Marked By the Gods - 1. Part 1

When Calder finally opened his eyes, he could see and remember nothing -- not even his own name. He could tell nothing of where he was, save that he was lying on a lumpy, cold stone surface and that the air around him was perfectly still and cold. A quick exploration with his hands revealed that he was naked, and that he was male. That was all he knew.

“You’re awake, then?” came the sound of a voice, an echoing sound. They were indoors, it seemed, in a rather large chamber by the sound of it. The newcomer spoke in a language Calder knew, though he could not remember learning it. “I was afraid you were dead.”

“Maybe I am,” Calder replied, trying to sit up. His muscles were stiff and protested the movement, and there was a sudden searing pain in his temples. He swayed and collapsed backwards. Cool, rough hands caught him, breaking his fall.

“Careful now,” said the voice, closer than before. It was a man’s voice, and it was his hands that now braced Calder up. “Best take it slowly. You’ve taken quite the blow to the head. Your name is Calder, yes?”

The name did not sound familiar. “Who told you that?”

“Why, you did,” the man said, sounding surprised, “Don’t you remember?”

Calder shook his head. “I don’t remember anything.”

The man flinched as if struck. The movement passed through his thick arms and out through his hands, the ones that still held Calder steady. “I see,” the man said, “The blow must have been worse than I thought. Your memories will return in time, no doubt. The priestess here said you should make a full recovery and has said a prayer for your health, so there’s that at least.”

“Where am I? Why is it so dark?”

There was a long silence, and at last the other man spoke again. “You see nothing?” His voice was somber. Calder’s heart sank. “Well,” the man continued, “the priestess should know of this. I’ll be right back.”

“Wait,” Calder said, “My clothes?”

“I’ll have them bring you new ones,” the man replied, “Rest now. Don’t try to sit up. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Thank you. What is your name?”

Silence again. The man drew a pained breath. “Joren.” His footsteps faded into the distance. Calder lay back on the stone floor, unwilling to try to move again. Instead he fluttered his eyes open and closed, trying to will sight back into his eyes, but there was only blackness.

He must have slept, for suddenly he could see again. Fire, consuming a building all around him. He tried to scream, but there was no sound. Even the massive flames were mute even as they devoured everything. Turning, seeking desperately for an exit, he saw a massive figure approaching, a sword in each hand and each sword dripping with blood. An angel of death. Calder cowered from the monstrous figure, and then was startled back into consciousness at the sudden presence of voices by his side once more.

“Your friend says you have lost your sight?” this was a woman’s voice, and instinctively Calder moved his hands to cover his nakedness. “This is strange and troubling,” she continued. Her tone suggested she was unfazed by his lack of clothing.

“He will recover, won’t he? You said he’d be alright,” Joren said.

“I’m afraid I can no longer be as certain as before,” the priestess replied, “His wound was not so serious; this affliction, therefore, may not be natural. I sense the curse of a God.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Joren, and Calder felt his hands trembling. “Please,” he asked, “Where am I?”

The priestess’ voice softened. “You are in the house of the Lawgiver, Urbanus, Paragon of Earth and Stone, my child. You are safe here.”

“Who is he?” Calder asked, “A God? Did he curse me?”

The woman’s voice had a trace of mirth in it with her reply. “No, my son. You have not offended our lord, else you would not have rested so peacefully here in his house. This is more like the work of his brother, the Whisperer. His is the realm of memories and of darkness. If any of the Four have placed this burden on you, it is he.”

“The Man in the Moon!” Joren exclaimed, “But Calder’s barely more than a boy, what can he have done to offend the dark one?”

“I cannot say. No mortal can know the mind of the Gods.”

“Can he beg forgiveness? Offer sacrifice?”

“Perhaps,” the priestess said thoughtfully, “The houses of the Whisperer are not easily found, however. Listen to me, Calder. If you would undertake a pilgrimage to seek the Dark God and try his mercy, be vigilant. He dwells in the shadows where things are not as they might seem. To him belong illusion and the magic of dreams. Beware of water, of rivers, lakes and seas, for these are also his domain. I bless you in the name of the Earthfather, may he ever watch over you. You will be safe when you travel through his realms, through cities and towns, in caves and halls of stone -- but to find the house of the Man in the Moon you must eventually leave behind the domains of my lord and descend into mystery, and madness.”

“That all sounds awful,” Joren said doubtfully, “Maybe he’s better off blind.”

“No,” Calder said, weeping silently, “I will go.”

“Very well,” the priestess intoned. “But the journey will be dangerous, and these are dangerous times. In your state you will be especially vulnerable. You need a guardian to be your eyes and your shield. A friend to hold your life in his hands.”

Calder realized she was no longer speaking to him.

“I can’t,” Joren mumbled, sounding sick. “I am--”

“Who you were no longer matters. You are called. Calder needs you, and you need him. This the Earthfather reveals through me, for he is the God of community and cooperation. He sees the links that bind us all. Know this, Joren: this pilgrimage need not be for Calder alone. Perhaps you too will find redemption on this path.”

There was a tense silence, then the shuffling sound of Joren kneeling. “I will guide and protect you on your journey, Calder. I will see you to the temple of the Whisperer, wherever it may be, and if necessary I will give my life for you. This I swear in the name of Urbanus, in his own temple, and in the name of all the Four Gods.”

“It is done,” the Priestess sighed, “Now, Joren, you must bring Calder to the temple antechamber where I will have our acolytes provide you with supplies for your journey. You will need to carry him, for he is still too weak to walk.”

The big man’s arms were suddenly underneath Calder, lifting him gently away from the stone. Calder found his head leaning against a broad, solid chest that smelt of sweat and leather. Inexplicably, he felt immediately at peace, as though it were the stone bosom of the Earthfather himself on which he rested. He felt close to the man who was carrying him, as though they had known each other for a very long time.

“Are you my friend?” Calder asked suddenly, desperate to cling to any remnants of his former life.

Another brief pause. “Yes,” Joren said softly, “If you’ll have me.”

__________________________________________________________________________

Rannell Kent heard the man approach, felt him creeping up behind without needing to raise his head or open his eyes. No doubt the approaching stranger thought him helpless, kneeling at an altar in prayer and, to all outward appearances, oblivious to the world around him. Kent took one more breath as the footsteps edged nearer. Then he sprung into action.

In an instant he had rolled to his feet, his sword leaping from its sheath in a grind of metal-on-metal and coming to rest gently with its point against the throat of the man who dared to interrupt his prayers. Kent could see now that it was just an Imperial messenger, a low-ranking peon blanched with fear, pale as a ghost.

“My deepest apologies, Guardian!” the man stuttered, “I would not have disturbed you, but the Prince has commanded your presence in the Command Tent. A thousand apologies.”

Kent scowled and lowered his weapon. “You are bleeding,” he said. The messenger’s hand came up to his throat to touch the single drop of blood forming there. Kent saw it trembling. “It is I who should apologize for my hasty reaction,” he said, “You were only doing your duty. The impertinence is the Prince’s, not yours.”

The messenger’s eyes widened. “Prince Tytus is the Chosen of the Light!”

“Indeed,” Kent agreed with a sigh. Chosen of the Light AND an impertinent, selfish child - this servant might have been too blinded by Tytus’ many titles to see it, but Rannell Kent was not. “I will attend His Grace immediately. You are dismissed.” The man fled eagerly. Kent intoned an abbreviated conclusion to his prayers, buckled his sword around his waist, and headed out into the camp to answer his liege’s summons. It was just after dusk, and the army was preparing to turn in for the night. The first watch had begun, and the dinner fires were going out. It was growing near to the time by which Rannell Kent would prefer to be asleep; there was a hard day of marching come the morning. But this was not, alas, to be.

The situation was getting ridiculous. The prince treated Rannell Kent as though he were no more than an object at hand whose only purpose was to serve at his beck and call, and though this fact annoyed Kent, he didn’t take it personally. Prince Tytus treated everybody that way, to be fair. However, His Grace was especially demanding of Kent, more than he was with many others, and it was only getting worse. The explanation for that was obvious. True, Kent’s position granted him a level of respect in the Empire that few others could claim, but Tytus cared little for that. And true, too, that as Guardian of the Flame he was called upon by the God himself to serve as Tytus’ companion and protector. But this did not explain the growing demands on his time and attention. No, there was something else behind the prince’s behavior towards him, and though he couldn’t say it pleased him, Kent feared he knew what it was.

As he threaded his way through the rows of tents, nodding in acknowledgment at the salutes of the soldiers around him, Kent found he could not suppress a weary sigh. The boy-prince was exactly that: a boy. He had much to learn, and no matter that he was Chosen of the Light and the Heir to the Empire. Honor and character did not come from titles. Rannell Kent knew that truth better than most.

Well, perhaps he was too hard on the lad, he thought to himself as he approached the Prince’s tent. Whatever the reasons, Tytus had grown more attentive to his guardian’s words. Perhaps some bit of wisdom had begun to get through to him. Perhaps he was finally growing up.

But when Rannell Kent entered the command tent, Prince Tytus, Chosen of Light and Champion of the God of Flame, was beating a servant.

“How dare you!” the prince was squealing, face red with anger, “Look at my tunic. My father gave this to me - my father, the Emperor. It’s ruined! Wine everywhere. Because you were not paying attention! I’ve never seen such incompetence.” The poor man who had committed the grievous sin was cowering on his knees, saying nothing. The room was filled with generals, officers, royal hangers-on of self-proclaimed importance, and even a few of Kent’s own Elite, and not one of these men said a word either.

“Enough,” Kent said, and all eyes turned to him. The Prince, already red, turned redder at the sight of his champion. He stopped striking the man, but his anger was not quite abated.

"Yes,” Tytus said, “Enough. I think I’ve made my point. You are clearly not suited for serving in my household. Back to the capitol with you. We’ll put you to work in the mines.” The servant sputtered in shock, but before he could say a word two of the Elites had pulled him from the tent and out of the royal presence. Tytus resumed his seat at the head of the sturdy wooden table that took up a major chunk of the tent. The remainder, separated from the main area by a hanging curtain, comprised the Prince’s formal bedchamber while the army was on the march.

“A merciful decision,” one of the officials said in a simpering voice. The men sitting at the table, the most important of the royal buffoons, nodded in agreement.

Rannell Kent snorted loudly, making no attempt to hide his disgust.

“Welcome, Guardian,” Tytus said, with just a tad too much familiarity and pleasure in his voice. He had forgotten the incident with the servant already, and his tone was much too presumptuous. Kent eyed his ruler suspiciously. The golden-haired youth was barely a man, having just recently begun his nineteenth year, making him almost ten years Kent’s junior. His features were handsome enough, Kent admitted, though to his eyes the Prince was still somewhat dwarfed by the weight of the band of gold resting on top of his head. “We have just received good news,” His Grace continued, “Commander Damek has liberated the city of Nathar, and the false Emperor’s forces there have been routed completely. ”

“With our own force’s recent liberation of the Silver Coast, we are now in complete control of the western half of the continent,” one of the generals boasted, “Two thirds of our rightful lands are now reclaimed. Only the enemy’s capital, Kadnaris, still defies us.”

“We will celebrate!” The Prince announced, “Guardian, you will offer a prayer of thanks to the Lightbringer for once again giving us the gift of victory. The flames of our vengeance burn hot, and we cannot but triumph.”

Kent stifled a groan at the boy’s arrogance. “Vengeance does not belong to the God of the Sun,” he said, “His is the way of mercy and forgiveness, Your Grace.”

Tytus flinched as if struck, then reddened. “Of course,” the Prince mumbled, “You know what we mean, Guardian. Organize the celebration and the sacrifice of gratitude.”

“We celebrate a victory we have not yet achieved, Your Grace,” Kent pressed further, “Kadnaris is an ancient city with sturdy walls. The False Emperor will not be defeated until the city falls, and the city will not fall easily. We must prepare for a siege.”

The Prince’s eyes narrowed, and his fingers drummed on his thigh in annoyance. “We have worked hard for this victory, and we shall celebrate. Time enough for sieges and battles and strategy later. For now, the men have earned a rest.”

Many of the men who crowded the tent murmured their approval, but Kent noted the look of concern on some of the more practical generals’ faces. It was a dangerous time to grow complacent, and they knew it as well as Kent did.

The Prince stood. “You are dismissed, my lords. We will convene in two days time when the celebrations are complete to discuss the next phase of the liberation. It will not be long before our people are all returned to the bosom of the true Empire.” The generals and advisors murmured their consent, bowed one at a time, and filed out.

Leaving Rannell Kent and Prince Tytus alone.

The Prince took off his crown and tossed it on the table. “Did you have to correct me in front of my men? You made me look foolish just now.”

Kent arched an eyebrow and took a step closer to his liege. “The foolishness was your own. Beating a servant? What kind of example are you setting for your officers?”

Tytus’ lower lip stiffened. “An example of strength. Look at my tunic! Shall I let such disrespect and carelessness go unpunished?”

“The God of Light is the face of mercy, my Prince. And of vigilance. You will gain nothing by this untimely celebration -- and may lose much.”

Tytus groaned and rolled his eyes. “Enough of all of that, please. Kent.... Rannell, must we always talk to each other so seriously? Is it so wrong to celebrate? We’ve won a major victory. Aren’t you happy?”

"Of course I am, Your Grace.”

“You don’t have to be so formal, Rannell. Not when we’re alone.”

“Are you not still my Prince when we’re alone?”

Tytus grunted in frustration and collapsed into a chair. “I would rather not be,” he said. “Rannell Kent, Guardian of the Flame, I am in love with you.”

And there it was. It was not a surprise.

“I know, Your Grace,” the Guardian replied.

“And you feel nothing?”

“I feel sorry for your sake, Your Grace, but your heart is your own to give where you choose.”

“Choose? Choose, he says!” The Prince laughed bitterly and shook his head, then leaned across the table where a ewer and some clay cups lay waiting. “Dammit, I need some wine. No, Kent, choice was not involved in this matter. I tried very hard not to love you, you know, but it proved impossible to resist. I’ve become possessed of it, like madness. I want you, and I am unaccustomed to not getting what I want.”

“An excellent opportunity to learn, then.”

The Prince snorted. “I thought I could win you over. I thought you would be proud of my accomplishments in this campaign.”

“I am, of course. You have learned much of the ways of war,” Kent admitted.

“And yet you are not impressed.”

“I don’t find war impressive,” Kent replied. “Any man can kill.”

Tytus laughed, the sound one of both genuine amusement and bitterness. “Gods, how you defy me! Nobody has ever spoken to me this way, do you know that? I find it horrifying and yet intoxicating. Perhaps this is why I love you.” The Prince took a long drink of his wine, and then asked, “Tell me, my Guardian, to which of the Four Gods does love belong?”

“To them all, Your Grace, for love has many aspects.”

“Indeed,” Tytus said, nodding, “We love many people and in many different ways. For instance, I love Mother and even Father, in my way.”

“The love of family and of our lord and Emperor belongs to the Lord of Stone, Urbanus,” Kent replied.

“And I even love myself, if I am honest,” the Prince continued.

“That love is of the Whisperer, Lord of Rivers and Seas. That is why when you look into water you see an image of yourself, Your Grace.”

“Fascinating. But when I look at you, Rannell Kent, I feel a very different kind of love. One that burns. One that longs for your touch, to have your flesh pressed against mine. That burning love is of our Lord the God of the Sun and Flame, surely?”

“No,” Kent said firmly, “That love is of the Wanderer of the Wood, the King of Beasts, and is called lust, Your Grace. All creatures that walk the earth feel it, and men are at the their most bestial when in its grasp.”

The Prince slammed his cup of wine down on the table in frustration. “Then what is the love that belongs to the Lightbringer? Tell me that, Guardian of the Flame.”

But at this Kent simply shook his head sadly. “That love neither I nor any other man can teach you. You must find it yourself... and I pray that one day you will, Tytus.”

The Prince rose from his chair and walked silently to his champion until their bodies were almost touching. “You called me by my name,” he said in a deep voice. There was a long silence, and the very air in the room grew thicker. “I want you, Rannell Kent. I command you to come to my bed.”

Kent merely nodded. “I obey you in all things, my prince.”

The young man took Kent’s hand and pulled him firmly towards the curtained section of the tent in which he slept. “Such an obedient servant,” he said wryly, “I should order you to love me in return.”

“There are some things even a Prince cannot command,” was Kent’s reply, and then the time for words was over.

_____________________________________________________________________________

His wrists were growing raw from the rope that bound them tightly behind his back and his face was solidly pressed against the rocky earth, but these were the least of his worries. Again and again he cursed himself as a clumsy fool, then raged at that pompous prick of a prince, then berated himself again, over and over in a cycle of hatred and violence until he grew ill and vomited up what little food was left in his belly. The tent in which they were holding him was barely worth the name, a barely held-together structure full of holes that did nothing to keep the outside world at bay. Which was one small thing to be grateful for. He could feel the breeze playing across his skin, take in the scents of the outside world, hear the chirping of birds. He could not bring himself to imagine a future in which these things would be denied to him. Death held less terror for him than that.

The tent flaps rustled, and somebody entered. From the putrid smell of too much perfume, a even stronger scent than the vomit drying on the ground near his face, the prisoner knew who it was.

“So it’s to the mines with you then, Mouse?” The grating voice of Walt, the Prince’s head manservant, dripping with pleasure.

“That’s not my name,” he growled softly.

Walt clicked his tongue disdainfully. “This is what I have been talking about. I always knew your careless attitude would get you into trouble one day. From the minute they put you into my hands, I knew you were doomed as a manservant. I mean, really... spilling wine on the Prince? How could you be so stupid?”

Mouse had no answer to that, as he had been asking himself the same question since the moment it had happened.

“You are lucky the Prince’s Guardian was there, from what I hear, or it would the headsman’s axe for you. Instead, a lifetime’s hard labour. Fitting, I think. The mines are where you should have ended up from the beginning.”

All it once something snapped inside of Mouse, some white hot flash of anger that had long been building. Somehow, impossibly, he was on his knees, crossing the distance to Walt in awkward, desperate shuffles, collapsing against him with all his weight, tumbling with him onto the ground. Unable to use his hands, he struck with his head, driving his forehead again and again against the soft fleshy parts of Walt’s face. There were screams, but Mouse couldn’t tell who they were coming from, and suddenly hands pulled him away, struck him in the gut, held him roughly to the ground.

“Even now you refuse to see reason,” Walt said, holding a hand to his bleeding nose, “Even now you remain untamed. You’re no better than an animal, Mouse.”

“That’s... not... my.... name, “ Mouse breathed out with the last of the air in his lungs.

“Take him away,” Walt said, “And good riddance.”

_________________________________________________________________________

The sergeant was droning on and on with his report, but Commander Damek was no longer listening. Nathar had fallen; a major victory, to be sure. A shining moment in Damek’s long and already illustrious career. There’d be a medal in it for him, with the attendant honors and rewards back home. The Nathari were Imperial citizens once more -- and only Kadnaris remained of the enemy’s strongholds. There was much to rejoice about.

Then why was there still such a sour taste in Damek’s mouth? Why this troubling anxiety in his spirit? Why this anger?

Nathar had fallen, yes, but it had not gone down easily. The fighting had been drawn out, dirty, and deadly. Hearing the sergeant listing the numbers of those fallen, his report drawing on and on, Damek felt his frustration growing. The victory had not been clean. The battle had not proceeded the way he had envisioned, which meant the enemy commander had nearly outsmarted him. And that, to Damek, made the whole affair a failure, medal or no.

He felt no remorse for the dead. They were soldiers - dying for the Empire was their duty. It was his own performance as a commander that he cursed. The battle for Nathar had been a mess, and Commander Damek of the Imperial Army did not make messes. His reputation had been smirched.

Grunting in annoyance, Damek interrupted the sergeant to ask, “What of Captain Joren? Any word?”

The soldier blinked and gathered his thoughts. “Uh.... no, sir. No sign of a body, though, so we are hopeful that...”

“Never mind that,” Damek said, “We can reasonably presume he was killed in the fighting.”

“The men believe...”

“The men will believe what we tell them to, Captain. Yes, you’re a captain now. Gods, man, no need to look so pale about it. Somebody has to take Joren’s place. You’re now in command of your regiment.”

“Yes, sir. But... if Captain Joren is not dead?”

“It’s been two days. If he hasn’t reported in by now he’s either dead, injured, or a deserter. In all three cases he’s no longer of relevance to us.”

The new captain cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Sir, the morale of the men... Captain Joren was respected, loved even...”

“Loved? Loved? Listen here, Captain. You are soldiers. You do not love. You fight. You die. That is your purpose. You are not people, you are tools. The Emperor’s tools. I suggest you explain this to your men. Do you understand?”

The man’s face reddened but he nodded and gave a formal salute. Then he turned crisply and marched away as quickly as his feet could carry him. Damek scowled. The botched operation was bad enough without having to put up with stupidity from his men. His mood was thoroughly foul now. Only a battle could clear his thoughts, and he could look forward to no battles until Kadnaris. So all he could do was sit and brood, brow furrowed.

His dark ruminations were interrupted by a timid messager. “Pardon me, sir? You have a visitor. Rode straight to our ranks with a white flag waving.”

“I will see no one,” Damek snapped.

The soldier blanched. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Only... she was rather insistent that it was very important.”

Damek cocked his head, puzzled. “A woman?”

“Yes, sir. Lady Calla she said her name was, I believe.”

Commander Damek growled. And here he had just thought his mood couldn’t get any worse. “She’s no lady, soldier. Bring her here, but stay close and make sure you are armed.”

“Is she an enemy?” the soldier asked.

“Worse,” Damek said, rising, “She’s my wife.”