After centuries of bitter conflict the realm of Esmoria is at last united under the banner of a single king. On the surface the realm appears to be enjoying its first taste of peace, but lingering resentment and the untimely death of the new ruler threaten to return Esmoria to political chaos.
Meanwhile, in the farthest reaches of the frozen north, a dethroned monarch’s plot for revenge awakens a long-forgotten evil. As darkness and treachery descend upon the realm, a young escapee from a forced labor camp, a disenfranchised soldier, and an epileptic engraver’s apprentice find themselves at the heart of the troubles.
Genre: FICTION / Science Fiction / GeneralThe women were ready for Xasho as the two men carried him through the arches. His wound was washed clean and bandaged and a small girl gave him a clay jar of cool, clean water to drink. In a few minutes, the whirling in Xasho's head slowed to a stop, and he was able to stand and walk unaided. The shouts and fanfare coming from the arena were as loud as ever, but though Xasho knew he should be witness to the honors being conferred upon Sidhir's new cuhr vrast, he could not bring himself to go back out and face the celebrating crowds.
He should never have allowed himself to hope, he reflected. It was a miracle that he had gotten as far as he had. He had bested warriors twice his size, and with five times his experience in combat. Great personal victories on any other day, but today, somehow, of little consolation. Turning his back on the arena, he made his way to the passage that led to the halls below.
Not surprisingly, the halls were empty. The warriors that had once lined the walls and occupied the tables were either out enjoying the festivities above or had returned to their respective camps to nurse their pride. Still others were likely lying limp in a medical tent while a healer cleaned their wounds and muttered mystic prayers of healing to the gods. As Xasho stood and contemplated the long rows of empty tables, he realized that he still clasped a weapon in each hand. He was more than a little disturbed to discover that, embedded though they were in his flesh, they now felt somehow a natural extension of himself. Gingerly, he removed each one from his grip, and hooked the blades back in his belt. Though he could still see shallow pools of blood where each spike had left a hole in his palms, there was little bleeding, and only a slight throbbing pain. For the hundredth time since he had found the serpentine blades, Xasho wondered why anyone on Esmoria would wish to craft weapons in such a manner.
