The Scythe and the Seer, Book 3 of the Enchanter's Cycle

“Milady.” Koukatsuna said nearby, startling her awake.

She groaned, rubbing her eyelids, “What is it? Are we under attack?”

Opening her eyes fully, sitting up on Atsushi’s large, cushioned bed, Rinshi grimaced, daring a moment to see if her husband was there in the dark with them. He was not.

Her maiden’s blood had been cleaned off their sheets...but she swore she could feel that patch of heat she’d rather not consider. She shivered at that, but studied her champion, perched as he was on a round-backed chair in the corner.

“No, milady.” he said, his face obscured until the burning red spot of his pipe flared a bright yellow, revealing his features. How had she not smelled his smoke?

His expression was different; she wasn’t used to reading Silkrit faces...but his appeared...haggard.

“I...” he started, choking on his own words, “It isn’t appropriate to ask what I will ask of you. I am your champion, after all.”

Confused, she nodded, fully awake, “I am your friend as much as your ward. Go on, I am listening.”

Shifting uncomfortably, Koukatsuna took another puff, blowing a narrow stream though a small gap in his front-most teeth, “It’s just that...well, I wanted you to know that...that I won’t fail you. They say you only get better at something once you fuck it up once or twice.”

He sighed, “Well...I think I’m the perfect example of that; get diced up in the arena and you’re almost impossible to hit. Get smashed day and night and you’ll never worry about hard drink once you finally sober up all the way. Everything I succeed in it’s because I’ve failed in it at least once. Well...I don’t need to worry about failing to keep you safe, is all.”

“Who were they?” she asked, watching her friend as he took another puff, exhaling deeply. For a time he just sat there, drifting in and out of darkness as he smoked, filling the room with the earthy scent of whatever he was using.

Then, “One hundred silvers could buy you a slave in my home world. They say a soul is priceless...but I say it matches the asking price of the body. When you enslave the body, its soul dies before the body does. You reconcile with that, or you go mad and die even quicker. It took me a long while to; I was young, hot-blooded. It took something big to make killing livable, you know.”

She waited for him to continue, unmindful with how tired she was or how uncomfortable it would be if her husband walked in right now. This was far more important.

“Heh...you know...not just fighters die in the arena. After they put on my ink...” he said, motioning to his chest, “...they also tried to get me...how do I put this...well, they wanted to see if breeding out a few more me’s would give them another bunch of great fighters. I was old enough for it. Barely, at fifteen years of age. One night I came back, half-dead from killing a Koriko, those ahhh...bug things, to find somebody in my cell. Her name was Emi, the name probably a joke at her expense. She was my “tribute”.”

He stopped for a while, eyes downcast, “Gods, she was beautiful. And not just her body, either. You would think that a slave could never smile... I never had. But damn, she managed every now and again.”

“...We...didn’t do anything for the first few weeks. One night, the match had been horrible. I was brought as close to death as I’ve ever been, and when I woke up she was watching over me. She smiled when she saw my eyes open. Said she was happy that I was alright. Emi...had been forced into this hellhole with me. She was a piece of meat to her masters; a vessel to carry on the seed of a promising gladiator. She had no reason to smile...no reason to like me...but she did. She chose to. We...shared that night. I was half-broken, but damned did I manage. Heh.”

He chuckled bitterly, eyes watering, pipe forgotten, “I knew I wanted more than anything else to see her smile. To fall asleep and rise to greet every new day happy and content, with that same smile on her face. I knew we had to out that place. I knew I had to make that happen.”

“What did you do?” she prodded, and Koukatsuna considered his pipe, then set it aside, “I tried to escape with her. It was stupid; I had barely healed, could barely lift my swords. We had no chance, but I tried anyway.”

“You were in love.” Rinshi said, choked, and Koukatsuna scowled, “I was a fool. I thought I was indestructible. Well, I had already slipped in a narrow shaft of metal after breaking a sword in the arena; had filed it into a nice little shiv. I broke my cell’s lock with it and together we crept out of the pits when everyone else was sleeping.”

He looked away, shamefully, “The guards caught us nearly to the open sunlight; where only the Karu would’ve been able to give chase. I took down two of them with the shiv...nasty work, that...before they brought me down. Our masters were impressed...enough to keep me on...even to heal all the broken bones the guards gave me...after making me watch Emi die. They tossed her into the pit with a dozen Koriko that tore her to shreds.”

Her hands gripping the sheets, Rinshi gasped, horrified.

“Koukatsuna, I-”

“Like I said, milady.” he interrupted her, his composure regained, “The past is the past. Emi is dead. But you are alive and I plan to keep things like that, since I know what it’s like to fail to protect somebody you care about. I just wanted you to know that; you’re safe with me as your champion.”

“I know that, my friend.” Rinshi replied, choked, “I am grateful you told me this... I can’t even imagine.”

“For the best...” her champion replied, “I was down there for four years after that, before Ryū showed up with his Te Fukushu and busted me out with the other slaves. I managed to have a few minutes with one of my former masters...but those are no words for your ears, milady.”

“You were wrong about one thing...” Rinshi said, and he tilted his head, his forked tongue darting out.

“You did walk out of that place. Body and soul.”

“Did I?” he replied, standing, “I don’t know. I left much of myself in those dark corridors...and the sands of the pit. I wonder sometimes, if the soul dies before the body would you even know, even if you were free. Or has there been nothing but a husk walking around all this time?”

“...But what’s left of me is yours, milady.” he added, a weary smile on his face, “Body and soul or just body, whatever. Command me and I will see it done, to the death. I swear it.”

“I knew what I was doing when I accepted your pledge.” Rinshi told him, rising from bed in her nightclothes and embracing him, “I will value your service above all others. You are always welcome to speak with me again if...if the ghosts get to be too much for you.”

“It isn’t proper.” he protested, “I am your champion.”

“And I am your friend.” she replied, her eyes darting up to his as she disengaged, ending the matter, “And as your lady I command you to do so.”

“...I am, as always, your humble servant.”

Alcharon remembered his purpose. Vengeance. Yes, he would find Botsu, and make her pay. Make all the Veil pay! Bring order, at long last!

With newfound determination borne of implacable anger, the traveler sought out his body, knowing it would reside in the ruins of his dead kingdom. His dead planet.

The woman’s voice again intruded on his thoughts, but he’d found new focus, and resisted her words. Not again would she make him succumb. He was Alcharon, God-King of the Vol’garla! He would have vengeance!

“No, no.” the seer cursed, “Oh, no, no, no.”

Forcing herself again into the scattered consciousness of her enemy, she again attempted to twist his perception back into its torpid state.

And failed. His powers, gained through ages of acclimation to the natural forces, was too great for her.

“Why had I not secreted the body here?!” she cursed, rising to her feet and preparing her most potent evocations, “I would have been able to influence him more easily if I wasn’t extending my spells halfway across the multi-verse!”

A brilliant, blinding light, followed by darkness. Pain, deep and evenly spread, culminated his being.

For a long, panicked moment lasting an eternity, he knew nothing but pain in the darkness. Then, in his panic, he felt, he felt the cold hard surface of stone, felt the gooseflesh of his skin. His skin...

Alcharon opened his eyes, seeing nothing, hearing dry respiration in a closed space. Exploring with his hands, he found himself in a small geometric area walled in by stone. After an untold time spent drifting through the ether, the claustrophobia was devastating, and he wailed; a bone-grating, tortured sound coming from long unused lungs. Weakly pounding his hands against the walls of his prison, Alcharon tried in vain to free himself.

His wails becoming hopeless sobs, he sought to contend with his unruly emotions. Was he not Alcharon, God-King? What sort of king would weep so?

Slowly, ever so slowly, he regained his composure, experimentally pressing the stone in key areas, all the while trying to remember the secrets learned in his voyage. Yes...there it was.

With the slightest application of his will, he stood in a dark corridor lined which rectangular slabs of stone. Sarcophagi...

Limbs shaking, Alcharon grimaced as he looked down to his legs. They were like gnarled branches; bones under decayed skin. What was wrong with...-

“I was dead.” he said blankly, or tried to. All that emerged was a hollow moan. Gasping, again fighting his panic at this uncomfortable and disturbing sensation, Alcharon hobbled forward, looking at his hand; a shriveled claw.

He brushed off a sheet of clear white crystals adhered to his skin, at first confused by it, then remembering a strange, scratchy powder in the sarcophagus with him. Salt; to dry the corpses of the honored dead. He had died. Died, and been mummified and entombed with the rest of his loyal subjects. Botsu, the witch, had killed him.

“But now I return...” he said to himself, though all that emerged from his dried lips was another wrenching moan. Purpose again goading him, Alcharon continued forward, seeking his throne room. And the secret of his own, cleverly hidden...

Though her body still slept beside Arteth, Kaileena was not in any way at rest. The burning anger in her heart could not console itself in dreamless slumber, and she feared too greatly to ever dream again. Such things had brought her nothing but pain.

As she toiled away inside one of her clay constructs, Kaileena divined for any trace of the Ancestor Seed, based both on its legends and her personal knowledge of its appearance and properties.

As had been the case since she’d set the construct to work with Kuri’s blood, she was unsuccessful. The Seed was either in a cocoon of anti-magicka, was converted into something wholly different, or no longer existed.

The closest she’d come was rediscovering Sado; the Kodama she’d defeated and presumably killed before the attack on Yokai’s tower. He was still alive, though hardly recognizable, wandering as a shapeless mass of organic energy in the Faded Veil. It was, in a distant, muted way, impressive that he’d survived this long outside of the Prime Material Plane.

“Perhaps I am approaching this improperly.” Kaileena mused, scratching her chin, though she felt nothing in her clay body, “All the information I need to glean the seed’s whereabouts is already at my disposal. Vala had mentioned somebody named Tenri. And if she is in any way linked to Kuri, then she might know something about the seed.”

Deciding the new focus of her divination, she consumed more of the power animating the construct, fueling a second inquiry, using the name and essential identity of Tenri; daughter of Kogoeji-ni, as the focal point.

The potency of her spell immediately yielded a result, though not the one she was expecting. A shallow grave in a world of barren ash and snow. Brown skies, lit by sickly yellow clouds. Volcanic eruptions and fumes of molten sulfur. A weathered engraving upon a burial marker; the echoes of ancient grief.

“Incorrect.” Kaileena decided, replacing the phrase with, “Daughter of Kogoeji-ni.”

This time her perceptions, for the construct needed no basin or physical focus for such spells, became as a great empty nothingness. This Tenri did not exist...that, or the search would have yielded more than one result. Curious...

She startled, another realization occurring to her as another of her clay constructs, one she was only piloting subconsciously, made a breakthrough on a far more pressing matter...

“Fascinating...” Kaileena breathed, though hearing actual emotion in her words was like a tolling bell for him.

Arteth rose, seeking her in the darkness of their room, and found her at the vanity mirror, in which he saw the edges of a faded reflection, for the mirror was turned slightly away from him.

Before he could puzzle out the object revealed in the mirror, the device went quiescent, and Kaileena hastily removed clothing from a small box, scowling.

“What is it?” he asked, watching her don a thin shirt reinforced with delicate ringmail, likely enchanted to provide protection as its mass alone could not. Small ringed rivets were spread throughout the material, through which the tips of her dampener rods sprouted.

A native-style tunic of black wool went over it; sleeveless and tied together by a black obi corset, reaching halfway down her thighs. Short leggings reached down to her knees; loose and of a material he was unfamiliar with, likewise featuring hollow rivets for her extruding stakes. Protecting her feet was a pair of geta.

Thus clothed, she threw on her crystal tooth choker and her lotus petal haori, the inside of which was lined with many pockets. Her star sapphires flared as she activated one of their latent enchantments, then, finally, she looked to him, her eyes blazing.

“Surthath.” she said, and the weight of that single word struck like a physical blow, “I know where he is. And...I know he is vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable?” Arteth asked, stunned, and she nodded, “He is being held prisoner by at least two other Old Ones in a place that is not a place in the Faded Veil.”

“Veln Rh’k.” Arteth replied, naming the forbidden, hidden void warring Old Ones often negotiated and battled in private.

“We will find him.” Kaileena hissed, her voice boiling over with resentment, “But not kill him. Death would be too great an end to him. With blood magicka and the Spell-Eater Strain, I have devised a most effective method of persuasion. With it I will extract all his secrets in regards to this cursed prophecy, as well as anything else that could be useful.”

“Torture an Old One?” Arteth asked, incredulous.

Sure...the bastard deserved a taste of the pain inflicted through his “greater good”...but the actual notion of doing it, of...Kaileena...doing it.

“Torture and dethrone.” Kaileena replied, her eyes distant, “With his knowledge and the power of the Phoenix Stone I will raise an army capable of re-purposing the Skraul, the Pirates...all who threaten the cause of peace.”

“What?!” the Djinn gasped, revolted, “What do you speak of, my love? What do the Pirates have to do with this?”

“Satisfaction will be mine.” Kaileena replied, “Upon all those who have allowed me to be as this hollow mockery of life. Furthermore, I will prevent any others from experiencing pain. My journey began when the Pirate Lords murdered my father and imprisoned me, tortured me... You know well enough my despair. How glorious it will be, then, In Teikoku, without the pirates, without any warring nations or parties.”

“Yokai once spoke thus.” Arteth verbally parried, his heart aching, “And he failed in both his actions and his ideals.”

His beloved frowned thoughtfully, “I do not desire godhood. Quite the opposite.”

Gods...

“You didn’t want this power. You don’t want it.” he said plainly, not as a question.

She nodded, “I wanted to be Kaileena; nothing more, free and happy with you. But I am not free. I never was. None of us were or are. So I see now the notion as highly overrated. How many cruelties do we inflict on one another due to this curse of free will? Even the illusion thereof? No more. Now, I have spoken enough of this. Get ready; we will be contending with the will of the gods...literally.”

Suizei stared blankly at the contents of the package sent to him. A pistol, finely made; a three shot revolving magazine model.

Only a select few would or could possess such a weapon; Kiromichi, mainly, but also Shirudo and Itaku. The second item narrowed the suspects even further; A tooth, narrow and serrated near the tip. A Silkrit Tooth.

“Yamato...” the Hitorigami seethed, seeing the third and final item; the family crest, its Imperial Kamon forged in red gold.

He knew the claim, and more importantly, the challenge, for what it was. Yamato Takeru had murdered Shirudo and was staking his claim as the new Lord of the North District. Never!

“This is an act of war!” Suizei snarled, throwing the box into the corner, staring daggers into the messenger; a low ranking courier of General Nobuyuki, “Your master thinks his position as Lord of the West will placate me in this? This...sedition...?”

The messenger, a man of no station or visible political influence, paled, but said nothing.

Suizei scowled, “Return to Nobuyuki, with my “response”. Also, tell him that if he does not surrender Yamato Takeru into my custody I will have both of them executed for treason.”

The messenger nodded, and the Hitorigami dismissed him. Feeling a hundred years older already, Suizei waited until the man had left before looking over to Itaku, who had, by his request, remained in the capital,

“I know Yamato better than most. I know this grab for power to be a precursor for further ambition. I will not allow myself or this land to be influenced by one who is not the Hitorigami.”

Itaku nodded, troubled, “I know him as well. He will claim that by declaring you I’d acted above my station. As the leader of the Karyudo Kisai, my station was above his at the time...but this will matter little.”

Rubbing his aching temples, Suizei agreed, “It will be war; civil war...again... The Skraul will no doubt multiply as we contend for the throne of Teikoku. Why...why must we suffer this again?”

“Because a single man with ambition seeks your throne.” Itaku replied, still infuriatingly calm in spite of things, “Always will the unjust act so. It’s just a pity that so many would flock to his cause. General Nobuyuki will ensure this in his own district, as will Yamato himself if he proclaims himself lord.”

“No more than a month into my reign...” Suizei despaired, “And my holdings have been halved. I have lost more territory now than my father ever did against the Skraul...”

“Your father was afraid to do what was right.” Itaku protested, “He compromised with his enemies; a wise decision on the grounds of preserving peace...but peace is now impossible. If he were to replace you, Yamato would exterminate the Silkrit of Karyu. We would be alone, exposed...waiting for attack.”

“Damn him...” he seethed, “I will not let this stand. If he damns me for allying with foreigners...then I will use their foreign might to crush him. Kaileena alone could determine a battle...though I wonder as to her loyalties at this point.”

For a brief moment, Itaku’s stern and stony visage wavered, and through the cracks in his expression Suizei detected a moment’s uncertainty. Well...perhaps the man was indeed Human after all!

“So much power...” Suizei said distantly, having reviewed the mixed reports of the defense of Shimobashira Inaka, “...and bestowed upon one so young.”

“You, too, are young.” Itaku verbally parried, “Both of you have the courage and the fortitude to responsibly exercise your power. Kaileena merely needs to...acclimate.”

Itaku didn’t say it, but Suizei distinctly heard the “I hope” in his reply...

Alcharon stared blankly at the ruins of his home; his castle.

Like walking through time, as his withered husk carried him along he remembered the grandeur of the now hollow halls; where the mighty Vol’garla had gathered for council and revelry. So many memories...

His table was long; over forty paces, though its cracked marble had split down the middle, halving it. In his time a great many feasts were held upon it; meat piled up to shoulder level, seared and juicy. His teeth chattered at the thought.

The walls were high, though the windows were no more; they lay in shattered piles on the floor, their colors indeterminate. The skies behind it were weathered, rust brown, the clouds a yellowy tint from the high concentration of sulfur.

The ceiling had caved in during some great crisis; the hall was littered with debris, ages-old odorless rot. Putrescent snow covered whole areas, small flakes drifting through the air.

The wind made him shiver, though his body shouldn’t have registered it, nor any of the physical discomfort he was experiencing. The throne; high-backed and wrought of iron, still held firm at the rear of the hall, just at the end of the long table where he could sit before the feast and discuss matters grand and small.

Its crest of emeralds; the long, winding coils of metal studded with green gems, had been removed, leaving it barren. All other finery was likewise gone, looted most likely. Now his palace was nothing more than a tomb.

Sighing, Alcharon stood over the throne, hand brushing over its arm. What had been lost...was lost indeed.

But not all was lost. Before his death he’d hidden his most treasured possession; the legendary sword Gan Jiang, forged of a rare metal discovered in a single yield in one of the darkest, most hidden places of the world. A double-edged short sword of purest darksteel, its necromantic powers had derived from the Heart of Darkness, which was now destroyed.

On its own, Gan Jiang was a husk, like his body. But like his body it was a receptacle for the power he’d discovered as a spirit, and with Gan Jiang as a focus he could permanently bind his soul to his corpse and empower it with vitality akin to that which he’d possessed in life.

Withered hands scrabbling at the ground behind the throne, Alcharon activated a hidden compartment with a tendril of necromantic energy, which collapsed the throne, revealing a small stone box. Inside the box was the sword, its edge perfectly honed even now. A thick ivory handle with a short, square-shaped guard linked to the blade, the pommel holding a fine emerald cut in a sunburst pattern; itself serving as a Black Gem. A lesser ring of emeralds circled the pommel, each serving as a font for magickal energies.

The sword’s secondary enchantment was potent; Gan Jiang could consume its victim utterly upon death, converting their organic properties into energy and permanently strengthening the wielder. Only the Djinn and Old Ones could escape soul death from Gan Jiang’s bite; he’d learned that unfortunate fact when the Gnomes, tiny menaces that they were, had summoned a Djinn during the initial invasion of their world.

That was long ago; before his kin had made their pact with Morag Toth, the first Dread Hammer, and changed their name from Vol’garla to Vol’Dari, or Skraul, as the lesser races had termed them.

After that...

Alcharon scowled, his withered lips cracking in the dry cold.

Hefting his blade overhead, his elbow popping form the strain, he snarled, calling upon blood magicka with the sword as a focus. His withered limbs surged with black fire, the veins burning bright red as fluid and magicka returned to them. The stiffened muscles softened, bulged, and expanded, leaving him unable to stand.

Falling to his knees, Alcharon screamed with pain as his kneecaps broke, fused back together, and hardened. His breath, once shallow, became deep bellows as his chest expanded.

Looking down at the reflective surface of Gan Jiang, Alcharon smiled a mouthful of fangs as his face, alien and foreboding, again became a dark, wild, handsome visage; a long, angular nose and chin, statuesque cheekbones and an imperial brow crowned by a mane of black hair that reached to the back of his waist.

Most of his teeth rounded and flattened, but the upper and lower pairs of canines became massive, pointed needles. His skin, pitch black, reverted to the dark brown all Vol’Garla had possessed before embracing the dark gift of vampyrism.

His ears, pointed, lengthened further, becoming more bat-like, with tufts of dark fur sprouting from their tips. His eyes, pale white orbs, changed a second time; irises a seething green, the rest black as pitch. A single, searing rune marked his forehead in viridian light; the curse-mark that would permanently bind his soul, making his undead body indestructible by mortal means.

“Curse?” Alcharon smirked, looking back into his beautiful reflection, “So be it. Once I was Alcharon the God-King, as I reigned over the Vol’garla in ancient times when we bowed to no gods. Then, I was Alcharon the Traveler; the shapeless spirit who sought all the hidden places in the Veil. Call me now...Alcharon the Accursed.”

“Rise!” he roared in delight, his body and power restored, tendrils of his newly developed, necromantic strain of blood magicka seeping through the floor and into the tombs beneath it, “Rise, sons and daughters of the Vol’garla! Our time of vengeance is at hand!”