Pillars of the Kingdom
Volume I: The Forming.
Copyright 2005, 2008
Jesse Pohlman
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Check the back of the book for a glossary of terms used in the novel!
Cover art by Jennifer Hoover
(re-)Dedicated to my grandmother,
Who always has a smile.
Prelude
"I see 'em," Spoke the whispering voice of the sinister figure. Below him traveled a small convoy of travelers, wearing Gatamene's standards - A black wolf - with a small entourage of soldiers trying to stay warm in the chilly October air. The figure stared downward at them from behind vision-enhancement goggles. Dark armor, light yet sturdy, adorned this masked man's body. The mask was leather, almost stylish with the crowds of Yenohar's nightclubs, and it revealed no hair, eyes, or facial features; no method of identification at all. Only his armor seemed to give credence to a cause, a crest of a dagger dripping poison and blood adorning the center of his armor. The droplet was constructed in such a fashion that the blood was equally mixed in each droplet with the venom, often remarked by his Master to be a very suiting description of their origins.
"Proceed," rang the voice in his ears; or was it words going just straight to his head? He could never tell with what had been implanted into his body, both scientific and Arcane. He couldn't help but notice that the gathering had a small populace of children - A little girl, two little boys, and one in particular with blue hair. They were almost oblivious to the cold, running along the small wagon. It didn't, in the end, matter to him one bit.
He leapt from the cliff, a full two hundred foot fall, and landed cleanly on his feet without even a hint of losing his balance. Dirt was thrown up around him as he landed, the dead leaves of fall scattering as if thrown into a tornado. Soldiers screamed a spoken alarm as horses whinnied, and the twelve retainers quickly formed rank and charged forward to meet the sudden intruder.
The battle was fierce and over in an instant; of twelve attackers, only two of them managed to parry even the first strike from the attacker's sword. As rows of corn in the harvest time, the guardsmen were reaped without a hint of delay. The four children had leapt into the confines of the wagon, from which a middle aged man stepped out.
"I've never seen armor with that standard before. Who the hell are you?" This man looked much like that peculiar boy - Short blue hair, spiked in his case, and a blue moustache. He was a slender yet muscular man, tall, and he carried a saber strapped to his left hip. His armor was a light blue, matching the hair of his son more than his own, and a dark blue cape hung from around the shoulders of that steel plating.
"Just kill him already." The assassin's orders snapped him back to the reality of the situation, rather than the blood-doused haze of battle-lust.
"Jeromiah Frost, your life is mine." The dark armored man gave the pseudo-ceremonial salutation, typical of challengers to a noble target, and then charged forward. Jeromiah waited almost defenselessly when at the last moment, with a flash of moonlight reflecting from the blade, his sword was drawn and the two weapons clanged loudly in the night. There has hardly time to notice that an exchange of blows had taken place before the two figures were in motion.
The assassin had to admit it - Jeromiah was a true Hora. Frost, so far as the assassin had been informed, was the heir to the Regency of Icebridge - A small but vital river crossing in the southern region of Gatamene. Why Jeromiah was a target of his Master's, he had no concern: His mission was to kill. But a bonafide, not-undeserving Hora was never beaten easily.
The assassin's short sword was pressed forward and almost effortlessly deflected by a dagger which seemed to magically appear in Jeromiah's hand. A counter attack nearly landed on his shoulder, the amazing speed forcing this masked intruder to step backwards and find a new way to win. Fortunately, winning was what he was built to do.
"This is a breach of the Davidian Accord," Frost began in a relaxed voice, certain of his ability, "and I can't even tell you what Principality you're from. Are you a New-Presian? Or a mercenary from Gam?" A pause, then a rather silly phrase came to the man's mind. "It makes no difference, you will pay the cost of the lives of my men, my friends!" Jeromiah bit his bottom lip tightly as he spoke, a faint blue light radiating from his body. That veneer of calm was gone in a flash.
"The Davidian Accord? Gam, New Presia or old, it makes no difference," the assassin retaliated in a mocking tone, getting his own point across. "This is about something you will never even begin to comprehend!" The assassin smiled, a dark glow starting to emanate from his free right hand.
"Sure!" Came the quick response. "Die!" Jeromiah moved forward, becoming nearly invisible to the naked eye. Internally the masked assassin remarked that this was a truly advanced Hora's talent, and just when the assassin felt he had read Jeromiah's attack, a flash of blue light exploded from his target's body and he was surrounded with flying shards of ice. The blades mostly ricocheted against the black armor, but one or two knives found chinks and penetrated the steel. Certainly the leather mask on his face was slashed, and the assassin seemed on the retreat, leaping backwards again to avoid fatal injury from the mixture of swordplay and chunks of frozen water.
Of course, Jeromiah was a Hora, but he was not even on the same playing field as the assassin. Jeromiah leapt forward, intending to finish the fight with a final saber strike to a likely-blinded, certainly-stunned foe, when the left palm of the assassin touched the blade of his short-sword. The change in stance was minor, yet to an elite warrior with knowledge of many schools of combat, this signaled an unfortunate turn of events.
"Swordpriest?!" Jeromiah exclaimed in shock, raising his blade and dagger to defend instead of attack. The feint had succeeded. The moment Jeromiah moved defensively, the assassin pressed his palm forward to break that unusual stance. A ball of flame, black as the night, smashed unchallenged into the blue-haired adult. The ice-mage screamed, his blue armor smashed open and his body caught in flames that did not spread but did not diminish.
"Jeromiah Frost, you fought very bravely and died very painfully. Let your insolence be a lesson." The only eulogy this assassin could afford as he stood over the wounded warrior. A swoosh of a sword and the thump like that of a rock, and this part of the issue was resolved. He still had a mission to complete, all ceremonies aside.
"Good. Proceed with the plan. Hurry!" The pleased whisper from the ambiguous voice echoed in his skull with an almost unrecognized hint of urgency. It was a very quick task, even wounded, to track down the fleeing four children and Lady Esmoranda Frost. The remaining actions, though necessary, were devoid of honor. The assassin could only remember them in a blur...
...The five figures were thrown sobbing to the ground. First came the childhood friends, the lovely young girl with chestnut hair, the brown haired boy and then the blonde. In the only rational, normalized part of the assassin's brain, he realized these three children must already have lost their parents - They were likely children of Jeromiah's "friends." That part of the mind also recognized that it was sweet paradise these children had awaiting them.
"Please....Not my son. Take me...Not Branden..." The woman whispered pleadingly, offering her own neck up to save her youngster's. He had in that moment a choice - To tell the truth or to lie. In sight of the child sobbing, his blue hair covered in sweat, tugging on his mother's leg, he made a third option: a benediction with the truth.
He leaned in, ensuring that this part would remain unheard of by the young boy. "Lady Frost, I do not intend to take Branden. You, however, cannot live. It is nothing you have done wrong, it is..." He paused, considering if his words might be treason, "for the future." The blade fell, and the woman's head was joined to her husband's.
"Well, this is done." A swift kick was delivered to the side of the young boy's head, and the assassin was gone. He'd left the unconscious boy behind, seemingly by accident. Seemingly.
*****
As he woke in the morning, Branden Frost - Age twenty six, eighteen years later - Sighed. He'd woken after dreaming of that incident, still not having the truth of the issue or a resolution to it. He once again remembered what he could of the battle and the lights being turned out. He still didn't understand, didn't remember all of it in a straight line, but he did remember the pain and he did remember his parents' eyes as his consciousness was taken from him - Scared; not of their own death, but of what might be done to him. He stood up and lifted his pillow, taking the foot-long dagger underneath and moving to a closet in his room, grabbing a blue metallic belt and attaching the weapon to his right hip. He moved to a wall-mounting and removed a sword, a saber, in a blue sheath. This weapon was placed on his left hip.
He almost looked like his father. His hair and eyes were both an ice blue, the azure locks hanging down over his face and framing it unlike his father's had. He was smaller, more slender, yet he was already a Hora, or a highest-ranked warrior, and he'd been on that level for years. His friends were precious to him no matter their rank, and he had avoided killing even one human in battle. He was, in so many ways, his father's son.
Chapter One
"Again," the lieutenant's voice called out loudly. Jacin readied his practice spear in the first position and thrust it forward, all according to form. The other Sergeant raised a wooden longsword and slowly parried it, and Jacin quickly moved to the second position, the section of the handle of his spear below his lower hand moving to press the side of the longsword out of the way. The expected response was the defender stepping back, and Jacin stepped forward with him. He pressed his spear forward quickly, another thrust against the open, retreating foe.
A number of other soldiers were training against each other as well; some were even facing off against a few captured monsters. These were small, wolf-like beasts called Wolgs, creatures whose only defining characteristic was the acidic liquid that their teeth could inject once they’d bitten a meal. Jacin had already proven he could take them down, for any Noche had to be able to do so.
"Good!" The lieutenant screamed. "Take a break!" The most welcome words Jacin could have heard. He stretched his arms behind his head, taking a moment of vanity to see how much he was sweating. It was hot, and he was thankful to be wearing sparring armor and not full plate. He took quick steps over toward the water coolers, thick insulation keeping the precious liquid crisp and cold. A paper cup was taken and filled, and he sipped at it as he watched the lieutenant approach.
"Smooth job, as always, kid," he said in a polite voice. The superior officer kept his black hair short and close to the head, like Jacin, and he was clearly a Media from the way he carried himself. Charles Maxton was a fairly young man, one faced with the unfortunate prospect of turning forty soon. He was still in his prime, of course, and everyone Jacin asked informed him that Charles' quick wit was just as it had been when he was half that age. Other then having a joke for everything, even the most serious issues one could call to mind, the muscular, tall officer was pretty candid about himself. "I hear you've been given the title of Aqui, haven't you?"
"Yes, lieutenant Maxton." Jacin's blue eyes looked up to the sky for a moment as he answered the question. Jacin Lancir, on the other hand, was considered "ruggedly" handsome. Sure, he wasn't a "pretty boy" but he was definitely not a dog, and while he endured no scars on his face to speak of (yet. He was a soldier, after all...) he also had no great beauty about him. He knew he'd never be a model, but something about the way his blonde hair rested atop his head, short and spiked, kept women coming. "Though what exactly the difference between Aqui and Noche are is beyond me. To be honest, I don't even feel any different or stronger."
"Call me Charles, we've been buddies for long enough outside of this job..." the lieutenant said with a grin. Then he shrugged his shoulders - The lieutenant did have a few scars on his face, but none were too deep or penetrating - 'Character adding,' they were often called. Of course, Jacin never understood who would want the kind of 'character' scars built. "And, as to your concern about titles, think of it this way: They're just titles. I've seen a Noche take down a Fecha with more than just good tactics. Of course, some people really did earn their titles. Take Lord Lenkmen."
The mention of Lord-Knight Serge Lenkmen contained a powerful image. He was arguably the strongest Hora in the entire Kingdom of Emor; Hora being the highest of the five Ranks. He'd earned some repute and the Media(third) rank on the borderlands of Presia as well as Yenohar, having been sent to repel various enemy invasions, and he had jumped straight to Hora after single-handedly taking down an enclave of Quadragammin monks. The elimination of even one such elite warrior was in no way, shape or form an easy task; his skill with a blade was virtually unmatched.
"Yeah. 'Scarred Peace' certainly deserved his title, and I've never seen him in combat!" Jacin remarked with a smile. Some rumors you couldn't put faith in - Someone taking apart a group of bandits could mean everything or nothing, as bandits ranged in strength from elite mercenaries to bungling want-to-bes. Juxtapose the image of fumbling peasants with that of someone eliminating twelve Quadragammin Monks - rivals of the heralded Swordpriests of Ralase and warriors who are Media or above. The first task is child's play, while the second is an accomplishment almost unimaginable by a single man.
"Well, ready for a heart attack, Jacin?" Maxton said as he reached moved over to a bench and opened his bag, withdrawing two letters. One he handed still sealed to Jacin, and the other he had already opened and presumably read himself. The envelope's seal was that of the Black Wolf, the Principality of Gatamene's official insignia.
"Sure..." The youth said as he opened the letter and began to read with disbelief creeping rapidly into his eyes in his eyes. Though he didn't see his comrade's face, he could hear the grinning on Charles' lips.
"At this battle, we're going to have Lord-Knight Serge 'Scarred Peace' Lenkmen and, get this," he added, "We're also working with the Hora Branden Frost. To top it off, all signs point to Coaslund not having even one Hora present, though I believe three or four Fecha will be." Maxton's words were nearly lost upon Jacin. He had gotten star-struck at the mention of Frost and Lenkmen.
Under the Davidian Accords, one of the main treaties which kept the small states of Emor as a solid Kingdom, every province could take part in a military "league" which was frightfully reminiscent of a sporting event. Of the eight partitions of Emor, only New Presia and Gam did not take part in the league, each for a different reason. Gam was still under military occupation, as it wasn't more than forty years ago the province had risen up against the kingdom; New Presia, not only lacking a name of its own and borrowing that of its very-unhappy "parent," was still too "green" to safely partake in the events. It hadn't registered too many elite warriors in its short histories, and not one Hora claimed loyalty to that particular principality.
The ranking system used to define a warrior's place was somewhat confusing, even to an experienced soldier like Jacin. An Aqui, Jacin's rank, was the second lowest "Ranked" warrior. Directly below him there was the Noche class of warrior, a grade which meant the fighter was of a greater level of skill than an average swordsman. Below that were "regulars" - Soldiers largely untested and capable only of very basic martial technique. Above Jacin were the Media, such as Lieutenant Maxton. The class rated higher than that were the Fecha, the second strongest. Many Fecha were considered not 'up to snuff', and it was often said there were more of them to flush the ranks of the military out than truly deserved the title. The Hora class was above that, and it was a very wide category - Most Horas deserved their titles, but some managed to earn theirs without sufficient difficulty. On paper, a single Hora was worth an army.