Tag: books

As the Age of Flame and Claw came to a close, the great continent of Akyr – unified under the Padishah Dagres the Illustrious – began a period of so-called freedom. 

There was little celebration, for the empire had been in disarray. Many feuds of independent lords, and land previously split amongst the wyrms continued to ravage the political sphere. Therefore, in order to unite the country in both heart and title, Padishah Dagres called an invasion upon Tharion. For what better reason to unify, than the promise of new lands and riches? 

Dagres, having married the princess Eilif of Olgur, made strong use of the Olguri navy to spearhead his war, which ravaged the south Tharian coastline for twelve years.

By the end of the invasion, Duke Poulard de Lupelle (or Poulard the Lionheart) claimed his lands as independent, and fought the war free from the command of the king and council. A suspiciously short year into his campaign, the Akyrian empire retreated, and signed a generous trade agreement for peace. 

Thus, the soon-to-be-prosperous Duchy of Lupelle was born, upon the mountains of Akyrian gold. 

• Once There Were Dragons, by Mirza. (Mza.) Elaneh

Llyn dragged the blade through the darkness, with barely a visible inch ahead of her. The glinting of wet stones in the moonlight were all there was to guide. Every step through the pouring rain was accompanied by the squelching of her wet clothes.

The sharp ache in her legs, almost as if sparked from the bones themselves, would force grunts with each of her pained steps. Her fingers struggled to hold the blade’s hilt as it knocked about stones in the mud, it took every bit of her to hold on. The exhaustion fought against her pleads, she begged herself to let go, to just fall and sleep. But she knew she would never wake.

In the distant dark, a bright shine cut through. It seemed no different from the wet stones at first, but as she drew closer she began to make out a building. Hope quickened her pace, suddenly her blade bumped over a tree root and she tripped into the mud. A futile obstacle. She dragged herself forward, the drag turned to a muddy crawl, and without armour to weigh her down she quickly struggled back on her feet, right in front of a small lake. Rising from the water was a castle of almost white stone, impressively thick pillars with flowing embellishments, but no bridge to access it.

The lack of access didn’t stop her. Llyn submerged waist-deep in the water, and trudged forward. As she drew closer the castle’s might turned daunting and its doors towered over her like mountains. But there was no light nor sound from within. The stone was old and weathered. Her eyes scanned the walls, she saw the horseman at the edge of the lake, gazing in her direction, and a deep fear gripped her stomach.

Bang! Llyn slammed her fist at the heavyset stone door. ‘Please!’ she shouted. Her fist crashed against the door once more, the screams rattled her throat as saline tears mixed with rainwater on her tongue, ‘I beg you let me in!’ The same fist continued its assault. The door slightly shifted. Llyn took a few steps back, and desperately charged to crash into the doors. But as she rushed forward and braced, the doors swung open towards her, knocking her back onto the ground. The inside of the castle resembled gates to an abyss. There was nothing but an unfathomable darkness. Llyn noticed that the horseman was gone once again.

The entrance hall had seen better days. It mourned its past self in dark cobwebs, dull moth-eaten banners, and old knights statues which had long since crumbled to the ground. The banners were of the old knights order – a white nightingale in flight, over a black shield.

She limped her way through the hallway, struggling to step over the odd stone brick and statue limb. The castle was no warmer than the wilderness. ‘Dry, at least.’ She coughed to herself, blade still at the ready over her shoulder. ‘Can’t be too careful.’ She mumbled, and the door slammed shut behind her.

As she reached the end of the hall, there was a set of large wooden doors, she saw a gentle light flickering from beyond them. Shoving the doors open, she was introduced to the great hall of the castle, with a ceiling impossibly high. The centrepiece of the room was a long, stone table with a handful of heavy ornate armchairs, their backrests pointed to the sky like thrones. The floor was made of polished stone, its colour dulled by a thick layer of dust. Llyn’s eyes followed the table until the end of the hall, where the old decayed corpse of a knight sat upon the largest seat. His head lay tilted, leaning upon its fist which had miraculously held its position on the armrest.

To the side of the table laid a roaring fire and bedroll, with skewered minnow roasting over it. A large rucksack was neatly placed beside the bedroll with a few stacked books and a quill over an open journal.

‘That’s far enough now ruffian! Drop your weapon!’ shouted a melodic and bright male voice from a set of doors on the opposite wall. Llyn jolted her head to face the sound and noticed the end of a small crossbow pointed right at her. 

‘Fuck’s sake’ she exclaimed, and dropped her blade to the ground. The crossbowman was a baby-faced man in brightly coloured travellers clothes and long, wavy ashen hair, his clothing was clean, almost fresh. And his skin sparkled against the firelight, reflecting it back at her like a mirror. ‘And… Erm… Put your hands high up and fingers stretched!’ His voice quivered softly.

‘What are you, a bard? Playing songs for dead kni-‘ Llyn’s quip was cut by a streak of hoarse coughing which almost dropped her to the ground, each one felt as if it should be the last, but yet another kicked through. The lad awkwardly stared at her, waiting for the ordeal to end, which lasted more than either of them felt comfortable with.

‘Right then. I can note that you are deathly ill. You carry a blade of substantial weight in comparison to your size, and do not wear even a slither of steel for self-protection.’ He lowered his crossbow and took one step forward. ‘And despite your unsightly brazen demeanor, you are injured. And quite severely at that. One would think you had a great fall, or possibly were run over by a group of bandits upon their steeds. Unusual for you to have made your journey all the way here, and I wonder for what reason you would be wandering the forest or bogs nearby. A witch of sorts maybe? A trap for the bandits to soon assault me themselves?’ He moved a hand up to his chin and rubbed. ‘No, no. That doesn’t explain the greatsword.’ 

He looked down at Llyn, who had no strength to speak any longer and was desperately trying to keep her eyes open. She cursed to herself, feeling an unexpected fondness for her former state outside, now praying that the fool would stop rambling. ‘Quite the fairy-tale situation I have here don’t I?’ He stood in deep thought for a moment and finally his eyes widened, an innocent smile spread across his face, revealing his teeth, white as the moon. ‘My name is An-Tayir. Due to the peculiarity of the situation I have decided to assist you!’

And with those words, Llyn finally fell to the ground, and passed out.

The streets bustled with wagons and carts, the clicking footsteps upon cobbled stone, and merchants shouting their egregious prices out to the crowds. The sun shone upon Serlo’s face, and the scent of salty fish and baked bread entered his nostrils, he would have felt hungry if it wasn’t for how distracted he was with the colourfully dressed ladies about. Now that was a sight he didn’t get to see outside the books.

He skipped over towards a market stall, where a bright-eyed older gentleman was serving grilled eel in bread. Serlo, too distracted and not used to the cities, crashed right into a wagon of apples and fell alongside them to the ground. ‘Devils be damned kid, what in the realm are you doing?’ He sat up looking at an old man with a face like shaved bollocks and a piercing nose, sharp as a spear. Serlo held his hands up, his chest was gripped with a weight he could not name. ‘Fucking kids. What do you have to say for yourself?’ The man’s wrinkles curled into his skull, shrivelling his face to a raisin. Serlo wanted to speak, but the words did not leave his mouth. His eyes were wide, and his breaths began to quicken. 

As he was about to turn tail and run, a heavy voice burst from behind him. ‘Oi, Barth! You geezer! Stop jabbing up the young lads, poor boy was just distracted by one of them fine maidens over there.’ Accompanying the voice was a wide, hulking man, the bones of his face seemed as if they bulged out from his skin, giving his expression a badly carved statue. He gestured to the group of ladies near a stall that Serlo had taken note of, and was infatuatedly staring at.

The ladies stared at Serlo, a couple laughed, and others scorned. He was smitten, of course, and turned his head to the ground. However, the attention they were giving only intensified the emotions that the old man, Barth, had stirred within him. He was, once again, frozen.

‘The runt knocked over my apples you oaf. He deserves his jabbing! Maidens or not!’ Barth looked back down at Serlo. ‘Move your blithering arms already! Are you too busy thinking with your prick?’

The heavy man moved closer, his footsteps were like a bear’s, the scattered apples shook as he stomped along. ‘Alright then, let me help you with this, lad.’ he said to Serlo as he began picking up the apples, four in each oversized hand. The gesture calmed Serlo, especially because the man was blocking view of the ladies, who had seemed to lose interest in the kerfuffle. He began to scutter towards the mess and picked up as many as apples as he could, in jolting, anxious movements. Old man Barth went silent until they finished.

‘Great, that wasn’t so hard now was it?’ The big man shrugged. Serlo said nothing. ‘Here, take an apple and keep your eye on the fucking road next time, you runt.’ Blabbered Barth, as he handed Serlo a shiny green apple. ‘What about me? You old geezer.’ Barth looked up at the heavy man and frowned. ‘You can share, as you shared the work. You dim oaf.’ He turned away, and walked off, pushing his wagon along.

‘He’s a right tosser, don’t you worry about him lad.’ The heavy man turned to Serlo and gave a wide smile, his teeth were yellowed, but somehow in perfect rows. ‘My name’s Fergus, nice to meet you.’ He held out his monstrous hand towards Serlo, who took a moment to realise the gesture. After all, he had seen it at the orphanage, but never taken part in the shaking of hands. ‘What’s your name?’ Fergus asked.

Serlo looked at him wide-eyed. He did not respond.

For he could not.