Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One
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Authors: Travis I. Sivart
The Downfall -
Book One:
Harbinger
Travis I. Sivart
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The Downfall – Book One: Harbinger
Copyright © 2016 Travis I. Sivart
Cover Art and Design by Elizabeth “Thee Lady G” Galindorf http://www.Galindorf.com/
Edited by Jeanne Wilkins
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1512222623
ISBN-13: 978-1512222623
Talk of the Tavern Publishing Group
DEDICATION
This is for you, the gamers that remember, or still use, paper and dice. This is for you, my gamers that were always forced onto the path that would change the world, or more accurately, who created a path that would change my world.
CONTENTS
Contents
Chapter 2: Secrets in the Shadows
Chapter 11: Arenas & Alleyways
Chapter 12: Wanton Destruction
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book was a long time in coming, some thirty plus years. I still know many of the folks who helped inspire this work, which is surprising considering how many times I have changed residence in my lifetime. The two who were there the day it began, my thirteenth birthday, Jason and Beau-Kevin. To the ones who came later; Curt and Blair. The handful who hung in with me for years; Chris, James, Ross, Stan, and Rich. The ones who came later; Christine, Adam, and so many more that will probably never see what came out of our games. Thank you all for your laughter and challenges. But most of all I need to thank Andrea for her constant support and encouragement.
“Work smarter, not harder.”
Master of Slaves, Rogen the Plague
5854 - Thon – Jordar – Ginof
“This will not have a happy ending,” the man muttered through the haze in his head, “bad things are coming.”
Three trained slaves circled the captive, smiling at the easy quarry. They moved as a unit around the small arena of red sandstone. Their prey stared into the distance, slack jawed and his sword hanging loose in his grip. The first gladiator, Vandus, lumbered forward, looking a lot like a bear. Not just from his nest of curly hair that continued down his neck, onto his shoulders and chest, disappearing down his red tunic, but also from this thick muscles and animalistic roar issued. He sneered after not receiving any reaction and approached. He didn’t bother to co-ordinate his attack with the others, confident that his foe had no skill with the weapon. Flexing his muscles, he swiped his gladius, a gladiatorial short sword, across the newest slave’s chest. The captive’s loose shirt fell away and a thin line of blood appeared. A flap of flesh rolled downward on the captive’s chest, his nipple on it. The man stared down, dazed, and not understanding the danger.
The sun was just cresting the eastern horizon, but the Great Desert Empire had been active for hours. The sounds of animals braying and bleating drifted over the stone walls, and the smells of fresh baked bread mingled with the dry dusty air. The temperature was rising from the chill night air to the oppressive daytime heat. Reflective mirrors on the highest tier of the oval seating that surrounded the gladiatorial ring lighted the red sand arena. Two dozen spectators watched the ritual testing of the newest slaves. More than two weeks ago, the slavers had attacked and captured a caravan in the Rock Crag Wastes, east of the Rolling Mountains, on its way to the Northwood Commune. They had transported the man, and many others, to the slave empire of Rogen the Plague, who watched the activities below from his stone seat above the field.
Now the young prisoner stood in a staging area where men’s fighting abilities were tested. The slave’s blue eyes glazed with fatigue. He was in shock from sunstroke and physically exhausted from the rigors of the trip and the demands of the slavers. The gladiator’s blades were razor sharp and there was little pain from the cut. Any other discomfort was lost in the haze that clouded the man’s mind. His sandy blonde hair, matted from the sweat of sickness and heat, stuck to his head and his body trembled from the effort of standing. The prisoner was fit and athletic, but his mind was lost in thoughts of home and the death he had seen there before being banished and forced to leave his home for his crimes.
The three arena gladiators enjoyed their cruel sport but were not here to kill; their master had charged them with testing how much fighting spirit was in a new slave. Fighting slaves brought the money, and everyone was tested. The second gladiator, Kytus, was a slim, older man with a shaved head and a thick leather sparring vest. He barreled in to knock the younger man to the ground and end the test. Decades of fighting experience told him that the prisoner would not be any challenge, and he saw no reason to drag this on and damage the master’s goods. The bald man came in low, driving a shoulder into the ribs of the captive. The sword flew from the slave’s hand as the blow knocked him from his feet and skidded across the sand. Juskor, the oldest and most experienced warrior, stepped forward and swung his staff at the falling man’s head.
The prisoner stopped in mid-air as a burst of silver light blinded the crowd for a moment. The prisoner lurched to his feet and stumbled forward, making the small group of observers in the stands gasp, and then he crumpled to his knees. When the spectators’ sight cleared all three of the attackers lay unmoving in the red dirt. The slave knelt over the first warrior who had attacked, and was making stabbing motions at the gladiator’s head with his empty fist. The captive’s motions slowed, and stopped. The man lurched to the side and fell forward into the dirt, further tearing the flap of skin that hung from his chest.
Two of the gladiators stirred, dragging themselves from the dirt. Kytus and Juskor looked as if they had received a beating from and angry mob. Dark welts appeared on their tanned skin, and they rubbed at their heads and chests. As the gladiators recovered their senses, they moved towards the fallen slave, anger apparent in their movements. A deep voice rumbled the order for them to stop. They obeyed without question. The voice issued out another command and the waiting medics rushed into the stadium to check on the two forms crumbled on the ground. Vandus had bruising across his head, face, neck, and chest. Short, thin marks also showed across his skin.
Most of the crowd was on its feet, confused about what just happened. They watched the chief medic, Seth, and his assistant Thill inspect the two men. The coppery smell of blood was in the air and from somewhere in the distance a hunting bird called, easily heard over the tense silence.
“Vandus is dead!” shouted Seth, the red haired chief physician, whose voice was raspy from a wound he received from his time as a soldier before Rogen took him as a slave. He stood, fingering the scar on his throat, and directed his attention to the man delivering the orders. “He appears to have been stabbed a dozen times, but without breaking the skin.”
“What?” growled the man in the stands. “That doesn’t make sense. Take him inside for further inspection.”
The chirurgeon gave instructions to junior interns to take Vandus to the infirmary. One lifted the shoulders of the fallen gladiator as his partner took the feet. They carried the warrior from the arena, his hands dragged in the red sands as they left. The crowd stared at the blood blisters across the man face and neck as his skin purpled.
The other medics had turned the newest slave over onto his back to inspect his wounds. The remaining two warriors, Kytus and Juskor, stood over them, their weapons at ready in case the prisoner lashed out again. The healers had poured water over the open wound, and folded the sliced away skin back into place and bound the wound.
Seth conferred with his men, and then inspected the now unconscious man himself. He shook his head, having never seen anything like this even in the war. He thought of his own three sons and hoped they never chose the gladiator ring as their life. Seth looked up and shouted, “He will live, but will need rest and attention.”
He directed the information to the stout man who had been issuing the orders. The commander had a thick black and steel colored beard and stood a head shorter than any other man there. He wore a long black robe, common to desert dwellers, and a leather corset with various buckles, pouches, and hooks on over it. He also wore a belt with many pouches attached to it and a bandolier with even more pouches going across his left shoulder. Various weapons were tucked and sheathed about his body. A black turban was wrapped around his head. He was a Rokairn, a race known for their methodical and industrious ways. The name he used was legendary in the outer lands, but here it was law. All eyes were on Rogen the Plague, the master of the surrounding desert for hundreds of miles.
“Bring the new slave to my guest quarters as soon as he wakes. Tend to him and clean him up. I want him alive and able to explain a few things.” Rogen said to Seth. The bearded man nodded and turned away from the arena to face his gathered counselors, confident that the men below would carry out his order. “Think on what you saw here today. Tomorrow at midday, gather in the conference room. This may be more than it seems, more than just an extraordinary event in a distant fighting ring. What we saw here may be the beginning of events foretold of nearly a century ago. Glancing at the blood stained sands below Rogen saw a faint glow surrounding the unconscious man before he was carried off the field. He had seen promise lying, bleeding, in the sand. He had seen a prophecy appear. He had seen the future of the world. ‘Damn the Gods,’ he thought, ‘the time is upon us. All things shall now change.’ Before he left the arena, Rogen gave one last order. Rogen the Plague gave the order to drain the dead man’s bodily fluids in the mixing sands and to remove any useful parts from the body. Tonight, when it was cooler, they would give Vandus the funeral service fitting a slave of his station.
5854 – Thon – Jordar – Bestuf
“Describe what you saw,” Rogen said in an even voice, though it was gruff.
His five closest advisors stood around the stone table, as the warm wind ruffled the papers before them. Talidon was the youngest, though he was third in rank among the men who gave the Rokairn advice and counsel. He was dark skinned and haired, a quiet youth who was still uncomfortable in his robes of office, and preferred the loose pants and sleeveless shirts of his desert people. Taktak’s thin frame towered over the young man, staring at the papers – a breech in the formal etiquette – and was a mute. He communicated through whistles, clicks, pantomime, and writing when the other methods failed. He ran his fingers through his dark ponytail, the only hair on his shaved head. Izreus looked sidelong at Phaeton, as they were always thick as thieves, looking to follow his lead. Izreus was once a gladiator, and believed action was always the best course and dreaded these long-winded discussions.
“Master, if it pleases you,” answered Calleus, an olive skinned man who was Rogen’s oldest advisor, “I saw the slave knocked back, and a flash of light. When I could see again, the prisoner was standing over Vandus, stabbing with… nothing. His hand was empty and he was at least two meters from our fallen comrade.”
“Master,” said Phaeton, a tall, thin man with a hawk nose who spoke with a thick nasal accent, “if it pleases you, I concur with the honorable Calleus. Though I do not see how the slave could have done those things without outside aid, or powerful magics.”
The remaining three men echoed the first two. Rogen gave each his full attention in turn. The men spoke with confidence and respect to the man they called master. Rogen was organized and orderly and expected everything around him to be the same. His advisors respected him for their individual reasons but each knew that their pragmatic leader was fair, but would not hesitate to be swift to punish also. Rogen stared with a piercing gaze at each one as they repeated a description almost identical to Calleus. Their master was closed and guarded, and they knew little of his background, but they did know he was looking for something specific.
With decades more experience in combat and magic, Rogen’s keen eyes saw much more than his servants had. The Rokairn were known for their ability to see magic, and that was what he had seen. The lord of the Desert Empire saw this new slave stop in midair, spin and launch across the sand towards Vandus, silver energy daggers glowing in his hands. He had seen the lad throw two weapons made of mystical energy to the sides, knocking the Kytus and Juskor back and away. The slave then conjured another blade and, from two meters away, launched the weapon into the skull of the man who had cut him.
Rogen nodded and turned away from his advisors, walking outside onto a covered red stone balcony of a castle. All the stones of the structure and surrounding buildings were the same blood reddish-brown. The terrace was shaded and cut with breeze holes to allow heat to escape and fresh air to circulate, and was cool during the day. At night the servants would cap the breeze holes to keep the warm air from escaping into the frigid desert night once the hearths were lit. Casks were embedded in the wall, keeping his ale, wine, and brandy chilled. The large round stone table stood in the archway between the thick stone railing and the doorway into his receiving room. This place was one of his favorite places to be because it reminded him of the homes of his people and his childhood. The warm air drifting through made him think of the furnaces and smithies under the mountains where he grew up. It was enclosed and safe from assassination attempts, which happened on occasion. In fact, he knew two of his advisors were currently plotting to overthrow him. He let them play their political games, and would make a public example of them soon enough. It was good to do that every decade or so, it let everyone see he was in charge.
Looking out over the courtyard through horizontal slits a hand span tall but as long as a man’s body, he watched the daily activities of his people and kingdom. He had a clay mug of chilled spiced wine in one hand and a rolled parchment in the other. The Desert Empire operated like a well-oiled machine and it brought him comfort to watch his domain. The servants moved about on their daily duties, bringing water from the well houses - which were enclosed to protect them from the elements and sand storms - and delivered it to the kitchens, bathhouses, steam rooms, and stables. The grinding sound of stone on stone from the mill played a deep counter song to the metallic sounds of hammers on steel from the smithy.
Children played in the open areas during dusk and dawn, and inside when the sun was up, and it was too hot to be outside. Friends passed each other on the way to or from their daily obligations. Every person under his protection was a slave, but no man, woman, or child wore shackles or a collar once they were initiated and brought into the fold. No one fought with another; they knew the price of such behavior. And because no one owned anything here, money was something given to, or taken from, outsiders. Any feuding was dealt with by games in the arenas, or at gambling tables, or in the university by contests of strength, skill, wit, or luck. Challenges were encouraged and were common events that were a favorite pastime of the people of the empire.