Bladeshire 9

By David C. Daoust

Ancient Llewelynn was far different than the duchy palatine it would later become. The natives of these ancient lands were simple ‘hunter/gatherers,’ led by Druids of religions long lost to the world of men. Yet, the native peoples were expunged of this druidic culture long before the Northlanders knew they were there. The Island nation of Vitrucia had come, invaded the lands, built the great city-state of LeVelle.

The Vitrucians brought their own gods, old gods. Gods that demanded sacrifice. The natives often fed this need. These simple people did not have defense against the city builders; they fought, but they did not win.

LeVelle did not stand alone, a second city-state once stood as its rival. A rivalry that spanned generations. Even these old, cruel gods grew tired of the blood, of the death. Of watching their favored people die. Of it all, the gods themselves tried to step in and end the war.

Despite the fact the two cities lived off the rivalry, the twin gods of Vitrucia intervened. They granted each city-state a child, a god-blood child. One male, one female. The two would marry, their child would be ordained king of a new singular kingdom.

The gods commanded it, so the people had no say.

As the children grew, they threatened change. The Vitrucians foresaw nothing but loss, a mixing of blood, a loss of profits, glory itself was threatened. Hate festered. But the god-blood children did grow and eventually did wed as the gods demanded. Yet, the two cultures would not be made one kingdom until their offspring came of age. The plan to unite the people into one kingdom under these old gods’ edicts had been set into motion.

The plan did not work.

It did not work because the crushing expectations, because underlining hate of those that would be his subjects. It did not work because of his own parents’ jealousy of what he was meant to be. Fated to become far more.

In the end the boy, this God-blood Prince, took his own life. He ended the machinations of the gods, with a single soul crushing act.

The gods reeled. No rage had ever been cast to mortal men as that which was brought down with the death of this child. The second city, the lost city, was taken completely, sucked into the hells; into the nothing. Even its name, lost.

Yet the people of LeVelle were cursed.

And so it was made that the noblemen, that cared only for blood, would exist through eternity lusting for nothing else. Yet no matter how much they drank, they would never be sated. And all those peasants that mindlessly followed such lords, would forever mindlessly scrape behind them for their scraps. The noblewomen, that only cared for their material positions, would never again touch a single thing with their own hands; spectral beings cursed to an ethereal existence. The priests, that failed their gods so heinously, would never know anything but the dead. And the warriors of LeVelle, those that craved war over all else, would forever kill all such beings on sight, without ever knowing they themselves were their brethren.

The city of the dead stood, led by Vampire Lords and Shade Queens. Ghosts and ghouls spread throughout the lands, all constantly hunted by the Knights Sheol. The dead fed on the native of Llewelynn, undead torment rotted the very soil. Choking the lands of all life. Llewelynn became a wasteland of the undead and eventually threatened to overtake the Rockthorn Mountains, which threatened the dwarven kingdom of Dath’ryn’vale within.

It was here the dwarves called in allies, here that Ethia was allowed to cross the Rockthorn Mountains, and here that brave knights took, first the city of LeVelle in the name of the Northern Kingdoms and then spread their influence throughout the southlands.

All this, long ago. Myths mixed with history brought about legends. Vampire lords were a thing of stories, Shade Queens a whisper in the night. Some still feared their return, though no such undead lords had been seen since the last great war against the undead. Since Agnar, himself, shattered their reign with his vaunted hammer.

With the Northlanders Victory, came the Tetrarchy. With the Tetrarch came the Graven Tesserae. The one God brought peace to the lands, the Graven Tesserae, and all their Priestly Orders, brought stability. Such Priests were forever protecting the realms from such threats.

Priests like Brommus.

The Priest of the Night Sky tried to maintain some modicum of solemnity, as he hastily made his way through the rite that would conclude ceremonies. He had been visiting an Ethian Lyceum of the Dawn, when one of his old invocations triggered. It could only mean the boy, Khadory, was in some form of danger, and that the threat would have to be grave indeed for it to even trigger.

Brommus had to cut his visit short. He did not bother explaining; he was certain that this was something the Dawn simply could not understand. They were much more ready to accept that all things were in Gods hand, all things as He planned.

Brommus was not made that way; he felt that fate was not fixed and that mortals had as much to say in what was, as any of the old patrons– or even the one God himself. To speak such things in the Dawn’s Lyceum, however, could lead to debates that might last hours. Hours he did not have. So, the wise priest kept his mouth shut and politely weaved through his observances and made his farewells short. Sometime later, he made his way through the higharched hallways that connected the churches throughout the Chambers.

The Chambers of Light, themselves, held all the churches and monasteries throughout the Tesserae. The versions that existed in the realms of mortals, known as ‘Light’s Reach,’ were simple manifestations. Many did not understand this, structures of the Graven Tesserae were built in the living world, but they existed in both the Chambers and the Reach at the same time. A maze of intersecting structures. For a Priest of the Tesserae, to move through such – was to move through the heavens themselves. He made his way through the dazzling hallways that connected the churches throughout, a trek that could take weeks in the mortals’ realms could be completed by a priest in minutes in the heavens.

By the time Brommus made his journey back to Bladeshire Abbey, the sun was low in the sky… many hours had passed since he sensed the triggering of that old blessing. A blessing he had invoked when the boy was still an infant— first put in his care. He had become so comfortable living in the abbey, he’d actually forgotten the invocation was even there. What danger could be posed to the boy? Those old threats were vanquished. That harrowing ordeal which bonded them, still gave him nightmares, but were all long passed.

At last, he returned to the Abbey. He was not surprised that he was not the only one on the hunt for the boy. The monks were collected at the monastery gates as he exited the chapel. The abbot insisting that they not leave the grounds. Many of the monks looked ready to head out, to find the missing boy.

All of which looked relieved when the priest made his appearance. Brommus knew, without even being told, the boy was missing. Whatever triggered that invocation could not have existed within these walls; the danger must surely be elsewhere.

While the Monks could leave the grounds — they chose not to. This was the way of the Namekeepers. While a priest was meant to walk both the Chambers and the Reach, monks were dedicated to the heavens. The monks stayed within consecrated grounds; stayed within the Chambers of Light, praying for those without.

They still worried, clearly, yet they cleared the gates for the priest to leave in their stead. A few of the monks were Khadory’s age; it was normal for them to join the order at a such a young age. The difference was that Khadory was brought to the Abbey an orphan. As such, had no parent to dedicate him to the monks’ orders. The abbot hoped someday Khadory would choose the life for himself, but they could not induct him without consent. No matter the age, all of them were the boys’ friends, brothers even.

They trusted Brommus to act in their stead.

The priest knew the boy did not belong there; knew he would find his own way in the world. Though did not believe in ‘fate’, so was eager to see what choices were made. The group of holy men found one such choice behind the gate when it opened.

Brommus, with great relief, found Khadory, the village pinder Arugan, and who he believed was the poundkeep’s daughter, approaching…