- by Emanuel, Jeremy, Mike
          - Began December 08, 2005           Last Update: 01/14/06 | CHAPTER: 1 | 2 | The Crimson Basin - Guestbook

Thunderous hooves and cries of battle stirred her from slumber. Tossing her worn bedding aside, she stumbled toward the window peering out into the night. She was below the road and could not have a full view of the land around her, but she could not see anything unusual in the thick soup of fog surrounding the building. After a few moments, she realized she could no longer hear any sound at all. The silence of the night was deafening. Had she imagined it? Al Astanya stood on her toes, frozen at the window, her nerves at their end.

"Keep it down in here. What's the ruckus about?," said a familiar feminine voice from her back.

"I - I just thought I heard something..." said Al Astanya.

"I heard nothing. Get back to sleep."

"I heard horses. Many of them. And screaming... I don't hear it now... Must've imagined..." she said with some hesitancy.

Sounding suddenly urgent the woman asked, "Was there anything else? Specifics girl."

Al Astanya asked innocently, "No... I don't remember - Why?"

Sounding unsatisfied, "Hmm... back to sleep with you my darling. We don't want this noise here to disturb your father," the woman said with little conviction.

"Yes mummy," said the eight year old Al Astanya as her eyes lingered towards the roads horizon. She stepped cautiously away from the window and slipped back into bed.

"Never you mind that. Your father and I are right here above you," said Al Alstanya's mother as she tucked her back into bed and kissed her gently on the top of her head.

"Thanks mum..." Al Astanya said, her eyes lingering out the window even as her lids became heavy once more.

As she stepped up the small ladder to the room above the disturbed woman murmured sweetly to her daughter, "May the wings of earth -"

- set me free," Al Astanya finished. "Thanks mum. You too..." The door in the floor closed lightly. A short time later the steps from the room above ceased and the call of sleep took hold once more.

***

The chaos was pure. The noise deafening. The screams from above penetrated her ears - the cries of her newborn sister were as painful as a banshee's wail. Al Astanya slammed her fists hard on the walls trying to escape to her family, fore she could hear her mother crying out for her fallen husband. Al Astanya ran to the small window and could clearly see dozens of men on horseback in tight formation outside the family farm house. They were illuminated brightly by the burning home before them.

Fear was causing Al Astanya to shake furiously. She ran to the small nook where the ladder led to her parents room above. For the dozenth time she pushed futilely against the door, trying desperately to get to her kin above - and for the dozenth time the door did not give as if something was blocking her from her freedom and foolish heroics. She did not know what she could do to help, but reason had left her and she would rather be burned alive but with her mummy. Al Astanya cried out, tears running freely down her face like water down a cliff. She coughed violently as she choked on the smoke that was seeping through the cracks of wood. She rapped her fists against the door above until they were bleeding and burned. The sickening sound of her aborted sister's cries ceased to Al Astanya's horror.

There was earsplitting crack above her as the house began to collapse in upon itself against the fury of the fire. Al Astanya tried to call for her mother but again gagged on the searing fumes. Her mother, who moments before was bawling, was struck suddenly silent. The intense heat drove Al Astanya back from the stairs and she stumbled back onto her bed. A sudden explosion of glass caught her off guard and a shard flew across the room and stuck into her delicate shoulder. She cried out in pain and fell to the floor. The small window had cracked under the profound heat.

Unable to continue crying, Al Astanya crawled, shaking, bruised and bleeding, toward the gap to the outside world. Strength was leaving her now. She looked steadily and with fixed attention out to the crowd - they just stood there. The glowing crowd did not move to aid, they just watched as Al Astanya's young life burned down around her. She painfully pulled herself up so she was leaning against the bed looking out into her last night sky.

There was another loud crash from above. Her face was red from the heat, her gown torn wide from debris. The area was growing dark around her and the world began to spin. Gazing at those men on horseback with pure fear and unadulterated hatred in her heart, there was one final image that remained clear to her before she lost consciousness; One of the soldiers was carrying a flag, upon which was emblazoned a crest, brightly lit by the fire - a richly golden eagle with a crimson crown on it's head, an equally ruby red robe upon it's shoulders and a sharp looking blade in it's talons.

And then the world went dark.

***

Al Astanya woke suddenly drenched in sweat, breathing in deep gasps of air. She looked around at the too still room she was currently in. No one was around. All was quiet. For now she was safe - Elbooz had not given her away. It was then she realized she was not breathing - the dream that had been haunting her for a quarter of a century shook her still to the core. She sat up, pulled her knees to her chest and wept.

***

Lord Glenmont was furious. “How could this happen?” Glenmont demanded of the poor messenger who went white with terror.

“My Lord, I… we don’t know, he…” sputtered the man, looking as though he was about to faint.

“Silence cur! I must think.” Glenmont nervously paced the length and breadth of his office-chamber racking his brain. “You are sure that the King signed these dispatches himself?”

“We have it from his chamberlain himself, my Lord,” the man managed to say.

“And you are sure that these dispatched were sent northward to the King’s kinsmen?”

“Yes my Lord, they went by fast horse through the Postern Gate not three days hence.”

“How were they not detained as I commanded?” This was not a question but an accusation, and men accused by Lord Glenmont rarely lasted long. “Answer me!”

“My Lord, they were carried by members of the Trillarian chantry and our men had no authority to detain them.”

“The Trillarians?” Glenmont was genuinely surprised. ‘What are they doing getting involved in all this?’ he thought to himself. “Very well be-gone before I find myself in a less charitable mood.” The visibly relived messenger fled the room without uttering another word. Glenmont leaned on his high-backed chair contemplating this troubling new development.

The Trillarians had not factored into his prior calculations, as he had always believed them to be overwhelmingly interested in matters of the spirit. Although he believed their cardinals to be capable and intelligent men, they had never outwardly displayed any acumen for politics. It was true that many members of the nobility and a sizable portion of the little people had recently gravitated towards the new religion, but Glenmont had not thought that this was due to any purposeful machinations on behalf of the Trillarians. Perhaps it was time to reconsider his position. Fetching a quill and parchment Glenmont quickly scrolled out a note and rang for his manservant. “Hector, deliver this message to Ahesheem of the Brotherhood, and inform Lady Harken that I will be a few moments late joining her for tea.” Some things just cannot wait.

***

Jorund pulled his Slavarine cloak tighter around his chest and hunched his shoulders while looking up at the lightly falling snow. The sun made brief appearances through the tattered gray clouds as they raced across the sky. The wind whipped softly through the surrounding pines. “Captain Bolvern!” Jorund yelled at the direction of the trees frightening the various snowbirds and sending them aflight.

A lithe man with a silver breastplate surrounded in white Salvarine hides, contrasted with his black and grey braids, walked his horse abreast to Jorund's. “Yes my lord?”

“How far are we?”

“My scouts tell me we are not far Sir, they have made their encampment beyond the ridge up ahead.” Bolvern pointed to a small rocky crest beyond an alcove of pines.

“Captain Bolvern you are to leave one alive for execution in the public square, and I want to keep as many of our men alive as possible. Total silence from now on.” Captain Bolvern nodded and fell behind with a series of lightening quick hand-commands and motioned the rest of his cavalry troops to dismount - five of them unslung their bows, three unsheathed their knives. Jorund dismounted as well and unsheathed his bastard sword and pulled a falchion from his saddle.

Captain Bolvern motioned the three men forward, sending them to kill any sentries. They pulled their Salvarine furs over their heads and blended silently into the snow. Jorund waited. It wasn’t long before the three men returned with four sentry’s heads. Captain Bolvern motioned the rest of his men forward, his hands gripping and ungripping the haft of a wicked half moon axe.

Five bowmen broke ranks and sprinted forward, while the rest of the group moved into a trot.As they neared the crag the bowmen leapt onto the rocks and unleashed their arrows on the unsuspecting group below. With no need for silence, Jorund let out a roar followed by the rest of the group who rained death on their unsuspecting foes. This was not a battle though and they were not foes. This was murder - pure unadulterated murder.

Jorund sat in silence staring at the mangled bodies before him. “My Lord?” said Bolvern walking up cleaning off his axe.

“Yes captain.”

“The prisoner you requested has been chained and placed into stocks. We are awaiting your orders.”

“Captain, tie the man to my horse. I will be a long shortly. Move the rest of the bodies in into a pile, children on top, then women, and set them on fire, we don’t need to attract scavengers.” Captain Bolvern nodded, saluted and turned. “Oh and Captain,” Bolvern stopped but did not turn back around. “This is not the way it should be Captain, this was not right what happened here... what’s been happening.”

The Captain sighed, letting out a plume of steam in the cold air, and turned his head. “Remember Jorund, what your father always says, 'It’s easier to feed one feral cat, then an army of mice.’”

“That’s true Captain, if you’re the cat.” Bolvern nodded and walked on yelling orders, leaving Jorund to brood in silence about his eventual arrival in his father’s keep.

***

Ocatvio basked in the warm sun of his solarium, lifting his legs from under his robes periodically to catch the sunlight, hoping maybe to breathe a little life in his tired limbs. Picking idly at the broken shells of his hard boiled egg, he mused on his recent conversation with the High Priestess of the Trillarians. The Trillarians as a whole are a relatively new religion of the Crimson Empire. Self sacrifice, indeleble faith in a higher altruistic deity, complete passivism and above all a strict adherence to their particular monotonous mysterious dogmatic practices; All these things of course make the oozing blind stew that is religion, riding high like butterfat in milk on the hopes and dreams of the downtrodden. Religion though was not the topic of conversation, and as much as Octavio hated to admit it, the Trillarians had the fanatical following to create a political powerhouse here in the Crimson Court. Octavio had no patience for religion, and especially religion in politics. It’s hard to forget what happened to the Vulcuvians - mysticism and politics make poor bedfelllows. Yet the high priestess of the Trillarians is a shrewd, shrewd woman; religious rhetoric being of course the worst and easiest lies to swallow especially for the poor. The ecclesiarch’s charisma belies nothing but a greedy heart, a perfect addition to his court.

Octavio watched the morning sun glint off the blood red mountains that surrounded the capitol of his kingdom, nestled in the fertile valley of an otherwise hostel land. He sipped his tea and lost himself in his thoughts.

The Trillian High Priestess had swept into his solarium with all the pomp and circumstance befitting an ecclesiarch. Dainty and stern, she had a clear purpose, an agenda, and Ocatvio was not a fool, he knew what she wanted, what they all wanted... Power. A place in the Crimson Court, a place where she could use her flock for her gains under the guise of the betterment of the church. Futhermore, regardless of all his trepidations and hatred for religion as a whole, he was more then happy to give into her, anything to bring down the Brotherhood. Whether she was the lesser of two evils or not was not his concern, they would be dead long before they would see the implications of his actions.

The current deal was simple: He would use what loyal forces he had left to oust the Brotherhood from their various temples of gluttony and vice, setting up Trillarian temples in their stead. More sheep for the flock, more power to wield, more money in the church coffers and more tithe to the empire... everyone wins. In return, the Trillarians will remain loyal to the Crown and the Crown only. Octavio breaks the back of the Brotherhood, destroying their effectiveness in controlling his weaker willed courtesans... everyone wins.

It's simplicity is its strength as long as everyone plays the game fair. Octavio seriously doubted anyone, though, was playing fair. In fact, Octavio knew about the Brotherhood's secret meetings with various members of his court. It was hardly surprising, Octavio would’ve done the same thing in their position considering his precarious grasp on the throne and his advanced age. All the Brotherhood would have to do is wait, stay alive, maintain a following, wait until the king is dead, find the most ruthless and cunning of the head households and back him to the throne... everyone wins.

Octavio smiled warmly at this thought and stretched his left leg out until the knee gave a small pop; he shuddered slightly and then relaxed. A fire tailed fox hawk circled lazily around the ivory spires of his palace looking intently for rats or small dogs.

Octavio had recently written a letter to his brethren in the Northern hinterlands and sent Spirius to find him a rider, which he did as any servant would. Octavio, though, chose a rider from the Trillarians at the last moment, an extension of trust to seal their new pact. Octavio let out a giggle, he was certain that one, if not all, of his courtesans would pay a kings ransom to get their hands on that letter. Octavio sighed happily fore at this moment the letter would be riding hard through the Crimson Mountains, across the Crescent Plains and straight to the base of the Storm Mountains, the top of the world.

The Lord of Storm Mountain keep was one of the few lords loyal to Octavio's line, mostly because of constant intermarriage between the two. All of the Octavio kings wed a Northern wife. In turn, all of the Octavio children spent three years learning the arts of war from the famed northern warriors; It was the old ways and will likely never be seen again.

Octavio fondly remembered his own young bride, he loved her so. She was beautiful, red hair like dawn off the Crimson Mountains, soft grey blue eyes like a storm at sea. She spoke softly and intelligently, always a courteous and dutiful wife, she lit up the court with her smile and made the drudgery of ruling bearable. God, he loved her.

Imagine his surprise when he uncovered her plot to kill him and usurp the throne. He beheaded her himself, leaving a deep hole in his soul. Power... anything for power. So sweet is its seductions, like the call of a siren. Even now, many years later, he could still feel the pain in his heart - the forever weeping wound of sadness, love and betrayal. This, of course, strained relations with Lord Fionan, and Octavio has not called on him since. Frankly, Octavio couldn’t trust Fionan anymore. Although his sisters treason was never linked back to the North, Octavio didn’t doubt she was strong enough to hold that secret during her torture.

The Northern Lords stirred and grumbled after her execution, but Fionan was not a stupid man and he knew the price of treason and to challenge the evidence would only serve to implicate him. Everything has a price. Now the southern boundaries disappear into the maw of the Magog war machine and Octavio could not call on the Northern bannermen, even though the warriors of the North are more then a match for the fiercest of the Magog. So his southern subjects would suffer for the weakness of their rulers. One doesn’t have to wonder why a religion like the Trillarians exists.

Now though, now was the right time. This was the right message, this letter would assuage the guilt and wash away the sins of the Octavios. Once again, leaving the throne pure, pristine and righteous. It’s only appropriate that the letter be carried by a servant of peace. Octavio howled with laughter, spilling his tea. Finally he said softly, “...Salvation.”

CHAPTER: 1 | 2 | The Crimson Basin - Guestbook

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