Valriel - An Epic in the Works

[Admiral]

Chapter 4
Into the Gautihir

“Orem’kem!” Orlen called out from the highest level of the fortress. He had entered through a large opening in the roof, leaving the treflots behind until he had spoken with some of the Gauti below. The fortress, which stood as high as twenty average-sized Gauti stacked on top of each other, was a rectangular stone structure, built as a section of the Gautigam as it cut its way through the mountains separating Tilcom and the Gautihir. Its eleven levels were circular, with large windows cut into the east and west walls of each floor. On the ground floor, there were iron portcullises on either side that stretched across the entire mile-width of the Gautigam, both of which were closed at the time. On either side of the stone road passing through the fortress, there were many chambers cut deep into the adjacent mountains, which held living quarters, training areas, and an armory equipped with weapon repair tools.

A Gauti soon appeared at the top of the staircase leading down to the tenth floor. He was short, very short for a Gauti, standing only a few feet taller than the average man. His skin was darker than Orlen’s, and his body was covered in armor crafted from the bones of those he had killed. Over this armor, he wore a hooded black cloak with the symbol of Lokar’karem stitched onto the back, four arms grasping a mighty hammer. At his sides, he wore four short daggers, sheathed in leather. The two mismatched Gauti conversed for several minutes on the eleventh floor in voices not unheard by those below. By the time that Orlen had climbed to the roof to gather the treflots and Orem’kem had reached the ground floor, the Gauti warriors were already assembled and shouting in joy at the return of Orlen’mun. At their head stood Mogrom’wardurem, a Gauti nearly as large as Orlen with skin the same shade. He wore a full suit of bone armor, including a mask made from the skull of a past kill. Over this, he wore a hooded cloak identical to Orem’s except that the insignia stitched across the back showed four swords clashing against four shields, and slung over either shoulder he had two claymores apiece.

Orlen and the treflots reached the ground level amidst the thousand or so Gauti that had assembled at the western gate out of Kemkom. He and Mogrom locked eyes for a moment before the trio proceeded toward the now-opened eastern gate. As they crossed the threshold, the claymore-bearing Gauti general stepped into their path. He shook off his cloak and passed it to Orlen, saying only “Basper” as he did, and then returned to the front of the ranks.

With the crest of his family covering his back once more, Orlen led the treflots out of the eastern gate while the warriors of Kemkom pounded their weapons against the stone floor, shouting chants of “Baskar!” and “Murpol!” as the western portcullis was raised. After an hour of the trio walking east along the Gautigam, the barricades in Morphoes had been overrun and the Gauti warriors had reached the stream of that region. By the time the second hour had run its course, Bereduke’s assailants were decimated by a powerful and agile host of Gauti, with the few that remained fleeing into Sigalis under the lead of an injured Saxon. As the third hour came to a close, the men of the west had lost all but Sigalis and a small section of Heptagon City to the Gauti and what remained of Bereduke’s men. By the fourth hour, the trio had passed the tendrils of the mountains as they stretched into the plains to the north and south, yet the road was still kept by large mounds of rock on either side as far as they could see.

Morning had come, and up ahead a short distance, Orlen spotted a marking upon the rock wall to their right, and past that at the very ends of his sight, he saw a small group of armed Gauti making their way to the west. Likely new recruits, he thought, but he would not risk a conflict, and so he tossed the treflots onto his shoulders and scaled the rock near the marking. On the other side of the wall lay a road, one that he knew well though he had traveled it very little. It was not at all like that which they had just left; the Gautigam was a work of art, this was a beaten path into the southern half of the Gautihir. These were farmlands and fishing villages, hidden from the view of an unwanted visitor and protected from the blade of an invading host by the rock wall that lined the Gautigam. The region was still mountainous, as was the entirety of Magusia, but the Gauti here had found their niches amongst the plains and the coasts, relying on their own toils for survival over the Gautimag techniques of the west.

This stretch of the path was rarely used as there was another pass onto the Gautigam much closer to Markom, and so once they come upon a shaded area a little ways off of the road, they stopped and rested. Little was said, and with provisions being nearly nonexistent, they soon fell asleep, not waking again until well after dark. With empty stomachs and the moon as their guide, they continued east along the path, coming to a fork, and traveled south. There was a village nearby, down the eastern path, but it was frequented by warriors as Orlen remembered it, so he chose the longer but safer route. After a good deal of walking they reached a bend in the road and were traveling back toward the war-torn Tilcom. Along this stretch, Orlen caught a wild boar which Loen attempted to cook with his Gautimag. And though he failed miserably, charring the whole thing black, they were all far too hungry to let the meat go to waste, so they ate here and slept with the night within sight of the next bend in the road. The next day came and went as they passed the bend and continued south, stopping prematurely at the sight of a town in the valley below. Here they waited until nightfall, and then left the path, climbing southeast through the rocky hills to avoid the town and the guards that it surely kept. Another two days of travel passed without event, and with the last remnants of the boar long forgotten, Orlen decided to risk entering the village that lay ahead of them.

He proceeded onward into the town once night had fallen, leaving the treflots in a grove that lay in the hills above the village while he met with its inhabitants.

“I miss flying,” said Loen, “It’s been far too long since we’ve been able to fly freely.”

“I feel the yearning as well,” Margulis said, “I have not felt free in flight since I landed on Brockrock with my wife and daughter. They came to see us off, and likely still remain there, as my daughter is too small to make the flight back to Lashas. In truth, my wife is not skilled enough as a flier to make the trip back either. It requires a good deal of riding updrafts, and she grew up in the city where they walk everywhere. I myself was born on Liber, just outside of Melakel, and spent my youth exploring that strip of land up and down. Once I came of age, I traveled to Cimea and began to make a name for myself as a Gemjem player. I was actually recruited onto one of the league teams in Lashas, if you can believe it.”

“Not many years after I left for the city, the Cimean plains were occupied by Lasyst and soon after by Velknaron,” he continued, “I paid this no attention, I was safe in the city and my Gemjem career was beginning to do very well. I had a wife and a new child. And then I accompanied a team of scouts down to the plains. I had not seen them for many years. Half of the stadiums that I had played at were gone along with the towns that held them. They were destroyed by our oppressors as a warning to prevent us from lending aid to the other side. When I got back to Lashas, I gathered quite a following thanks to my success on the pitch, and we petitioned the ruling council to organize a search for aid. It took some time, but with enough pressure and willing volunteers, my cousin and I and the rest were able to sway the council. Provisions were gathered and teams were assembled, and then we left.”

[Admiral]

“You know,” said Loen, “I’m a pretty good Gemjem player too. Top scorer from my island in fact, though there’s only about four teams that play. Maybe you could show me some moves sometime?”

“Perhaps I will,” said Margulis, “If we reach Lashas, I’ll teach you all that you’d like to know.”

“How long will it be before we get there?” asked Loen.

“Well, assuming that Orlen ever returns from the village and we can get out of this place,” said Margulis, “maybe a few months. Maybe a year. I honestly don’t know. I wish to search the Eastern Hook for any of my comrades before we head north, and after that it will depend on how well we’re received in Lasyst. Keep in mind, I doubt that many of the southern Lasystians have ever seen a treflot, if they even know of our existence. We have kept our expansions to the northeastern portion of those lands and rarely has one of our kind set foot on the plains of Lasyst. That is what worries me the most, that if we do find aid, we might not be able to reach Lashas to organize. When I think these thoughts I regret ever leaving. I doubt that I will see my family again, and it was under my lead that many families of Cimea lost their husbands and fathers and brothers and sons.”

“You’ll see them again, Margulis, and I bet we’ll have a whole host of treflots with us when you do,” said Loen. “For the moment, however, let’s think about us. Particularly, how to change the deplorable state of our stomachs? I say we float on down to the village, I’m sure Orlen has explained everything by now.” Without waiting for a word of confirmation, Loen unfolded the wings of his glider and flew down the hill with Margulis following grudgingly.

Orlen, however, had not yet explained everything. In fact, his explanation had just begun. It had taken a good deal of time for Orlen to find a villager willing to listen to him. And, being a communal sort of village that had a communal sort of villagers, the Gauti whose ear he had gained called the village together to discuss whether they should listen to the words of a soldier who didn’t wear the insignia of Lokar’karem. After much deliberation, long-winded and drawn out and exceedingly extensive, they decided to call for the oldest member of the village to come and give the final decision. When the eldest arrived at this meeting in the center of the village, decrepit and bent over, he recognized Orlen at once from his appearance and from the insignia of his family stitched on his cloak. The villagers, knowing the tales of Orlen’s defense of Markom, cheered and celebrated and whipped up the grandest feast that they could muster, all well before Orlen could speak a word about the war in the west, much less about the treflots. He found himself sat down at the head of a long table underneath an overhang that came off of one of the homes, with a plate of smoked, seasoned meat, warm bread, and buttered vegetables sitting in front of him and a mug of spiced cider at his side.

As he was biting into his first Gauti-cooked meal in years, a loud thud on the roof above him brought his attention back to the treflots who by now were clambering over the side and dropping to the ground. Orlen grunted loudly to gather the attention of those seated before him as the treflots came to his side.

“Kuykar, skerkem,” he said, gesturing to the treflots, “Farim’durem!”

“Cid farim’durem?” asked one of the villagers, looking over the child-sized treflots in disbelief.

“Gauticom’Tilcom’jem. Skerjem,” Orlen answered. “Kuykar, Gauti’kuy.” Orlen then grabbed Loen by the arm and ran his chakram across his bread, slicing it half to prove that his companions were warriors as well. Satisfied with the explanation, the villagers went back to their meals and one of the Gauti children brought a chair and plate for the treflots to share. The festivities of the evening continued well into the next day, but by the following night the village had returned to normal. The three travelers were allowed to stay and rest for another day and were given what food and drink the village could spare before they left and continued east along the road.

After passing the extensive farming grounds that supplied the entirety of the southern half’s grain, the trio came to the mountains and began their trek through them. They had been warned by the villagers to avoid all other towns as well as Markom, as the guards there would kill any outsiders without question. They were slowed to a crawl by winter’s first heavy snowfall as they traversed the mountains. More than a week after leaving the village, they found themselves at the eastern edge of the mountains, and below them lay a river, several miles wide, that divided the Gautihir from the Eastern Hook. At its southern end, the river forked at an island, and on the island the treflots could make out what looked like a town. They camped for the night, and the next morning took off for the island with a miniature Orlen clinging to Loen’s glider as they spiraled slowly downward to the island.

As they came closer, the buildings and the land surrounding them became clear. The town itself was rather larger, at least three times the size of the village they had left the week before, and all around it were fields, mostly barren. A road ran from the southern edge of the town to the east, dead-ending at the river. They landed in one of the barren fields near the town.

“Farimcom,” said Orlen as he grew to his normal size, “Agilis; they jump the river.” He pointed down the road to the eastern fork of the river. “No water for years, stranded.” Orlen looked down ashamedly at his skin of water from the streams of Tilcom, now less than a quarter full. “Come,” he beckoned.
The flawless solid stone wall that surrounded the town of Farimcom hid the truth of the town’s health. Through the archway at its southern end, amidst a few sparse moss-covered stone buildings, were no more than shacks, crumbling from seasons of harsh weather and lack of maintenance. Several were collapsed altogether, while others nearly to that point still held inhabitants who were now peeking out from behind their doorways at these intruders on their misery. The ground, which at one point was covered in luscious lengths of grass, now stood as a film of dust so thick that it puffed up on every step.

“Bring forth Mavad’verem!” Orlen shouted in the tongue of his people, “The Bulwark of the East has arrived to liberate the deserted of Farimcom. I bring with me an escape from this open-gated prison. Bring forth your master!”

[Admiral]

Silence permeated the desolate town, and then he appeared. He came inching forward, slow as slug and yet moving with such grace unbefitting one of his age and appearance. He was neither tall nor short by the standards of his people, no, this one was known for other traits. In each set of arms he held a dual-bladed staff upon which he leaned heavily as he walked. His skin had become deeply lined, dulled in its brilliance by centuries of use. As was the rest of him, or so one would think upon first look, yet his eyes betrayed him. They shown so brightly and darted so quickly that only a fool would think to underestimate one such as him.

He pushed back the hood of his dirt-stained white cloak and spoke to Orlen. “I see the lord of Morphoes has come back to his people. I am old and broken, no longer deserving the title bestowed upon me, that which you called me by. I am no longer Mavad’verem, but Mavad’har. That is what they call me now. And yet you, Orlen’mun, you have not aged. Two thousand years and more and you still stand before me as you stood before those who did this to me, to all of us, so long ago. You have lived in what was once ours and is now theirs and have left us here to waste away! How dare you come here, hoping to take the one thing that I can still cling to away with your tales of bravery and bravado? What chance does Mavad the Old have of keeping his honor in the shadow of Orlen the Bulwark? Liberate us? You have doomed us, myself above all, to a life of shame with the escape that you bring. And with outsiders at your heels no less! I should cut them down where they stand, and you as well for this disgrace that you have wrought upon us with their presence.”

Loen and Margulis, who had been incomprehensibly watching the exchange between the two old masters of Gautimag, stepped back behind Orlen as the old Gauti before them turned his eyes in their direction and raised his voice in anger. Without warning, all signs of age fell from the self-proclaimed Mavad’har before them, and he regained the quickness of his former self as he struck out at Margulis with his bladed-staff. Margulis dodged and the blade passed through the cloth of his shirt and stuck into the ground, pinning him. Loen leapt onto the staff and ran up its length, drawing his chakram into his fists as he did and swung wildly at the neck of the old Gauti. His blow never landed though, as Orlen had struck Mavad in the chest, knocking him onto the ground.

“No blood,” Orlen barked at the treflots, and changing his tongue he said the same to Mavad. As Loen helped Margulis in freeing himself from his entanglement, Orlen pulled Mavad to his feet and casually offered him a drink along with an apology for striking his equal. The old Gauti took a sip from the skin offered to him, and in an instant he understood, and was rejuvenated. Many lines faded from his skin, and his back straightened considerably.

“To have given this so freely,” he said cautiously, “it must be in abundance. Can such a thing be possible?”

“More than possible, my friend,” said Orlen, handing the bladed-staff back to Mavad, “I played a part in it, as did the little ones with me, in addition to several men. Yes, men. There are those of honor practicing in Pyraquan, and for their assistance they were spared in the retaking. There is a new master there as well, far more skilled than Calan’pirdurem who passed long ago. Though I left the battle prematurely to ensure the safety of the two with me, I can assure you that the west has been retaken. I have faith that the warriors of Kemkom would not fail in such a task. News of victory will reach you in the coming weeks, and I feel that you and what remains of your once and soon to again be noble school of learning and their families should be in attendance of what promises to be a grand celebration. Come, gather your people, we’ve got to get you across this river.”

Over the next week, the citizens of Farimcom, despite their claims to honor in holding their ground and weathering the storm of slow starvation spoken by their leader, were eager to once again rejoin their kinsmen and their culture. Most of them left the greater part of their possessions behind, as their intent was to return to their home to rebuild, and others gathered all that they could, ready to enter the world that had since been unreachable. Those unable to walk with ease were carried, along with their possessions, by a full-sized Orlen and were carried across the river on the leaping back of Mavad and his trained students.

On the other side, with the citizens of Farimcom safely escorted across the
river, the trio that had left together from Bereduke’s home was split. Taking the advice of the villagers from weeks past, Orlen sent the treflots over the mountains and into the Eastern Hook with a promise to meet them outside of Ramcom, the start of the Gautigam, in a few weeks’ time. He then traveled at the side of Mavad’verem, leading the people of Farimcom up the coast of the river to the pass into the underbelly of Markom, the same pass that had been the cause of their isolation so long ago.

[Admiral]

Chapter 5
Found Friends

Across the range of mountains, Loen and Margulis entered the basin of the Eastern Hook. They were on a road that ran the length of the mountainous border. To the north there were watchtowers interspersed amongst the foothills, and past those they could make out the end of a grand wall that stretched into the east past their range of vision. They took the road south and then east along the coast, passing by numerous villages, the largest of which had no more than a hundred men to it. Each small clan was far too distrusting to live and work with any other, much less offer aid to outsiders. This principle of distrust had remained from the Lasystian deserters who had founded the land, with each clan accusing the ancestors of the others of leading their people into disgrace and exile.

Fortunately for the treflots, however, the land was run with streams and pools of fresh water, and the wild game was plentiful. With Margulis’ keen eye guiding his bow and Loen’s increasing mastery of Gautimag, they were in no danger of starving as they went. In just a week and a half of light and swift travel, they had reached the edge of the forest that occupied the hooked stretch of land that gave the region its name. Although there had not yet been a snowfall, winter had gained a full head of steam and was progressing along with temperatures fitting the season.

Travel had slowed in the forest, as the treflots had taken to the trees for fear of being waylaid on the road. It took them another week and a half to reach the eastern tip of the continent. Here, less than a day’s travel from the only city in the Eastern Hook, they rested high in the trees as the day’s light began to fade. Further along the path and on the forest floor, a fire sparked to life and was soon accompanied by the gruff, grumbling voices of men of the road. Intrigued, the treflots crept through the trees, resting well above the fire and listening to the conversation.

There were four men in the clearing below, all seated around a sizeable fire. Clad in bits and pieces of leather and cloth and one with a fur cap, these men were dressed for the role that they played. Bandits were they, not by any means the best, but bandits nonetheless, and so they bore the instruments of their trade upon them. Knives, clubs, metal rods; all sorts of tools-turned-weapon were on their persons and within their packs. And in their minds and their mouths, some information of high significance to one of the treflots sitting above them.

“Calm yourself, Rodick,” said the fur-capped leader, “I know that you’re anxious, but those tiny men are alert right now. Let’s give them a few hours to settle themselves into sleep, and then we strike.”

“Oh come now Bill,” responded one of the men angrily, “It’s not like they’d put up a fight. We know where they are, and they’ve no business being there, or here, or anywhere else behind the wall. I say we kill ‘em now.”

“And I say we wait,” Bill said, thumping his heavy club into the dirt, “I’m in no mood to go chasing those unwanted little buggers all over the place. I say we wait until they sleep, and then we crush ‘em.” He swung the club into the ground again to end the debate. At this point, a loud crack sounded above the four bandits, ending Bill’s plans to wait patiently for his prey as the branch supporting the older of the two treflots began to fall to the fire. Margulis, who’d been creeping further and further down the branch as he heard dangerous talk, had pushed the limb to its breaking point and began to fall with it.

Desperately he fumbled to open his glider to slow the descent. He had been at about thirty-five feet in the air and had his glider open by twenty-five. By twenty, he saw a blur hurtling past him as the bandits began to rise to their feet. By ten, Loen had landed on all fours, his body pressed almost completely flat and his head looking up at the now-advancing bandits. By the time Margulis had reached the ground, Loen had sprung into action, leaping at the nearest bandit, Rodick, and catching him in a headlock as he flew over his shoulder. As Rodick began to fall backward, Loen released his grip and kicked off of the man’s back, sending him tumbling in the other direction. Ahead of Loen was the leader, Bill, who had his club raised over his head. Loen spit a burst of fire into Bill’s face, blinding the leader as he continued through the air toward him. He connected, with chakram in hand, driving both blades into the chest of the man. Once clear of the leader, Loen turned to Rodick and charged, igniting his blades as he ran. He ducked a swing from Rodick’s long length of metal rod and leapt to avoid an off-balance second swing. He landed with legs wrapped around Rodick’s neck and spit out another burst of flame, burning the face of the man. Rodick dropped his weapon and fell to the ground screaming, hands clutched to his face, while Loen sprung off of him and turned to aid his companion.

Margulis had been cornered by the other two bandits, one brandishing a knife and the other a blacksmith’s hammer. His back was to the tree he had fallen from, and he had a bandit on either side, both kept at bay by thrusts of the sturdy wooden shaft of his glider. Hearing the screams of Rodick, they turned away long enough for Margulis to strike. He swept out the feet of the knife-wielding bandit and spun the shaft to strike the horizontal man’s chest, throwing him to the ground. The last man standing was quickly disposed of by the flaming blades of Loen, and the numbers became even, though neither of the two remaining men were fit to fight. Rodick had crawled away into the woods and the other man had been struck unconscious by another, not entirely necessary blow to the head from Margulis’ glider.

“Much sturdier than my Gemjem glider,” said Margulis, eyeing the thick length of wood that held his glider together. Then, noticing the expression on Loen’s face, he added, “Well I had to knock him out, you know that. What if he were to get up and be embarrassed in combat again? I simply couldn’t live with myself if I allowed that to happen. Nice trick by the way, did Bereduke teach you that?”

[Admiral]

Loen nodded, but said nothing. It was the first time he had killed anyone face-to-face; it had been different at Bereduke’s home, shooting arrows from the safety of the wall. Here he had faced an enemy that seemed intent to kill him specifically, and he had prevailed with ease. With a newfound confidence at this realization and pride for having saved his friend from injury or death, he sat down next to the fire while Margulis perused the camp.

“Not much here, unless you like moldy bread and empty skins of water,” Margulis said, dropping the pack in his hand. Where the pack had lain, however, he spotted another item, this one far more valuable than anything else in the makeshift camp. It was a small, hooded white cloak, wrinkled and tarnished from wear. On its back was a symbol that Margulis had not seen in over two years. Stitched in gold against the white was a mountain, and at its base were three waves. It was the symbol of Lashas, the mountain city of the lake. He quickly checked the cloak again to see if any of the marks on it were of blood, and finding none he thrust his fist into the air in victory.

“Loen!” he shouted, “Loen! Come and look! They were here, I’d known this symbol anywhere. And the height of it is just right. Come, come, gather yourself, we must hurry!”

Bewildered and still stuck in his own thoughts, Loen rose to his feet and followed behind Margulis, answering his questions about their fight and the brief lessons he had received in Farimcom, but asking none of his own. By the break of the next morning, they had come to a convergence of paths, with the other following the northwestern edge of the forest. They continued to the east, where ahead there was a cluster of buildings, all of which were under three floors and most of which were under two.

As they neared, a crudely carved wooden sign hung from a wide wooden arch that served as an entrance into the city. Across it, the words Hook Row, weathered badly and barely readable. Within the city, which continued out past the edge of the land quite a ways, was an assortment of buildings of all shapes, sizes, and materials. In the section built on land, small stones and mortar were the predominant elements of the walls of these homes and shops. Further toward the sea, wood cut from the nearby forest served as shelter, and past that were buildings of rusted tin, straw, and anything else that the inhabitants could piece together into a building. These were supported by a series of piers and docks, some of which were so old that they were more holes than wood, while others looked to have been built within the year. All of it, even the people, had a mismatched and beaten look to it, as the storms at this end of land were common and the sea was fierce. So fierce, in fact, that it had become customary for the people of Hook Row to have to rebuild their piers and docks and often their landed homes at least once every few years. The result was a city whose architecture spanned two thousand years, with the remains of some of the original buildings used in the construction of newer projects. Materials that could no longer be found in the area were still seen patching centuries-old holes in walls, and in contrast many of the buildings stood freshly built, the polish on the wood still shining in the morning sun.
That shine did not reach the people. There were some good ones within the lot, there was no denying that, but on the whole there could not be a more underhanded bunch found across Magusia, perhaps even, they would boast, across all of Valriel. They would work side by side with you one day to build you a new house after a storm came, and then kill you the next to take it for their own. They loved to gamble, loved to drink, and most of all loved to fight. Theirs was a city run by gangs, the only laws being unwritten and constantly changing. There had once been a mayor and a police force, but that became corrupted in less than a decade and faded out in less than two. Life within Hook Row was determined by your allegiance to your gang, your luck of the draw, and your skill in a bout.

It was here, in the most unlikely of places, that Margulis would find a sign that others had survived their mission. As they walked, they were hailed by a group of orange-clad men sitting around a large table on a second-floor porch, and past that they received glares from inside a small tin-roofed shack. They continued through the city and consequently through the territories of several gangs, reaching the beginnings of the piers when a voice called out from behind them.

“Oy! Got me cloak, bloke,” said the voice. It came from a porch built into the back of the second floor of the last building on land. Seated on it, overlooking the pier, was the speaker. Beside him were three others, making four treflots altogether. “Lost last night, was quite a fight!” The treflot jumped down from the porch, landing lightly, and trotted over to Loen and Margulis, who had turned to see the speaker.

“Tell me, will ye, how that came to be with ye? Thought it gone for long and… Margulis? Margulis of the east? That nose I’d know from anywhere, those eyes I’d know from any pair! It’s true, it’s you!” The treflot grabbed Margulis into a hug and picked him up, spinning him around before releasing him.

“Loen, I’d like you to meet Rafelas,” Margulis said, beaming, “He was on my Gemjem team back in Lashas and joined an expedition very similar to mine. Though… it pains me to see so few with you, Rafelas.”

“Margulis, brave and bold, still don’t speak the tongue of old,” said Rafelas, and then with a grimace he added, “Twenty we, who came to this sea. A little by the air so fair, much too much by the ground. Three were dead ‘fore the arrival, six turned back for survival. Eleven were we who reached this sea, four more left when all had been seen. Seven were left here to rest, two more taken by the sea. We are what remain, five until last name came. One more we lost, though his life still remains. We know his location, ‘tis our destination. We, meaning me and these three, you see.”

“Malike, go by Mali,” said the smallest still on the porch as he jumped down to the ground.

“Palimine, go by Pali,” said another, doing the same.

“Josimar, go by Jos,” said the third, landing between the first two.

“Casinor makes us five. He is taken, just this last past night, and so we go to free him,” said Rafelas. The four of them, with the return of Rafelas’s, all wore hooded white cloaks stitched with the insignia of Lashas. Pali and Mali both wore wrist bangles similar to Loen’s; on each arm was a wide-based blade that tapered to a point, capable of being flipped into the hands of the wielder. Jos carried a sheathed sword on his belt, and Rafelas had a set of clawed gloves tied to his. Across each back was a glider, and for clothing they wore knee-length black cloth pants and either a loose cotton shirt or nothing across the chest.

“Then let us go to him, I need practice in the freeing of our kind,” said Loen, flipping his chakram into his hands and breathing flames onto them. “Lead the way.” Margulis signaled his approval by drawing the shaft of his glider and detaching the wings, turning it into a usable weapon, and so they followed the lead of Rafelas down a pier populated at its end by several men clad in yellow.

“He is one held by many,” said Rafelas as they neared the structure at the end of the pier, “And fight well they do, I can assure you.” It was a three story wooden building shaped like a horseshoe, with the second floor at the level of the pier. Lounging on crates and makeshift hammocks of fishing net were a dozen or so men, and on top of one of the supporting poles hung a hooded white cloak, stained with blood.

[Admiral]

Sent into a rage at the sight of the bloodied cloak, Loen dashed ahead of the rest and leapt high into the air, seeming to hover above the men in yellow below. He descended upon them with flames flaring up around his elbows, expelling a wave of heat that scalded those nearest to him as he crashed through the wood of the pier. In his wake were Pali and Mali who pounced on the front-most man, and following close behind them was Rafelas who clawed at another of the gang of yellow before he could react. A lone arrow found in Bill’s camp flew forth from the bow of Margulis, passing over an advancing Josimar’s shoulder and striking one of the men in the chest. By the time that Margulis had slung his bow over his shoulder and reached the walled-in field of battle, seven of the twelve who had sat at rest moments before were on their feet with swords and axes drawn. Three were dead, and another two were burned too badly to enter the fray. More men, hearing the calls of their comrades, were spilling out of the three sections of the building when the left-hand section splintered violently as a large spike of ice thrust its way up through it and fell into the sea. Loen pounced from the top of the ruined building into the group of men. Blocking a blow with his left hand, he cut across the legs of three of them and then sprung into them, knocking the bodies back from the legs to tear the flesh further. He rolled over them and rose to his feet, his back against the wall of the right-hand building. Three advanced toward him from the center building while the other treflots fought with the four that remained from the initial dozen and their reinforcements from the right-hand building. Loen spat a burst of flame at the center man and jumped with it, shrouding himself within. The man’s flesh seared away and the two to his sides fell to Loen’s unseen blades.

Loen continued into the central building, ducking and dodging blows and cutting down foes as he made his way to the lowest level. There he found Casinor, badly beaten treflot, unclothed but for his cloth pants, chained to the wall. Loen cut through the chains with his heated blades and then extinguished the flames of one arm to grab the treflot. With the prisoner safely held, Loen punched through the floor, exposing the constantly-raging sea below. He dropped through with Cas still at his side and a moment later brought up another spike of ice through the building, shattering it into pieces.

Outside the odds had turned against the treflots. With Loen on his rescue mission, they were five against eleven and backed to the edge of the pier where the splintered remains of the right-hand building lay. It was here that Josimar, a former resident of a ground-based Cimean town and the only trained warrior among them, made his presence known. He lunged forward into the crowd of enemies before him with sword in hand, sidestepping the swing of a sword and thrusting into the attacker’s chest. He pulled his blade from the wound while taking the man’s sword into his other hand and ducked between his legs to meet the man behind him. He blocked an axe blow, catching his left-hand sword behind the head of it and tore the man’s weapon from his grasp, casting it to the ground. He stabbed into the now-unarmed man twice, using his swords to scale the body, and stood atop his shoulders briefly to hurl the borrowed sword into the head of another man. As he leapt from the shoulders of the falling man below him, Pali and Mali, launched into the air with Margulis’s staff, joined him in descent onto the remaining nine men. The two treflots, wielding their sword-gauntlets, pounced onto another man together as Josimar continued fighting his way through their ranks. With the eleven shrunken to six, Loen burst through the roof of the central building and tore into the backs of the men that were pushing Margulis and Rafelas toward the edge. Casinor still under arm, Loen seared his way through the remaining three, and then set fire to the last standing building.

It was not until the seven treflots reached the porch of their meeting that Loen let the flame on his right arm go out. They laid Casinor across the table on the porch and inspected his wounds, treating them to their best ability. He was not seriously harmed, and awoke within the hour. Introductions were made all around and the day’s battle was relived amidst a meal of spiced crab and ale. The discussions continued into the evening as each side was filled in on the events of the other’s expedition. Margulis learned that the Lasystians had become less welcoming of the presence of treflots in their lands, and that this change had resulted in the deaths of two of the three who had died on the journey to the Eastern Hook. Rafelas and his comrades, upon hearing of an entire civilization of treflots in the west, were eager to continue their mission under the lead of Margulis despite Loen being the only one to come out of Aigalon. Plans were hatched to leave the next morning, as many of the gangs in Hook Row had agreements with one another and there were sure to be repercussions for their attack on the yellow-clad gang, the name of which, Margulis learned to his amusement, was the Bumblebees.

By late morning the next day, the troupe of treflots was prepared to set out along the northern path around the forest. Their packs were filled with fresh and salted meats, cheese, loaves of bread, and dried fruits and vegetables, and each had an extra skin of water tied to their belts. Fishing line, hooks, and attachments to their gliders were brought as well, stored in their packs next to additional clothing in case they ran into a snowstorm. On Josimar’s back was a kit to set up a sharpening stone, and on Casinor’s was a collapsed tent. Loen and Margulis had each procured a plain black cloak using money found on bodies in the rubble of the Bumblebees’ pier.

They took the trip leisurely, often stopping to explore a section of the forest or to spar one another. The new additions to the troupe were very curious about Loen’s display of power, and so with a sip from Margulis’s unused store from Tilcom, they each took lessons from Loen on Pyraquan and Agilis. By the fourth day, they had reached the point where the path turned back toward the center of the Eastern Hook, and so they left it and proceeded through fields toward the great wall that blocked off the region. Loen was taking instruction from Josimar by this time, as he had taken the knowledge of Gautimag and applied it to the clouds above him. By leaping into the clouds and filling them with freezing air, he succeeded in pulling electricity out of them, which he harnessed and stored on the blade of his sword. For the remainder of the trip to the wall, he toyed with the charge that was now under his control, forming it into forked strikes and hovering balls, techniques that he passed on to the others, though only Loen was able to duplicate them.

[Admiral]

Once at the wall, a poor job of fortification if there ever was one, the troupe formed into a living ladder, climbing over one another and pulling themselves up onto the wall. It was made of interlocking stones and mortar, nothing more, and stood only thirty feet off of the ground, but it stretched for miles, from the coast to the mountains in the west. The deserters of the Eastern Hook had an incorrect version of history. Their tales told of an untouchable force that met them at Markom, a force that destroyed the largest army that had ever been assembled. As far as they knew, the assault on the Gauti had failed miserably, and they were the only survivors of it. For this reason, they built their wall in a hurry, fearing what they thought to be an immortal enemy, and since then they had warred amongst themselves, blaming one another for putting their people into a life of hiding. Two thousand years had come and gone since their defection, and yet their vigilance had not yet faltered. It was the one cause that all denizens of the Eastern Hook could rally themselves behind. They had never had to defend against an assault from the Gauti, but they remained prepared nonetheless.

Unbeknownst to the defenders of the Eastern Hook’s wall, the immortal enemy spoken of in their tales lay hidden less than a mile out from them. Orlen had accompanied Mavad and his people to Markom and had bid to speak with Lokar’karem. The head of the city guard, a young one by Gauti standards, recognized Orlen only as one who had abandoned their people for centuries. He informed him that Lokar was on patrol at the time, aiding his people as any proper Gauti should, and then had him escorted out of the gate he had once defended and sent down the road toward Ramcom. Wanting to avoid further confrontation, he left the Gautigam before entering Ramcom and proceeded across the Benplat Flat, the unclaimed barren patch of ground that had once held the invading army of Lasyst. On its eastern coast, he set up a small camp and waited for the arrival of the treflots.

Early in the morning nearly two weeks after having set up his camp, Orlen spotted seven figures gliding through the air to the west. He ran from his camp, following after them and waving until he was spotted and they turned to fly back to him. The treflots landed and followed Orlen back to his camp. Once the introductions were made, Loen began to tell their tale to Orlen, receiving a reassuring nod at the mentions of combat. With the story told, Orlen began his own much shorter recount of the events since they had split, only to be interrupted by a hellish roar to the west. Orlen turned and saw, at the head of a rising cloud of dust, several Gauti moving unnaturally fast toward the weakest point in the wall, its central gate. With not a word of explanation, Orlen finished what remained of his Tilcom water and rose to his greatest size, and then dashed off across the flat to head off the approaching Gauti force. He reached the gate only moments before the attackers and turned his back to it, drawing his shields and shrinking to the size of the wall.

Those at the head of the pack crashed against Orlen’s shields, trying to work their way through the center of the shield-wall, until a familiar voice sounded from the back.

“Stop!” it bellowed in the tongue of the Gauti, “You rage against a hero. Stay
your weapons and bow before a legend!” The warriors, heeding the words of their commander, stepped away from the wall of shields and bowed low in obedience. Orem’kem, now with a facemask of bone to complete his armor, stepped forward to address Orlen.

“The west is won, my friend,” he said, “Their losses were great and ours were few. Rejoice, for your efforts have proven to have succeeded. But now I must request that you halt in your efforts, for the east must be won as well. These men once assaulted our lands and shall pay dearly for it!” Cheers arose from the Gauti behind Orem, and above them, untrained guards of the wall trembled in fear at the roars of the beasts below them.

“These men were not alive to assault us,” Orlen responded. “You know that they do not live as long as we do!”

“Then they are the descendants of the offenders. It matters not; there are crimes in these lands that have for too long gone unpunished. Justice has come to the cowards of the east on the swiftest feet of the west. Those untrained in Agilis, the remainder of our army, save for a retaining guard in Tilcom, marches through the Gautihir in full force. You cannot repel us all, and you cannot hold my contingent to the ground. We are revitalized, we can easily clear this poor excuse for a wall that they have constructed. Do not make us resort to that. Give us the satisfaction of bringing their wall to the ground as they tried to do to ours!”

“I will not allow the innocent to be slaughtered without cause!” Orlen roared, bearing his teeth at the smaller Gauti below him. “I aided in the retaking of Tilcom because it was ours once. It belongs to us. Its buildings hold fragments of our teachings, and the means to practice them. This land does not belong to us! We gain nothing through their deaths!”

“Stand down,” said Orem steadily. “You dare not disobey a direct order from the commander of our people’s army, that is, if you ever wish to be accepted into society again.”

“Mogrom the Blademaster is the commander of the army! Do not think me a fool, I know that those men, as weak as they were, could not have defeated him in combat,” answered Orlen.

“You are correct,” said Orem, “Your brother was not defeated. He lives still, as much a traitor as you make yourself to be today. He refused to lead an assault on these people and stepped down from his position. You look now upon Orem’kemdurem, master of the warriors of Tilcom and the Gautihir. Your family no longer holds influence.”

“Then it falls to me to stay your wayward mind and warring hands,” Orlen said quietly, shrinking to his normal size. “I challenge you, Orem’kemdurem, to Gautijem. A fight in Harker, with all of the rules of the old way applied. Any stipulations made by the winner must be followed by those under the loser. I assume that you are old enough to have at least heard of it.”

“I know of the old way!” barked Orem, “I did not assemble this suit of armor solely from the bones of men! I accept. Name your conditions.”

“If I defeat you, I will take your former position as second-in-command of the army, and leadership will be restored to Mogrom. This force here will disperse, and will inform the approaching army to keep themselves behind the gates of Ramcom. These men of the east will continue to live in their lands.”

“Understood,” said Orem, “If I am the victor, you will meet your death here in this place, and your brother will face execution for your treason.”

[Admiral]

“Understood,” said Orlen, drawing his hammer into his hand and tossing the other upper shield over his back to free the other hand. The surrounding Gauti stepped far back from the two combatants. Orlen moved away from the gate and began muttering under his breath, back turned to Orem. He did not know what skills his opponent held, only that the younger Gauti had never practiced any Gautimag until the recent invasion in the west. However, all of the teachings of each school were kept within Markom, free to be examined by all, and Orem had already demonstrated some skill in Agilis. Orlen completed his unspoken ritual, lowering his body temperature significantly and freezing his shields, and then turned to face the unknown. Orem stood before him, crouched slightly and covered by cloak and bone, hands on the hilts of his sheathed daggers, and across from him stood Orlen, cloak cast aside, scars showing vividly in the bright sun, and shields and hammer at the ready. Off in the distance, the treflots were approaching.

Orem was the first to strike, leaping high into the air and spitting fire down at Orlen. But it was a weak flame, both in size and intensity, and dissipated upon contact with the larger Gauti’s skin. Orem drew his daggers and he began his descent, poised to strike at the head of his enemy, but Orlen rose to a height greater than Orem’s and struck him down to the ground, then shrunk to normal size again and sprung on the fallen Gauti. Orem rolled, dodging a crushing blow, and sprung to his feet. He lunged forward, trying to breach the division between the two lower shields, but was swatted away by the stronger Orlen. He landed on his back and sprung to his feet once again, dodging another hammer swing into the ground. He backpedaled away from Orlen and dropped back into a battle stance, daggers poised to strike but still at a good distance away from his opponent. Orlen ran forward to swing but hit nothing as Orem had disappeared and materialized far behind Orlen, having overshot his destination. Still, he had caught his opponent off-guard, and turned quickly to hurl two of his daggers at Orlen’s exposed lower back.

Orlen threw his lower shields across his back, having glimpsed Orem’s plan momentarily in his mind, and deflected the daggers to the ground. Orem pulled back on the daggers with his mind and caught them in his hands and then, grinning openly, executed a quick maneuver. A shadow of himself appeared next to him, daggers drawn and grinning at Orlen in the same maniacal manner. But when Orem charged, his shadow did not follow. Instead, it sheathed its daggers and walked off of the field of battle to sit with the rest of the observing Gauti. Orlen couldn’t help but laugh at his opponent’s failed attempts, infuriating him all the more. He swung viciously, trying to find an opening in Orlen’s redrawn wall of shields, but founds none. In his fervor, he began to leave the ground, clawing his way up Orlen’s defenses with his strikes. He soon found himself swinging over the top of Orlen’s bottom shields, but when his head came over the lip, he was struck back with a punch and, staggering and off balance on the shields, he began to slip. Orlen spun quickly, catching the stumbling Orem in the ribs with his hammer, and threw him into the stone wall behind him. The wall shook from the impact, releasing a few rocks from its mold onto Orem’s body. The smaller Gauti rose slowly and spat blood from his mouth, then willed the fallen rocks to throw themselves at Orlen.
He dodged easily as Orem’s control over the inanimate was untrained and reckless, and began advancing toward him. Orem, now fearing for his life, resorted to his last ability and lunged at Orlen. As he did, his arms extended as his body grew. Orlen, having glimpsed this plan in his enemy’s eyes, had just enough time to bend backward, letting the blades of Orem’s daggers pass over him. He seized the still-growing Orem’s ankle as he passed overheard and began to shrink, reversing the effects of Orem’s Gautimag. Down at a size of less than three feet for both of the Gauti, Orlen released his foe and grew back to his normal size and he leapt onto him, bringing his shields down over the throat of Orem as he did.

“Submit!” Orlen barked.

“Never!” squeaked the voice of the shrunken Orem.

“Then accept your victory, if you have not honor enough to accept defeat. A great threat lies in the north, and I cannot allow myself to remove from the land one who would fight against it. You are free to declare this bout as you wish, and in that you may choose to adhere to the stipulations as you see fit,” said Orlen, stepping away from Orem’s shrunken body. “I must advise you, however, not to attempt to claim any of your predetermined spoils of victory. If you strike at me but once more, I will end you with great haste, and if you attempt to strike at my brother, you will find yourself outmatched in every way. He is far more fierce than I.”

Orlen walked past the waiting Gauti army, gathering his cloak from the ground as he went, and met with the treflots to continue north. Behind him, Orem slowly grew back to his normal size and rose to his feet, clutching at his wounds tenderly. And though he could not make out the commands that were shouted, Orlen saw not one of the warriors move toward the wall. He continued up the coast with the treflots and reached the northern shore by nightfall. After instructing them to continue as discretely as they could back to their capital, he grew to his full height and tossed each one high into the air over the raging sea so that they might catch a draft of wind and reach the southern tip of Lasyst. With them out of sight and knowledge that news of the victory must have reached Markom, Orlen slept through the night and rose the next morning ready to make his plea for aid to Lokar’karem.

[Admiral]

There we are... that's all that I've written thus far, and likely all that will be written. I commend you for making it this far, as I know it can be a difficult read.

And here's the map. The quality isn't great, so this should help a little bit:

Northwest - Gatrea
West - Aigalon Region, composed of the 4 Aigalonian Islands
South - Continent of Magusia, split into The Heptagon Region (western third), The Gauithir (middle third), and the Eastern Hook Region (eastern third)
Northeast - Liber
Center - Velknaron in the west, Lasyst in the east, Cimea on the northeast coast mirroring Liber's strip of land. Cimea also has cities located throughout Lasyst, with the capital in the middle of the large lake/pond/inland sea that divide Velknaron and Lasyst.

EDIT: Only 5 attachments, but I got most of what actually has detail to it. I'll put the rest of the map in my next post.

[Admiral]

The rest of the map, as well as a poem detailing the excerpt within the story from The Heptagon Wars.

Heptagon Wars

Late in the year of century turned
We land on the northern tip
Thousands of us, hundreds of thousands
Joined over past years; six

Down in our crouch, ready to strike
Our plans were laid and goal in sight
A town unguarded by man
But kept by earthly might

A gateway it was
The way to the west
So westward we traveled
And drew blood from their chests

A victory won
A hill overtaken
But on down the road
A mountain was quaking

Monstrous in size
Majestic in creation
Qualities these were
Of both man and nation

But onward we traveled
With victory in our hearts
To their gaping mouths of stone
And battlements of sparks

Below us raged a river
Above us raged the sky
Behind us laid a victory
In front, our goal in time

We pressed and we pushed and we fought and we struggled
And inch by inch we entered the jaws
Of this giant stone monster
Of monstrous stone design


But as hope began to fortify in our hearts
A cry arose from the dark
Of the throat of this beast;
One from the west

Doubled our height
Tripled our strength
And our resolve, incomparable
But then… oh yes, then

Then he grew
And he grew and he grew
And he filled the mouth of the great stone beast
Its tongue had come, lashing at us

And still we pressed onward
Our wills not yet broken
For fifteen years we pressed
At thirteen we were broken.

Nearly a sixth we lost
Traitors, deserters, artists of betrayal
At thirteen their wills were broken
And into the east they fled

We were broken; defeated
Less than half of us left
When our focus strayed from the west
To the south; an opening, to the south, victory

We leapt from the lip
And cut our way through the beast’s belly
Up through the throat
And slashed off its tongue

The beast, it wavered
Its strength was the man’s
Overrun it became
The pass to the west was won

[Nosedagger]

OSHT It's an entire frickin' universe...

I'll read it in my sparer time.

[Admiral]

Aye that's why I split it up not just for space, but in reasonable stopping points. And thanks for deleting those posts