• Prologue


    A ship entered the bay of Nethling. It was a majestic sight, with a slender frame and refined features, making it look both fierce and beautiful. The sails billowed gently in the light breeze. The oars cut through the water with a steady, silent rhythm. Anyone looking upon the scene would’ve seen a serene and calming sight. There was a glistening, fresh blanket of snow that enfolded the land. The stars were shining brighter than ever, and the moon was a silvery orb hanging in the endless black sky, as though it were a beacon into the heavens. The wind was silent; the only trace of it was the gentle rippling of the dense, pine forest. The waters of the bay were an icy black, churning soundlessly in the night. There were no sounds to be heard, however, only the gentle quiet muting the world.

    A sound pierced the silence. It was a wolf from the far off mountains of Ikatan howling, slow and mournful, the eerie noise slicing through the frigid air. On the deck of the Wavecutter, a tall, dark, hooded figure stiffened. As the last echoes slowly faded, the knots in his muscles loosened, but his eyes remained scanning the coast, wary.

    Behind him, a door creaked open. A figure cloaked in black strode out regally, the wooden door softly swinging shut behind him. The other didn't bother turn around. He had known exactly who it was; the second that the door had opened, a chill had swept over the deck, leaving the air feeling wet and dead, and yet crackling with energy, like fog on a starless night. Although he felt it just as much as the other creatures on board, he hid his fear well. After all, this wasn't the first time he had felt this chill. In fact, over the past years, it had become disturbingly familiar, just another part of life.

    Or death, he thought to himself grimly. Remembering his status, he rolled onto the balls of his feet and swiveled to turn and face the black figure. "Yes, my lord?" he asked, keeping his low, rasping voice level and respectful.

    The luminous eyes of the other figure gazed at him with an unsettling intensity, and then a deep voice spoke. "Get our scouts ready. Tell them they are to enter the forest and find a captive. Their identity does not matter, only that they are alive," he growled, and then paused. "Remind them to leave no trace. If the enemy is forewarned or alerted of our presence, we will lose the element of surprise and it will make the war more difficult to win."

    "Yes, my lord." The mysterious figure bowed and turned to carry out his orders.

    The leader interrupted his departure. "Wait."

    "Yes?"

    "Tataranus, this is your first mission as my general. If you fail..."

    Tataranus met his unnerving gaze steadily. "I won't fail you, my lord."

    "Good," said the leader. After a moment's pause, he then returned to his cabin, although the dead feeling did not leave with him. Instead, it lingered in the tainted air. Tataranus smiled slyly. He might actually enjoy this mission. It was naught but a novice's work, going unnoticed in the forest, no matter how important. He had done much worse than that in battle training for the elite army of his master. Yet, the idea of being the first of his race to set foot on these lands in centuries created an demoralizing, looming shadow in his thoughts. Who knows what this place would be like? Much time had passed for this land, and now, he would be the first of his race to ever come back.

    Well, he thought with a mirthless smile, it will be an experience. And besides, a century is also a lot of time to have nothing but peace. They will most probably be fat, and lazy. No problems will arise. We will win.

    With that thought, he brusquely walked to the bow of the ship, and bounded up the stairs leading up to the Fo'c'sle. He lifted his head and let out a chilling howl, nothing like the low, mournful howl of a wolf. It was more of a frenzied howl, a call of action. He let go of the sound, letting it rebound through the trees and mountains for all to hear. It would be intimidating to the peasants of the land to hear this sound, for that's what the howl was made to do, but despite this, they wouldn't suspect a thing. No one had heard the call of his race for just as long as their footprints could no longer be found. There would be no warning.

    Slowly, one by one, more of these powerful and mysterious figures padded soundlessly out of the hull and out into the open of the deck. They were grouped subtly into three groups. The first wore mottled cloaks of flickering greens, browns, and grays. Under their cloaks were suede leather jerkins, dark blue linen shirts, black pants, and soft, leather knee-high boots. They were all built short and lean. They stood perfectly still, their bright eyes peering out beneath the deep cowls in their cloaks. Their eyes roamed in a practiced sweep of someone particularly watchful and observant, missing nothing.

    Next to them was a relatively smaller group. They were tall and slender, wearing black cloaks that swept over all of the figures' bodies, leaving nothing else visible. The hoods hung over their faces, casting shadows so that not even their eyes were visible. They were huddled in a circle, whispering to one another.

    The last group was by far the largest, covering almost the whole deck. They were tall and powerfully built, wearing full battle armor, helmets and all. None of the armour looked quite the same, being various shades of gray, black, brown, and red, and yet they all had the same jagged, spiky features. These figures paced restlessly, jostling and snarling at one another. There are many intricate and extremely descriptive ways to describe them, but one way of describing them is best. They were fearsome.

    Above the whispering and growling of the newly amassed crowd, one voice rang out over the din. "Silence."

    The talking quieted and was carried away on the wind. All of the restless motions ceased, and all of the eyes turned to look at the commanding figure of Tataranus. After the last of the clamor finally came to an end, he spoke, loudly and clearly. His voiced rumbled like the roaring of river, carrying across the blackened, frosty air for all to hear. "After weeks of endless and painstaking toil, we are here at last, at the land of our ancestors. It is now that we have arrived, that we will finally be able to take back the lands that were rightfully ours. We will claim them. If resistance comes, then we will meet this resistance. We will fight back and destroy them. And we will build an empire greater than any ever seen before, prospering under the rule of our race!"

    Howls and cheering broke out, filling the sky with a ringing feeling of anticipation. Tataranus looked out at them with a sense of satisfaction. Yes, this was an army fit for his lord. They had done well, and exceeded his hopes.

    He decided to let them celebrate for a while. They did deserve a few moments of elation after the past month. They had been working hard, rowing through fierce storms and an inexhaustible number of rolling swells and turbulent whitecaps. Several had drowned at sea, others had fallen off of the rigging and onto the decks, severely injuring if not killing them. Others had simply collapsed from exhaustion. It had been a rough time, and now that they had a reason to celebrate, he would allow it.

    However, he did pull a few of them aside. These were the members of the group wearing mottled cloaks and jerkins. They were known as many things: shades, woodspirits, rangers of the dark. Tataranus, however, simply called them scouts.

    Tataranus adjusted his cloak on one shoulder, and then spoke to them in a low, urgent voice. "You now have a task issued by our lord. You are to come with me, into these dark forests. We will discover all we can without being detected by the enemy. Then we must capture someone, anyone, and bring him back here alive. Remember, the most important part of this mission is to not be seen. The fate of the war lies in our success."

    The scouts remained still, their eyes trained on Tataranus. One of them, the leader of the scouts, nodded once to signal their understanding of the orders. Tataranus beckoned to them, and said, "Then let us go." Then he strode past them and towards the gangplank, his long, powerful strides hiding his anticipation. The scouts followed silently, although their walk gave the impression of creeping more than walking, their knees slightly bent and their short, quick loping steps. Down the gangplank they went, their footfalls creating a rhythmic pounding against the hard wood.

    As Tataranus stepped off of the gangplank and onto the soft, white sands of the beach, there was a thud that shook the earth. No, it was more of a shift, a disturbance in the land. For a moment, it was as if everything distorted, froze. It was inconspicuous, and no one would have noticed it unless they had been expecting it. Nonetheless, it was certainly there. Something had changed.

    For a moment, a gust of wind picked up, whipping the tall pines. As it passed over the beach, the winds rolled around Tataranus and the scouts. One stray tendril was feeling particularly mischievous, and hooked the hood of Tataranus' cloak, sweeping it off of his head. He tensed, making sure that no one had seen, and then quickly pulled the dark fabric back over his face. However, in that fleet, unnoticed moment, something was revealed. If anyone had been looking, they would have seen a face. But no, not the face of a man.

    The body of Tataranus was certainly that of a man, a human being. But in that second, if you continued upward, in the V in his neck also was the beginning of a thick ruff of fur, continuing all the way up his neck. And then, the most distinguishing feature of his race: where his face would've been, was the pitch-black head of a snarling wolf.

    The Ziorgs had returned.





    Chapter One



    Zann sat on a hardened, smoky black rock, staring out at the sunset. The sun lowering over the jagged peaks cast brilliant shades of pink and orange out into the sky, creating a canvas that hung high above the world. There was such a contrast between the bleeding colors on this roof of the world and the fluffy clouds that the clouds seemed gray, like someone had sucked the color out of them. A strong wind whipped through the volcanic, barren land, screeching through the crooks and passages of the rocks. The only thing that the gale could find to stir was the fine, black dust that layered the ground.
    Zann squeezed his eyes shut as a layer of this dust came flying towards him. He could feel the tiny black rocks biting into his flesh. As it passed, he spat out the stray bits that had found their way into his mouth. Wiping the dust from his face, he stood up, stretching his cramped legs and back. He had no time to enjoy the sunset. There were swords to be forged, and shields to be sawed.
    He sighed, and with one last longing look at the sunset, turned around and trudged wearily back towards the small outline of the forge.

    As he neared, he could see down in the valley below the ledge that the forge was perched on, and the small village with scattered houses and shops below. The figure of his master, Holdun, was hammering away at a sword on an anvil, sparks flying angrily in the air. A hawk called Fritz was perched on a nearby bench, watching his master doing his work. Dark smoke billowed from the chimney of the wooden building. The smell of freshly cooked deer wafted through the air. Despite his misgivings about his work, Zann smiled to himself. This was home.

    Holdun was a short man with a broad chest and a well-muscled build. He had a scruffy red-brown beard and wavy, knotted hair of the traditional length just above the shoulders. His loose linen shirt was covered in soot and dirt, as was expected of a smith. He paused his laboring for a moment to wipe the sweat and grime out of his eyes. In doing so, he spotted Zann approaching. "Hullo, there!" he bellowed.

    Zann grinned. "Who's that for?" he asked, indicating to the red-hot sword.

    Holdun grunted. "New client. He needs a sword for his son, who's entering adulthood next week."

    Zann nodded in understanding. Here in Armadon, every boy and girl, at the age six, started training in exercises such as long distance running, pull-ups, push-ups, and mountain climbing to become stronger. At twelve, the ending of childhood and beginning of teenage years, they would begin rigorous battle training. This included archery, sword fighting, fist fighting, hunting, and other techniques. They could also begin an apprenticeship in whatever career they were going to pursue. Finally, at sixteen, the entering of adulthood, they would receive a weapon of their own and begin their own life.

    Thinking of this, Zann suddenly remembered something. "Hey! I almost forgot, tomorrow is my birthday!"

    Holdun looked at him with one eyebrow raised. He nodded slowly. "Yeah, didn't you know that?"

    "I forgot," Zann said, and then with a thoughtful look on his face continued, "Wait... that means that I'm turning 16 tomorrow!"

    "Yeah."

    Zann stood there with a look of wonder on his face. After about a minute, Holdun sighed in exasperation. "Well, stop standing there like a daydreaming tortoise and get to work! Those flamberges have to be done by tonight, you know."

    Zann shook himself and then replied in a mocking tone, "Yes, master."

    Holdun gave him a huge grin and waved a hand at him. "Oh, just go!"

    Zann opened his mouth to say something, but Holdun raised a hand to silence him. "No, just go! I know that you were about to say 'Yes, master' again and don't deny it! Oh, and by the way, you look like you came out of a mud hole. You need to bathe sometime before tomorrow."

    Zann looked down at himself. He was wearing an olive colored tunic and sandals, typical traveling garb for a peasant. Around his middle was a simple corded belt. On the left side, there was a long dirk with a plain black leather sheath and hilt. However, his clothes as well as his brown skin were flecked with black and had streaks of dirt. He reached up and ran a hand through his short, black hair. It felt gritty to the touch, and when he withdrew his hand, it had gained a new layer of grunge. Zann grimaced.

    "I am a bit dirty, aren't I?" he said, amused.

    "That you are." Holdun replied, and then turned his back on Zann and resumed his pounding on the half made sword, the sound of metal on metal drumming in Zann's ears. He stood and watched for a moment, and then decided to put the finishing touches onto the twin flamberges that he was supposed to be working on.

    He strode inside the musty workshop and found the two swords where he left them, lying on a workbench in the corner of the room opposite to the fireplace. He caught another waft of the scent of roasted deer coming from the fireplace, a delicacy that he and Holdun rarely had. The scent made Zann painfully aware that he hadn't eaten since the apple he had consumed for breakfast that morning. He took another glance at the swords, looked at the fireplace, hesitated, and then walked over to the fireplace, following the scent of the deer.

    And there it was. Sitting next to the flames was a tall, juicy stack of meat strips. They looked perfectly tender and were sprinkled with herbs, creating a mouth-watering aroma. Zann's stomach growled as he looked at the deer in longing. He gave the meat a longing look and then turned on his heels and ran outside.

    "Holdun?" he asked when he reached where Holdun was still pounding.

    Without looking up, he grunted in acknowledgement that he had heard.

    "Why is there a roasted deer sitting next to the fire?"

    Holdun completed one last blow, sparks flying into the air, and then lowered his hammer. He then turned to face Zann.

    "I thought you might like a special dinner for the entering of manhood," he said, his bright green eyes twinkling mischievously.

    "What?" Zann asked.

    A confused look crossed Holdun's face. "What what?"

    "Huh?"
    "You asked what. What did you mean by that?"
    "Oh! I get it now... I was asking what you were hiding from me."

    "Hiding from you? Who said I was hiding anything from you?"

    "C'mon, you look like someone that's just put a live frog in your sister's stew. Spit it out!"

    Holdun just looked up at the rapidly darkening sky, admiring the stars.

    "Oh, never mind." Zann said. "Anyways, the deer smells good. Where did you find it?"

    "I bought it from Pitra, the butcher in town." Holdun replied, turning around and hanging the hammer on a hook on the wall. He then went back over to the anvil where the sword lay. After picking it up, he plunged it into a trough of icy water to let it cool.

    Zann had known Pitra for a long time. She was a tall woman with powerful muscles and long, auburn hair that hung just past her waist. She had a wild look to her, but had a witty sense of humor and a gentle disposition. His mother had been a close friend with her, and he as a child had often gone to her shop to buy meat. Overall, he liked her. Even more than that, she sold the best meat almost anywhere in Armadon. She had even been asked to cook at the Catharsis, the most important festival of Armadon. It celebrated the cleansing of the Ziorgs from the land, when the Elementist Ziork had finally managed to banish them into the darkest chasms of the world, defeated and almost extinct. The Catharsis would be coming soon; it occurred only weeks after his birthday.
    That thought brought him back to the present. My birthday, the entering of manhood, he thought to himself, and then shuddered. It was a strange thought, foreign to him. He had always been just another unimportant peasant adolescent. But now that he was a man...
    About to be a man, he corrected himself. He still had another day of normal life. Which made him remember that he still had to get back to finishing up the hilt of the two flamberges. Working always seemed to take his mind off of things.
    His feet led him back into the forge and over to the two long, shining swords. He picked one of them up off of the workbench, marveling at his creation. The sword was cool to the touch, and gleamed like a glassy pool in the silvery sheen of the moon. The blade had the traditional wave of the flamberges, and when Zann swung it, it shimmered uncertainly, like white fire dancing in the light of the stars. Its edge flashed whenever tilted at a certain angle, and it had a hard glint even in the calm of the steel. It was a blade made for none less than royalty, a blade meant for fame and glory. There was only one imperfection; the hilt of the sword was unfinished. The pommel was complete--a hard, polished metal ball at the end of the guard. However, the guard and grip were plain hardwood.
    Zann set down the sword onto the bench and turned around to face a bulky cabinet riddled with drawers. He squinted in the dim light at the labels on each one and finally found the one that read "hilts" in Holdun's untidy scrawl. He opened it, the wood chafing against wood. He flinched at the harsh whining sound it made in protest, and then reached into the clutter in search for tanned leather.

    okay if you all like it I'll post the rest later!