but said nothing. Wanhail ignored the other man. He and Shayoul were, despite everything that should divide them, friends. He wasn't sure exactly when that happened. By Shimeh, for sure, where one would have died three times over without the other. The Chorae he carried around his neck was from an arrow he had blocked when the Cishaurim and the Kainene Chorae archers had risen around them, forming a cauldron of fire and slaughter that had claimed so many.

"As bad as the Sranc Pits?" asked Shayoul.

"Not even Shimeh was as bad as the Sranc Pits," replied Mizoukas. "But that place may be just as treacherous."

"But no Sranc, at least no live ones."

"At least not for long," said Wanhail. Even Mizoukas laughed at that. "Let's go find out what those goat fuckers know. I don't want to have dragged my ass all over Galeoth for nothing. And keep close. I don't want to explain to the Grandmaster why one of his Schoolmen won't be returning home. I'll have between here and High Ainon to make the fucker responsible pay the price in full."

[UnderAGreySky]

First, I saw 'sranc'.... Hmmm, that was familiar.

Then, I see 'chorae'. Wait a minute...

Then, 'Cishaurim'.... and the lightbulbs covered by cobwebs in the mind start lighting up and it is THEN that the "Prince of Nothing" bit hit me! I always think of those books not by name but by the name of the author.

Been a few years since I last read those books, and I eagerly look forward to what you can do with that universe!

[Imperial Overlord]

Been a few years since I last read those books, and I eagerly look forward to what you can do with that universe!

The Aspect-Emperor came out last year.

[UnderAGreySky]

Been a bit out of touch with the SFF world since I've been at uni and more so away from a friend who was the be-all-and-end-all of my recommendation list. Haven't even bought Erikson's Dust of Dreams yet (and I'm a die-hard fan of the MBotF), I'm trying to save as much money as I can for a trip back home.

This will have to wait, though I'm prepared to

[Imperial Overlord]

Marrow was a rough and tumble frontier town with low buildings made from cut logs and unseasoned planks. Raucous laughter could be heard echoing from its taverns and public houses. The Imperials rode down a muddy street into the town.

A pair of drunken Galeoths, one who was holding his friend up, staggered out of the way. The other one looked up and managed to slobber out "fucking picks," before looking away.

"Should we administer correction?" asked Mizoukas. The old Norsirai slur for Ketyai rankled many. The Javreh were slaves, but they were slave soldiers of the mighty Scarlet Spires, most of them survivors of the Sranc Pits, and not inclined to take abuse from men one step above bandits. Mizoukas was prouder than most, an arrogant streak that had cost him promotion that his skill and valor had earned.

"For that?" said Shayoul. "No. Anything you do will be gentler than what the Sranc will do to him when his luck runs out."

"True enough," said Wanhail. A prostitute with fat hanging off her arms sat on a window sill and looked at them with bored eyes. The Scalpoi had left their marks on the walls and posts in a variety of letters. "LONGSHIELDS FOREVER!" one proclaimed in Gallish letters. "I FUCK SRANC" said another in Ainoni pictograms.

"That's the place," said Othrain. The Galeoth Tracker pointed at a building of log building. They rode down to the building and Shayoul halted. He could sense a spot of nothingness inside, a pit in the onta. Someone inside had a Trinket.

"Wanhail, Mizoukas, Othrain, with me," he said and headed inside. The Javreh hurried to catch up with their lord. Shayoul slowed to let them catch up before going inside.

It stank, of course. Of beer, of unwashed bodies, of smoke and vomit and hemp fumes. The tap man was a tall, balding Norisai, probably a Galeoth. Planks sectioned off tables on the sides into rude booths. Three thick long bearded Thunyeri wearing leather and fur glared from one table. There bleary hostility and careful but clumsy manner of their movements made it clear they were deep in their cups, but Shayoul paid them only a moment's notice. None of them possessed the Trinket.

He turned to the other side of the tavern and looked at a group of men staring back at him. Two were Ketyai, one an old silver haired man, smooth shaven in the Nansur manner. The other was a high caste Ainoni, with a square beard and dark cosmetic marking tattooed on his lips and around the eyes. The Ainoni held the Trinket, he could feel it as fierce as the one that burned in Wanhail's possession. The third man's race and nation could not be determined from the leather cloak that shrouded his features, but his Mark burned fierce and dark. Was it him?

The Ainoni met his gaze and in that moment Shayoul recognized him. He had been there when the Aspect-Emperor had named him Ironsoul. That sense of absolute mastery of his environment that transcended simple noble arrogance. Looking into his burning eyes, Shayoul had only met one man with greater presence, if you could call the Aspect-Emperor a man.

He did not need to ask what Lord Kosoter was doing here. The Unification Wars were over, the Great Ordeal had yet to begin. Where else would a soul so fiercely marked by war be but the only place war was waged? The Unification Wars had ended the conflicts between the nations of the Three Seas and the preparations for the Great Ordeal, the massive logistical effort necessary to support a huge army's advance through the immense stretch of Sranc haunted wilderness between the lands of Men and the Pit of Obscenities, were not yet complete. What else were the men accustomed to violence to do but hunt Sranc for the Hallow Bounty? This way at least their violence would serve a higher purpose.

Shayoul inclined his head slightly to Kosoter, as jnan proscribed when dealing with a Veteran of the Holy War. If Kosoter became involved in this dispute, and it was looking as if the sorcerer was his man and so he would, then it would get very ugly very fast. The sorcerer looked right at him and his hood fell back slightly. He was not a Man.

His skin was pale and hairless, his features perfectly formed. His teeth were fused plates. Shayoul almost flinched. A Nonman Quya, a practitioner of the Gnosis and, by his company, an Erratic as well. "Your Mark is strong and deep," he said respectfully.

"As is yours." The Nonman's pronunciation was odd, his voice hitting tones that Men could not. Only the Few could see the Few, those who could distinguish the created world, the onta, from the works of sorcery and speak the words that could scar the world. Before the coming of the Aspect-Emperor the teachings of the Tusk and the Later Prophet condemned all sorcerers to damnation in the Outside, the realms of demons and gods. The Aspect-Emperor had refuted that proving that the Few were as they were because they were closer to the Outside and proclaiming the holy task of preventing the Second Apocalypse made clean all methods used to accomplish it. The Mandate, the last human practitioners of the Gnosis, had gone from fools who prattled on about the No-God and his Consult and a disaster that would come to wise men and prophets. The Scarlet Spires had not undergone such a profound change, but to go from damned to holy, was that not enough for any man? It was enough for Shayoul.

"I was looking for another of the Few," said Shayoul in an attempt to diffuse the situation. "I had no desire to intrude on to your business." The Nonman was hugely dangerous. Not only did he possess mastery of the Gnosis, a form of sorcery far more potent than his own Anagogic arts, but was an Erratic as well. What happened to an immortal when his mind could no longer hold his memories? The weakest faded. Which memories were strongest, which left the deepest marks on the clay of the mind? Trauma. Atrocity. Betrayal. What happened to a man when everything decent was drowned in a sea of pain and torment? What was he then? Erratics sought out trauma, sought out betrayal and pain and suffering to make memories that would last, to anchor themselves in the real as their lives faded away.

"Another Schoolman?" asked the Erratic.

"A wizard," replied Shayoul, naming his quarry a renegade.

"We saw signs of such. Scars on the onta. Recently I think. North of here, towards the mountains. There were few Sranc." He paused. "Or was that another time? Perhaps I am thinking of something else."

"You had best thank Cleric for his help and go," said the white haired Nansur.

Shayoul inclined his head and retreated. Othrain had been speaking to the innkeeper and gestured to a table. Shayoul and his Javreh moved there and sat down.

Wanhail carefully did not look in the direction of Ironsoul's band. "Should we deal with them?"

"No," said Shayoul. "I don't think they will be a problem. We don't need their emnity."

"The one in black."

"A Nonman Quya, their magi. The creators of the Gnosis. The Ainoni has a Trinket as well. We do not need such enemies." Chorae bore several names. Sorcerers named them Trinkets, some of the faithful called them Tears of God. They were products of the long dead Aporos School and each one granted immunity from sorcery and slew sorcerers with but a touch. Once they played an important part in the power balance of the Three Seas, blunting the power of the Scholastic factions. Now the fact that the majority of the Chorae were believed to be lost in the ruins of the north, the Sranc haunted wilderness between the New Empire and Golgotterath, was an obstacle to be planned for and overcome. And, of course, a weapon to be employed against the Consult, who also possessed the Gnosis.

"The man we're looking for, Hovatha, is in town," said Othain. "His band went out in spring and suffered heavy losses, returning here. Hopefully some of the survivors have the knowledge you seek."

Shayoul nodded. "I do not want our best clue to be an Erratic's memory. Where can we find Hovatha?"

"There's a hospice for the wounded near the outskirts of town. But they will not take visitors after dark." It was twilight now.

"Then we had best get rooms," said Shayoul who nodded towards Wanhail. The Javreh captain stood up and exited the booth. "At least we will have roofs over our heads this night."

[The Grim Squeaker]

Crossover with the book eh?
Looks good .

[Guardsman Bass]

I'll second that - I'm really enjoying this.

I'll admit, I was a little worried when we didn't have some exposition on history or philosophy in the first part. It's just not Prince of Nothing without it.

[Imperial Overlord]

I'll second that - I'm really enjoying this.

I'll admit, I was a little worried when we didn't have some exposition on history or philosophy in the first part. It's just not Prince of Nothing without it.

Patience. What happens after has determined what will come before.

[Imperial Overlord]

The rooms were small and the walls were thin, but they were mostly clean and fairly comfortable. Shayoul had slept in worse during the Holy War and the Unification Wars and was pleasantly surprised at the state of the rooms. He had been expecting worse.

His bones and muscles ached. He had experienced hardships and deprivation, thirst and illness, but the last four years had mostly been spent in palaces, teaching the next generation of Schoolmen. Soft living and the slow march of old age had left their mark. He was asleep in moments.

He awoke in the morning and gathered his Javreh. Othain had already descended for breakfast. Bread, cheese, porridge, and fresh sausages were available and Shayoul ate sparingly. His Javreh ate quickly, almost shoveling food into their mouths. The Imperial Tracker watched them, his face carefully blank but amusement in his eyes.

The Aspect-Emperor could look upon a man and see his soul. Shayoul had no such talents, but he had over the years gotten better at reading the faces of men and their body languages. The Tracker was not expressive, but neither was his skilled at deception. His mood was easy enough to read.

They did not linger over breakfast. Marrow was still mostly asleep, the Scalpoi who it existed to serve having drugged or drunken themselves into a stupor. Mud squished under Shayoul's feet as he headed for the hospice.

It was a good sized building built from uncut logs. The rules of the Slog, as the Scalpoi called it, were harsh and unforgiving. The Scalpoi waged war against the unending tide of Sranc, but they were not soldiers. They were a different order of men, men who ventured into the wilderness in small bands and struggled to survive. Between them there was not the brotherhood of soldiers and the bonds of war, but a different set of rules. There was no place for weakness there. A brother who could not keep up was abandoned, even if he had saved your life a day before.

The hospice served those who had gained injuries that were serious, but not too serious to prevent them from returning to the Marrow. It reeked inside. Shayoul wrinkled his nose at the stench of unwashed bodies and putrifying wounds. Infection, he realized, was what so many of these men suffered from. Wounds that went bad and gangrenous, sapping away the victim's strength and health as time passed. Wounds light enough to be survivable turned grave. This was a house of the dying.

Othain grunted. The Imperial Tracker was from this part of the country. He knew the land and the Sranc. That was why he was here. The route to Golgotterah did not run through this land, but the skills required were much the same. The Trackers ventured north, mapping the route through the Sranc haunted wilderness that the Great Ordeal would take to destroy Golgotterah and the Consult before they could unleash the Second Apocalypse.

Shayoul resisted the urge to put a handkerchief to his face to blot out the stench. A slim, balding Ketyai whose plaited beard marked him as a Conriyan. What would bring such a man here, to attend to Scalpoi? Debts? Desperation. No, one look into those weary, beaten eyes told Shayoul all that he needed to know. Sin. It did not matter what they were, merely that the man felt their weight.

"I seek a man called Hovatha."

The physician inclined his head deeply, as jnan proscribed for the great difference in their rank. "I have such a man here. He is greatly ill."

"There are questions he must answer." The physician hesitated, looked from Shayoul to the Javreh, and then moved aside. "Show me," said the Schoolman. The physician shuffled aside and lead him passed rows of pallets separated by ragged curtains. The physician stopped at a bed occupied by a big, bearded Thunyeri. The upper part of his right arm was covered with bandages. The Thunyeri were the wildest and least civilized of the nations of the Middle North, men for whom fighting against the Sranc was almost holy before the coming of the Aspect-Emperor.

"Hovatha?" asked Shayoul.

The Thunyeri lolled his head, blinked and focused. "Who asks?" he grunted.

"A Veteran of the Holy War," Shayoul replied, "and a sorcerer of rank in the Scarlet Spires. More than once you have claimed to have seen sorcery. I require the truth from you."

"I was lying," the Thunyeri mumbled. "Just stories."

"Perhaps. And perhaps you merely want me gone. There are ways to be sure."

"Wait," said the physician. Wanhail silenced him with a glare.

Shayou began to sing. White light poured from his mouth and eyes as he sang the Cants of Compulsion. "Did you see sorcery in the wild?"

"Yes," said the Thunyeri, his voice thick and slow.

"What did you see?"

"Lightning on a cloudless day, a second sun falling from the sky."

Shayoul let the breath go with a hiss. Anagogic Sorcery, not the Gnosis. Not Drusas Achamian, the renegade Mandate Schoolman. Xenchosa.

"Where?" he asked.

"The Osthwai Mountains. Five days north of the Black Halls, on this side of the mountains."

"The Black Halls?"

"Cil-Aujas," said Othain.

"Can you find that place?" asked Shayoul

"Close enough," said Othain.

"Then we are done," said the sorcerer. His eyes flicked to Wanhail. "He lied." The sorcerer turned and walked from the hall. Behind him the Javreh's dagger lashed out and blood jetted from the wound. Wanhail cleaned the knife on the Thunyeri's clothes and followed his master out of the door. Blood pooled slowly on the floor.

"Get the horses," Shayoul said to Mizoukas. "We have a lot of ground to cover."

[Guardsman Bass]

I like it. I missed that last part, though - are they hunting for Achamian and friends, or just that Xenchosa character?

[Imperial Overlord]

I like it. I missed that last part, though - are they hunting for Achamian and friends, or just that Xenchosa character?

They're going to the place Xenchosa was last seen, knowing it couldn't possibly be Akka (who is the world's most famous Wizard), so what do you think?

[Guardsman Bass]

I like it. I missed that last part, though - are they hunting for Achamian and friends, or just that Xenchosa character?

They're going to the place Xenchosa was last seen, knowing it couldn't possibly be Akka (who is the world's most famous Wizard), so what do you think?

My bad - I was confused on the last part.

[Imperial Overlord]

My bad - I was confused on the last part.

Report yourself to the nearest Nascenti Judge for chastisement.

[Guardsman Bass]

My bad - I was confused on the last part.

Report yourself to the nearest Nascenti Judge for chastisement.

Yes, Honored One. After all, Sin is Sin, and must be expunged.

[Imperial Overlord]

They headed north from Marrow, into the forested highlands where the lands of Men ended. They climbed the slope of the river valley and into the forested hills that were the domain of the wolf and the bear and the Sranc. Expedition after expedition of Scalpoi had thinned the Sranc out of northern Galeoth, but every year more Sranc clans filtered down from the north. Every spring the Scalpoi ventured out to meet them, cull their number, and return for the Hallow Bounty on their scalps. A few bands had met with success or injuries and returned to Marrow and soon enough they would go out again.

They made camp and settled down in front of a fire. Sausages were thrown on a pan to cook. "We are close to Sranc country now," said Othain. "Not today or tomorrow, but soon enough we will see the signs of their presence. They have the minds of beasts, but cunning beasts. We need to be on our guard."

There were nods from the Javreh. The Imperial Tracker knew they Sranc like few others did. They risked terrible deaths at the hands of the Sranc to map every passage and ford and route in the ruined north many of them paid that terrible price. Already they were legend. Othain shifted on his haunches.

"Lord," he began, "it is likely we will soon find this man you are looking for. If there is more we should know about him, it should be shared."

Shayoul sighed. The Javreh shifted. "You are right. Some know this already. It is fitting that the rest know as well. Xenchosa was once a Schoolman of the Scarlet Spires, a sorcerer of rank and a member of the inner circle. We were friends.

The Schoolman poked a burning log with a stick and rotated it slowly in the fire. "I was young when the Shriah called for the Holy War and made his offer to the Scarlet Spires. I had been a sorcerer of rank for less than two years and Xenchosa had been both and instructor and a tutor to me. We were . . . close.

"So much changed during the Holy War. Power slipped from the hands of the Great Names and the Scarlet Spires into the hands of this unknown upstart prince. For us at first it was an annoyance, but nothing that really mattered. The jostling for positions of the Great Names and House Ikurei were nothing to us. We weren't there for Shimeh or to reclaim the territories of the Nansur Empire, we were there to eradicate the Cishaurim. But this upstart preached and spoke and gained a following and the balance of power shifted. The Great Names were split and he continued to show himself as more than just an ordinary man. We did not recognize our salvation.

"Then came the revelations of the skin spies and the breaking of the siege of Caraskand. An impossible victory to crown so many great achievements. Somehow he had ceased to be a minor outland prince and become the Warrior-Prophet. How was this possible? He lead the army now. We had no choice but to answer to him. We, the Scarlet Spires, the masters of High Ainon? How had we been humbled? How had this happened? We did not know, we did not understand how the ground had shifted so much under our feet.

"But it had. We confused, as many do, the shame of submission to a rival with the proper submission to one who is greater. We were the masters of a king and though as kings do and thus we had no worldly better. And as for heaven, we were sorcerers. We were damned. The Mandate had a saying "you lose heaven, but gain the world." So we thought of ourselves. We did not truly understand until he spoke of salvation. Our salvation. How the Few are closer to the gods than most, that our ability to see the onta and change the world comes from that greater connection to Outside. His words on how his cause was holy enough to redeem all methods that would see it accomplish."

Shayoul paused. "It seemed so obvious in hindsight. We knew that it is through the souls of Men that the gods see the world. We knew that the prohibitions against sorcery were those formulated by priests against the Few and that the arguments derived from the usurpation of divine power. How then was sorcery unclean if it functioned because the Few retained a fraction more of the divine perception of the world than the rest of Men? How so if we worked the will of the gods themselves? We were saved. How could this be?

"Some said this was just a noose to bind us to him, but in the face of the arguments and the every increasing certainty of the Warrior-Prophet's divinity these arguments fell away. Not Xenchosa. His world would not change. The Scarlet Spires were the masters of High Ainon and that was how things should be. We would not know the humiliation of bowing to another. There could be no equal so the the Warrior-Prophet must be a fraud.

"We lost so many at Shimeh and that only hardened his position. It was deliberate, in his mind. The Warrior-Prophet had let so many of us die only to save us at the last moment in order to bind us more closely to him, as if Eli had never been reckless. He would not listen to reason. Soon, he abandoned his brothers. His friends. And now we have found him."

Shayoul rotated the stick in the fire some more. "When we find him, I hope to speak to him. To convince him to return. Living in the wilderness cannot be to his liking. I pray that I am successful, but if I am not then we have no choice."

The rest of the dinner was eaten in silence. Mizoukas took out a whetstone and some oil. He honed the foot long blade of his favorite dagger until it was his turn on watch. The Javreh's dead eyes stared out into the darkness beyond the camp until he was relieved.

The ground became rougher the day after and the next, but the years of Scalpoi expeditions had blazed trails that they could follow. They encountered a Thunyeri band of Scalpoi during the late afternoon. They wore leather, wool, and furs over battered mail and stank stale sweat and blood. Shrunken Sranc heads dangled from braids and decorated shields. For the Thunyeri more than any other group of Men war against the Sranc was a constant. They exchanged terse greetings and exchanged news about the trail before going on their way.

The small band skirted the edge of the mountains, heading north and slightly west through the forested highlands. At one point Othain called for a halt. "See?" he said pointing at a small clearing of churned soil.

"It looks like the earth has been assaulted by the most inept farmers in the Three Seas," said Wanhail.

"The Sranc tore the ground, looking for grubs to eat. They can survive on almost anything. This was done this year, early spring probably. Be on your guard."

The trail headed uphill towards ridge. "Good visibility there," said Wanhail, pointing through the forest cover. The pines and birches filtered the light and created pools of shadows, but visibility was still good.

"Yes," said Othain. "Lord?"

"We'll stop and see what we can see," said the Shayoul. "We-." He stopped. There was something at the edge of his senses, up the slope and off to his right. A pit of nothing, a spot of emptiness. "Trinket," he hissed.

"Scalpoi?" asked Wanhail as he reached for his sword.

"Carrying a fortune around he does not sell?" said Mizoukas acidly.

"Ironsoul did."

"The Sranc know enough to use weapons," said Othain. "And carry Chorae." The scout peered into the distance and flung up his hand. "It is too quiet."

"The birds," said Wanhail. "They should be singing." Branches above them shook and the Norsirai veteran looked up. White forms that looked like naked children leapt down from the trees, blades of crude black iron in their hands.

"Sranc!" shouted Othain as his horse reared and a Sranc narrowly missed him. One landed on Wanhail, its perfectly formed face deformed by a grin of idiot malice. It wore a hauberk of rotting leather and carried a small sword in its hand. It thrust at him, the blade slicing through his tunic and deflecting off mail as it struck at him in kill lust. Ahead of him the Javreh saw one of the Sranc grappling with Shayoul and he heard a noise like a host of animals moving through brush and then he had no time for anything but the fight in front of him.

[The Grim Squeaker]

There could be no equal so the the Warrior-Prophet must be a fraud.

Good chapter .

[Guardsman Bass]

Excellent chapter, particularly the parts about what a relief it was for sorcerors to "find out" that they weren't damned, but holy (I remember a bit about that in The Judging Eye.

That last part reminds of something that I think is sorely lacking (to the best of my knowledge) in the Prince of Nothing community - fan art. We really need someone to draw some good speculative pictures of Sranc, Nonmen, and the like. It'd probably be kind of creepy, since from what I remember the Sranc and Nonmen are described as having inhumanly beautiful pale faces with fused teeth (I have this mental image of them as subterranean, hairless mole-men, considering the location of their mansions).

[Imperial Overlord]

Sranc are basically small, feral Nonmen in appearance. They have the pale hairless skin and the beautiful features, but their fused teeth are a snaggly mass of fangs. They have hollow, doglike chests and slender builds instead of the Nonmen "really big dude" stature. But Sranc aren't the guys that will be really creepy. Bashrags and skin spies are far more disturbing.

[Imperial Overlord]

Wanhail's left arm moved inside the Sranc's reach, pushing the arm and the blade away. He had fought Sranc before, back in the Sranc Pits before the Scarlet Spires had bought him to be Javreh. He knew them. Their white, hairless skin and their perfectly formed features that were hideously beautiful. The fused mass of spikes that were their teeth, teeth that had left their mark on him. He knew their slender, doglike chests and their quick, vicious movements. He knew their insatiable lust to kill and inflict pain.

And he knew their strength was less than his and their bones were smaller and weaker. His hands closed about the Sranc's head and twisted. He tossed the broken body away and reached for the one attacking Shayoul.

"Form a line!" Mizoukas shouted behind him. "Form a line!" It was chaos around them as the Javreh fought to overcome the Sranc attackers as reinforcements raced towards them. They had to win and win fast. Javreh were footsoldiers, not cavalry. They needed to form up, form up around Shayoul, if they had any hope of surviving this.

The Sranc who had leapt on Shayoul had dropped his blade on impact. The Schoolman was trying to fend off the soulless beast while the rest of its clan rushed forward from their hiding positions, darting through the trees and bushes. Shayoul's forearm was at the Sranc's next and his right arm held one of the Sranc's arms as it tried to reach for a dagger. The Sranc's other hand was around the Schoolman's throat. The Sranc bared his fangs in kill lust.

Wanhail's grabbed the Sranc by the back of it's neck and bodily pulled it off the sorcerer. He tossed the screaming, writhing Sranc under his horses hooves. The Sranc were pouring down the slope now, loping over the uneven ground towards the objects of their lust. They clutched crude weapons of black iron in their hands and shrieked with excitement. Some wore armour of lacquered human hide and carried bone framed shields with human skin stretched over the frames. Many slowed to bang their weapons against trees or send spurts of pitch black seed onto the ground.

Othain split open the skull of the last of the ambushers as the Javreh formed a ragged line, struggling with their shields. "Hold!" yelled Wanhail as he joined them. The Imperial Tracker was staying on his horse and taking up a position on their right. "Hold!" Then Shayoul began to sing.

Phantom castle walls sprung up around the sorcerer as white light poured out of his eyes and mouth. Three Sranc hit his wards and rebounded in confusion. More were coming towards the Javreh. "The line!" roared Wanhail. Blades stabbed out, longer than the crude Sranc weapons in the hands of Men with greater reach. The front ranks of the Sranc were the swifter ones, unburdened by armour or shield. Blades cleaved flesh and mutilated limbs. One Sranc sword parried and cracked. Two Sranc, one mortally wounded, bodily flung themselves at the Javreh and were smashed back by shields. Heavy boots stomped down on slender limbs and torsos. Wanhail ripped his blade out from a Sranc's ribcage and the mortally wounded creature fell. The vanguard of the clan had broken against them, but the slope swarmed with the main body of the Sranc. "Brace!" he roared.

Burning sparrows flew from Shayoul and struck the Sranc. Blackened divots were blasted out of trees and most of the front rank fell blackened and burning. Birds of fire streaked from the Sorcerer as he shouted out the Words Spoken and one of the Great Analogies manifested in the world. The front ranks of the Sranc darted behind trees, bushes, and rocks for cover as their packmates burst into flames.

Two black hearted thunderclouds appeared overhead as Shayoul continued to sing. The Houlari Twin Tempests unleashed their fury. Lightning arced down into the mass of Sranc, striking again and again. Brilliant flashes of light almost blinded the Javreh and the thunder claps almost sent them sprawling, all but Wanhail who stood untouched, anchoring the formation. Pieces of Sranc were thrown into the air and trees exploded, sending blackened shards into the air like javelins. Shayoul sang and lightning struck again and again and again.

The Sranc scurried away, darting back up the slope and scattering to the sides. Two lumbering forms, each propelled by elephantine legs, strode through the rear of the Sranc lines. Their movements were slow, but the length of their gate made them faster than they looked. They bellowed, a deep sound as if it came from the throat of a bull. They were larger than Men or Nonmen, with thick tripart limbs to support their bulk. They were clad in crude mail hauberks and rotting leather. Three arms fused into one crowned by a cluster of fingers held a massive axes with blades of black iron. Vestigial faces disfigured each cheek and moles sprouting long hairs ran rampant over their brutish forms.

"Bashrags," whispered Wanhail. Like the Sranc they were products of the Techne, the life warping arts of the Consult and the Inchoroi. A Weapon Race made to counter the Nonmen Ishroi, made from Men and the Sranc were made from Nonmen. Like the Sranc they were slaves to the impulses and instincts their masters had imprinted on them. "Hold!" he shouted. Hold. They had to.

The dark clouds faded away and light flared in the sky. A second sun was born and then it fell, blazing down and almost two bright to look upon. The ground shook with the fierce power of its impact as it struck the Bashrags. Trees turned to blackened sticks and a wave of heat struck the Javreh. Grass and bushes near the edge of the blast shriveled or caught fire. The flames died down.

A charred mass of flesh struck the ground with enough force the Javreh felt the impact. The other Bashrag walked forward, untouched by the sorcerous holocaust that had engulfed it. Bellowing, it strode forward with strides three times the lengths of a man. "Brace!" shouted Wanhail. "Not one step back!"

[Guardsman Bass]

Good chapter, but I do have one question about this part -

"Bashrags," whispered Wanhail. Like the Sranc they were products of the Techne, the life warping arts of the Consult and the Inchoroi. A Weapon Race made to counter the Nonmen Ishroi, made from Men and the Sranc were made from Nonmen. Like the Sranc they were slaves to the impulses and instincts their masters had imprinted on them.

How likely would it be that a non-scholar would know about the above? I mean, they would probably know the legends about the Apocalypse, but details like the above?

[Imperial Overlord]

Good chapter, but I do have one question about this part -

"Bashrags," whispered Wanhail. Like the Sranc they were products of the Techne, the life warping arts of the Consult and the Inchoroi. A Weapon Race made to counter the Nonmen Ishroi, made from Men and the Sranc were made from Nonmen. Like the Sranc they were slaves to the impulses and instincts their masters had imprinted on them.

How likely would it be that a non-scholar would know about the above? I mean, they would probably know the legends about the Apocalypse, but details like the above?

Remember the Apocalypse and the Consult are not merely legend anymore. Wanhail has been the head of Shayoul's bodyguard since the Holy War and friends of a sort with the sorcerer for almost that long. He himself has a Chorae. He's neither ignorant nor stupid, especially about enemies he may encounter on a mission.

[Imperial Overlord]

The Bashrag raised his axe over his head as he charged towards Shayoul. The Schoolman shouted words, light streaming from his eyes as the Bashrag bore down on him. The sorcerer stepped into the sky, rising up as the Bashrag swung. The leading edge to the axe caught the bottom of Shayoul's phantom walls. The axe head exploded in a flash of white light and a spray of twisted metal.

Othain drew back the string of his bow as the Bashrag howled at the sky. The Imperial Tracker's hands shook for a moment and then steadied. He released the arrow. If flew straight and true, impaling the vestigial face on the Bashrag's left cheek. A few inches higher and he would have struck the brain, a few inches lower and he would have had the throat. "Fortune, you whore," he swore softly as he drew another arrow from his quiver.

The Bashrag moaned around the shaft, bloody drool seeping from his lips. He turned towards the Tracker and charged, the axe handle raised to strike and reduce Othain's body to pulp. The Tracker let fly again.

The arrow struck the Bashrag's hauberk and failed to penetrate deeply. Othain scrambled back, off the side of the path and down the slope and the distance between him and the Bashrag disappeared. He ducked behind a tree. The Bashrag stumbled as it tried to slow itself and pivot, which caused hims to take several long strides down slope to regain control and not slip. The Tracker released another arrow and struck the Bashrag in the left calf. Blood trickled from the wound.

The Bashrag snorted and powered up the hill after the Tracker. The shear size of his gait devoured distance rapidly, even when wounded. Thunder sounded and lightning smote the ground in front of the Bashrag, sending earth and rock flying. The creature creature staggered back, regained his footing, and then continued pursuit with a half-dozen new minor injuries.

"Hit him when he shows his back!" Othain yelled at the Javreh. He took cover behind another tree. The Bashrag came right at him, smashing the side of the tree with his club. The pine shook. Othain waited a heartbeat and then dodged around the side opposite of the Bashrag. He was running out of space. If this didn't work he was a dead man.

The Bashrag was slow to turn with the arrow in his leg. He snarled in pain and limped for a few steps as he rounded the tree. The lust to kill and cause pain dominated the Bashrag's existence and Othain in particular had caused it much pain. Instinct was joined by fury and so the Bashrag's action were as predictable as they were inevitable. Kill the man that had hurt him, stop the Tracker from hurting him again, and experience the ecstasy of slaughter. Its limited, instinct driven mind did not even consider the tactical implications of the choices forced upon it by its very nature.

As the Bashrag began to lumber down slope after Othain, the Javreh charged. The Bashrag turned to face them, pivoting on his good leg. Its club came down. Chenjola, one of the younger men, caught the blow on his shield. The blow crushed the top of the shield and then the helmet and the skull beneath. He toppled as the other three Javreh hit the Bashrag in a line.

Collectively they didn't mass half as much as the Bashrag, but the incline and momentum favored them. Their swords flicked out, striking low. The Bashrag took a deep cut on his right shin and a stab wound in his left foot. His mail hauberk stopped several other blows but the charge had been enough. He toppled backwards and rolled down hill.

Othain moved out of the way of the falling Bashrag. A dozen yards below him, the Bashrag arrested his fall. It sobbed angrily around the arrow impaling his cheeks and clumsily got to his feet. "Clear the way," said Shayoul, descending to a mere score of feet above the ground.

Lightning flashed, blasting the base of a large pine. The boom of the thunder was almost deafening. The tree groaned and toppled as its blackened base gave way. The Bashrag yelled wordlessly and then was buried under the fallen tree.

"We need to make sure the job is done," said Wanhail. "Don't get to close until we're sure its dead."

"And don't forget the Chorae," said Mizoukas.

"Yes," said Wanhail. "With your permission?" he said turning to his master.

"See to it," said Shayoul. "And give the Chorae to Othain, for now at least."

Mizoukas scowled, but the distance and his beard mostly hid it, although not from Wanhail. "As you command lord." He addressed his comrades. "Let's see it done."