The Nameless

PART I: The Battle of Nastholo The thief slowly stroked the knife’s blade in his gloved hands. It was slightly cold, even through the gloves, but that was normal for any weapon imbued with water crystals. His yellow eyes wandered from the small table he was watching to another bazaar stand, and then to the small groups of two or three soldiers marching through the bustling marketplace. It was a small inconvenience to his job, but war was war, and when a war was going on (as it had been since 1422, two years after his birth) soldiers would be present. Better the Nastholans catch him stealing than the Arrhennians. After all, the punishment for thievery in Nastholo is a fine, while the punishment in Arrhennius is death. “Worm,” a voice whispered from behind the table he had been watching. The thief whipped his head around, but only saw the table and the elderly man running it. “Behind the stand,” the voice whispered again. The thief slipped his dagger up his sleeve, and walked around the elderly man’s stand, being careful not to attract his attention. He looked for the source of the voice, and found it in a young, yet strangely experienced-looking man leaning against the stone walls of the bazaar. His hair appeared dry, uncut, and dirty, a description which, as he looked over his attire, applied to the entire man. He was stroking his short beard with his left hand, and letting a small dagger dangle from the index finger of his right. “Ah, Keith. Wasn’t aware that you had clearance to come to Nastholo since the last time you were caught,” the thief said. “Look, kid, I’m free, like the wind. Nobody tells me what to do, and no one tells me where I can-” he paused to spit on the ground, “-and can’t go,” the man who was called Keith said. “No, I’m not allowed to be here, but that’s what makes it all the more entertaining.” “Well then,” the thief said, letting his dagger slip from his sleeve, “don’t get me into any more trouble than I’m already getting myself into. If we were under Arrhennian law, you would have already made a hobby of death. I’ll do it myself if you get me caught.” “Hey, hey, kid,” Keith said, backing off. “Calm down. No one’s going to get you caught.” “Go back to Nas Fostho. If you can make it there alive, don’t come back. If you don’t think that the Empress herself doesn’t keep track of every single criminal

who walks the streets, you’re mistaking. While you might find it amusing to be near that list’s top, I don’t want to even make it on the bottom.” “Fine,” Keith said, putting his left hand in his pocket. He turned his back and started to walk off, still twirling his tiny dagger on his index finger. “Oh, I think I dropped something,” he said. Keith withdrew his left hand from his pocket and tossed a tied bundle to the thief. He looked down at the package, and before he could look up, Keith had disappeared around the stone wall. “I wonder what that imbecile gave me this time,” he droned, untying the knot around the package. The cloth fell off of the crystalline object inside, and he gasped. “What in the name of Ephos? Keith got it?” He was staring at the circular red crystal in his palm, aghast. He had been watching it for the past hour, how on Saundrol could Keith have gotten to it in the few seconds that he wasn’t looking? Unfortunately, the thief wasn’t the only one looking at the crystal. The elderly man, who did not remember selling it to anyone, had been startled by the thief’s earlier exclamation and had turned around to look at the scene going on behind him. “Thief! Thief!” the man called out, waving his arms. He stood up, and grabbed the thief by the collar. “I hope you didn’t think you could get away with this… thief! THIEF!” “Keith...” the thief fumed, not daring to move. A group of three soldiers had already begun to walk in the direction of the elderly man and himself. “You!” one of the soldiers shouted, pointing at the thief. “Don’t move!” “Oh, great,” the thief said to himself. He quickly hid his dagger in a sheath on the inside of his shirt; he could not afford to lose it. “Name,” the soldier who had shouted said, approaching the thief. “I don’t know,” the thief said, cursing himself in his head. “Don’t play stupid with me. What’s your name!?” the soldier said, in a more demanding and intimidating tone. “I already said, I don’t know,” he continued. He was too honest for a thief; he should have said Keith Isson. The truth, though, was that he really had no idea what his name was. “So you don’t have a name, kid?” “That’s right,” the thief said.

“What do you go by?” “People call me Worm, sir,” he said to the soldier. “Fitting name for a thief,” one of the soldiers said, and they began to laugh among themselves. “The stolen property please, Worm,” a soldier said, and held out his hand. Worm deposited the ruby orb into the soldier’s armored palm, which closed around it. “So,” he said, inspecting it. “What possessed you to steal this? It does not look like… the conventional thing one would steal.” “Yes it does,” Worm snapped. “It’s a gemstone. Very valuable.” “This orb appears to be magically enchanted, is it not, sir?” the soldier said to the elderly man, who meekly nodded. “Then you are guilty of two crimes, the theft of the orb itself and the theft of magic, is that not correct, mister Worm?” “That’s absurd! How was I to know the orb was enchanted?” Worm yelled. He had indeed not been told by his employer in Nas Fostho that the orb had magical enchantments attached to it. “And how would that count as multiple crimes? Magic can’t be stolen!” “Magical enchantments can be stolen, mister Worm. And because you have committed two robberies, you will be escorted to the prison camp in Nas Enco. Guards!” “Whaaat! You can’t just send me… off to prison because I stole something!” Worm stammered, beginning to feel faint. A soldier seized each of his arms and he felt himself being lifted into the air. He felt his head spinning, seeing red, beginning to lose consciousness…

“Greetings, Empress Oceana,” the tall, gaunt, white-skinned man rasped. “I trust that you are in good health?” “Chancellor Efson,” a cold and calm voice said from behind Empress Celia Oceana’s light brown face-veil. The young Empress turned her light, gold-lined throne to face the elderly Arrhennian Chancellor. Chancellor Efson gasped as Empress Oceana rose from her throne, removing the veil from her face. She was tall, almost as tall as Efson himself, and her sand-colored hair practically touched the elaborately designed marble floor.

“I had no idea that you were so young,” Efson said, examining her girlish face and figure. She was no older than eighteen seasons. “I assumed the throne due to necessity,” Celia said, “as you are aware.” “The assassination of Celia Oceana the First cannot be blamed on every single Arrhennian, Empress. The guilt of that crime lies with the assassin alone,” Efson snapped. “Very well,” Celia said, draping her veil over her face. “Speak of your purpose here.” “As you wish,” Efson said. “The armies of both Arr Sohora and Etyolhos are currently at the walls of Nastholo. Your forces are unprepared for battle. I am here to make you an offer.” “How can you be so sure that my armies aren’t ready for battle?” Celia said, obviously shocked. “In fact –” “We have many spies in Nastholo, Empress. As you of all people know, we are in a war, and espionage is a tactic that the Arrhennian Empire is well known for using.” “Very well,” Celia said, defeated. “Speak of this offer.” “Your people are all in danger. On my signal, Arrhennian soldiers will charge from the mountains and attack Nastholo. Your feeble Imperial Guard has no chance of holding off the armies of two cities.” Efson smirked as he saw through her veil Celia’s face falling. “I am offering to save the lives of every man in your army. While Arrhennian troops will not attack civilians, there is no guarantee that they will not be mistaken for soldiers or harmed in accident. You can prevent the spilling of the blood of your people by surrendering to me now.” “S… surrender?” Celia stammered, staring at Efson. “The Nastholan Empire will lose the city, and your people will be forced to evacuate. And you, Empress,” Efson said, grinning, “will be the main attraction at the next public execution at the Nastholo Coliseum.” “So you come here to tell me that I must die to save my people,” Celia said sadly. “I knew that this day would come. As young as I may be, I am no fool.” “So you will surrender yourself?” Celia approached Efson, removing her veil. “Chancellor, I said I was not a fool. To underestimate my own people would be extraordinarily foolish.”

“Ah, so once her own life comes into the equation, the Empress of Nastholo decides to let her people die,” Efson said, laughing. “How noble, little girl.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Celia said, smiling. “I am no coward. I never once planned to surrender.” She drew an elaborate turquoisecolored sword from a sheath on her hip, and, in one swift movement, had the tip of the blade pointed at Chancellor Efson’s neck. “I honestly hope that you jest,” Efson said, smirking. “Otherwise, you are the epitome of a rash, young girl, Empress or not.” “Chancellor Efson,” Celia said, grinning, “Do you refuse my challenge? If I lose, and am killed, then your ‘offer’ will have been upheld. I will be dead.” “Interesting,” Efson said, drawing his own sword while backing away from Celia’s blade. “And if you win?” “Then you would be dead, and I shall announce to your armies that you were defeated in a duel. What happens then will be entirely up to fate.” “It will not happen,” Efson said. “I am sixty-four seasons of age. I have had fifty seasons of training in the art of swordplay. You can not have possibly had more than five seasons of training. It is inconceivable that you should win.” “Then why haven’t you accepted?” Celia grinned. “You want me dead, and if what you are saying is true, then I am offering you my life! What is there to fear?” “I could be falling into your trap.” “Trickery? You don’t think that I am honorable enough to compete in a duel without foul play?” “And I should trust you?” “Why should you not?” “You are my foe!” “I may be your foe, but I still have morals. Now have at you!”

Worm was still unconscious when the guards loaded his body onto the locomotive car. “Think he’s another Arrhennian spy?” one of the guards said. “Well,” the other started, “he was stealing a magical enchantment.” “He doesn’t look Arrhennian,” the first guard said, a perplexed look on his face.

“Neither did the last few. Just because he’s Nas Homoan doesn’t mean that his allegiance doesn’t lie with the Arrhennian Empire.” “I guess,” the first guard said. “He didn’t seem like a spy though.” The second guard climbed into the locomotive car. “Get in, Dragomir.” Dragomir nodded, and stepped into the small prison car. He removed his helmet, and his rugged blonde hair poured out over his chiseled face. The door to the car shut, and he could feel the wheels beneath him begin to clamber over the metal tracks. “Hey Yogron, why do we have to go with him?” “To ensure that he doesn’t escape,” Yogron said to Dragomir. “How is he going to escape from this prison car?” Dragomir said, the familiar perplexed look washing over his face. “I don’t think even I could, and I’m completely armed.” “He’s an Arrhennian spy, I’m sure he could think of something.” “What makes you so sure that he’s a spy?” “Instinct,” Yogron grunted, and turned away. “Well my instincts tell me differently,” Dragomir said to himself. “There’s no way he could be a spy.” Suddenly, Dragomir heard a loud bang outside of the locomotive. A few seconds later, there was another bang, and the entire car shook. He felt the wheels stop crawling along underneath him, and felt the car collide with the one in front of it. “Yogron!” Dragomir yelled, standing up. “What’s happening?” “It seems like we’ve been ambushed,” Yogron said, standing up. “Take the spy. We need to get out of here.” Dragomir nodded, and leaned down to pick up Worm. There was another bang and crash, and as the floor of the car shook and Dragomir fell to the ground, Worm’s eyes flickered, and shot open. “What was that!” he rasped, standing up and fumbling in his shirt for something. “Who are you?” “Come on!” Dragomir yelled, motioning for Worm to follow. He drew a heavy, spiked war hammer from his waist and demolished the door of the car in one blow. “I guess I could get out of here if I tried,” he mumbled to himself, jumping out of the car. Yogron and Worm followed suit quickly.

“What in the name of Ephos…” Yogron was staring in front of them. “Dragomir. Spy. We need to move back. We have to get back to Nastholo and warn the Empress.” “You’re right,” Dragomir said, staring at the enormous Arrhennian army advancing towards the walls of Nastholo. The locomotive, completely destroyed by Arrhennian catapults, stretched almost all of the way to the city. “Spy. You can-” “Are you referring to me?” Worm said, staring at Yogron. “I’m not a spy. If I was a spy, you would both be dead right now, and I would be among the army advancing towards Nastholo.” “Kill us?” Yogron chuckled. “How?” “With this,” Worm said, pulling his knife out of his shirt. “And I don’t really think now is the time to be laughing. We have to sneak past an entire army.” “Stop fighting,” Dragomir said. “We could attract unwanted attention.” “Right,” Worm said. “So, what’s the plan?” “Plan?” Yogron said. “There isn’t one, unless you count distracting them with you so we can get away and warn the city.” “Don’t listen to him,” Dragomir said, stroking his chin. “I imagine that we can sneak around the prison car on the locomotive, and then go through the passenger cars that lead back to the city. We can’t be more than twenty stretches away from the city. We should be able to get back long before the army gets to Nastholo with sufficient time to warn the Empress. “It’s likely that scouting parties have been sent ahead, and there are probably a few groups of Arrhennian soldiers inside the passenger cars gathering resources. If the three of us are able to fight together, we will most likely be able to overcome scouting parties of five or less if we have the element of surprise. We should try to avoid larger groups.” “How’d you just come up with that?” Worm said, astonished. “Dragomir here can make up plans like this,” Yogron said, snapping his fingers. “Smarter than he lets on. It gives him an advantage against people who judge his intellect by his brawn.” “We should start out now. I imagine if we wait any longer that we might be too late,” Dragomir said, cautiously removing his chain mail. “What are you doing?” Yogron said, looking at Dragomir with disbelief.

“I imagine he’s taking his armor off to allow him to move faster and prevent the loud clanking that would undeniably draw a few eyes to the passenger cars,” Worm said. “Oh,” Yogron said, frowning out of contempt for Worm. “I suppose I should do the same thing,” he said, removing the heavy chain mail. His thin and lanky build was even clearer once his armor was removed, and Worm had to suppress a laugh at the clear contrast that Yogron and Dragomir had to each other. “Let’s go,” Dragomir grunted, turning his back on Worm and Yogron. Yogron followed Dragomir’s lead, pushing Worm to the side, and the two vanished from Worm’s view. Should he follow them, the two men who he had never seen before and didn’t have any reason to trust? The thin one, he couldn’t catch a name, had been extraordinarily unpleasant; the large one, Dragomir, seemed to be the exact opposite. He walked around the corner of the prison car, and ran a bit to catch up with them. “Say,” he said, looking at Dragomir, “if I helped you, you would forget about Nas Enco?” “The prison camp?” Dragomir said, turning his head to look at Worm. “Minor thievery doesn’t warrant a torturous prison. I was against taking you there in the first place.” “If you prove that you aren’t an Arrhennian spy,” Yogron said, “then the charges will be dropped.” “What right do you have to consider me a spy?” Worm exclaimed. “Never mind that,” Dragomir said. “If you prove that you want to help Nastholo by alerting the Empress of the impending Arrhennian army, then we will drop the charges.” Worm was silent as they walked along the rows of prison cars, keeping an eye out for sentry groups. “Here we are,” Dragomir said, eyeing an open-doored passenger car. “Yogron, you go first,” he said, motioning Yogron to go inside the passenger car. Yogron nodded, and stepped up into the open doorway. “The lights are out,” Yogron said, frowning. “The impact of the boulder to the locomotive must have knocked out the crystals.” “It’s fine,” Worm said, leaping up into the car. “I’m used to the dark.” “The rest of us aren’t,” Yogron sneered.

“Don’t be so harsh,” Dragomir said, climbing onto the pitch-black car. “We either band together now or get discovered,” he said, “and either killed off the bat or taken prisoner.” “Of course,” Yogron mused, “now all we have to do is navigate an entire locomotive in the dark before an army arrives at the gates of Nastholo.” “Stop complaining,” Worm said angrily. “Just follow me and it’ll be fine.” Dragomir nodded, and Worm started to walk down the darkened locomotive car, as expertly as if he had memorized the layout of the car beforehand. “Come on,” Dragomir said, pulling Yogron by the arm to follow Worm. “Now it doesn’t look like anyone’s been here yet,” Worm whispered, “but I could be mistaking. We should tread lightly from here on out.” Dragomir and Yogron both nodded, and Worm slowly opened the door to the next passenger car. The three men slipped through the passageway as quietly and stealthily as homoanly possible, and shut the door of the second passenger car behind them. “Only about twenty more to go,” Yogron said with a sigh. “Don’t worry,” Worm said. “All passenger cars in these locomotives are exactly the same. We can take the exact same routes through all of the cars as we did the first one.” “Let’s hurry,” Dragomir said. “We must protect Nastholo and the Empress.” Yogron nodded, and the three ran forwards through the second passenger car, proceeding through the locomotive as quickly as possible. “So, Dragomir, was it?” Worm said, panting. They had sprinted through eleven passenger cars, and the group had come to a unanimous decision to slow down for a minute. Dragomir nodded. “Where’ya from?” “Zhalda’s Split,” he said, smiling. “It’s a nice city, surrounded by water, always nice in a desert like East Osslyon.” “Ah yes, Zhalda’s Split,” Worm said. “I believe I’ve been there before, beautiful city.” “Yeah,” Dragomir said, reminiscing. “What about yourself?” “I don’t know,” Worm said, frowning. “What d’ya mean, you don’t know?” Yogron said. “How can you not know where you’re from?” “Same way I don’t know my name,” Worm said. “I never met my parents.”

“What happened to your parents?” Dragomir said, astonished. “Wouldn’t they have been able to remind you of… you know, your name?” “Never knew’em,” Worm said, quietly opening the door to the next car. The three walked silently through the next couple of passenger cars, when Dragomir opened the door and announced, “We’re there.” Worm closed his eyes; the light of the desert burned his eyes after he had been in the darkness of the destroyed locomotive for so long. He heard Yogron and Dragomir jump out of the car, and he followed suit. They looked back, and couldn’t see the Arrhennian army at all in the distance. “Good,” Dragomir said, turning his head to the walls of Nastholo. “Come on. We cannot falter now.” He began to run towards the gate, followed by Yogron and a slightly exhausted Worm. The group made it to the gate in little time at all, and Dragomir ran up to the gate guards. “We come to warn the city of an advancing Arrhennian attack force,” Dragomir said. “We must have immediate audience with the Empress.” “What?” the guard Dragomir was addressing spat, in utter shock. “Arrhennians?” “Yes, we have little time, let us into the city!” Yogron yelled. “We cannot do that. If what you are saying is true, we cannot open the gates to the city at all. Word will be sent to the Empress.” “No!” Dragomir yelled. “You don’t get it! They’re almost here!” “Which is why we cannot let you-” blood suddenly started to run from the guard’s mouth, and he fell to the ground. Worm withdrew his dagger from the guard’s neck. “Get the keys,” Worm said to Dragomir, “before the other guards notice. We can sneak in from the smaller gates to the west.” Dragomir nodded, he obviously understood that desperate times called for desperate measures. As the three ran, Worm started to speak. “We’ll enter in the military district,” he said, running along the side of the wall. “We can quickly run to the Grand Gate and try to reason with the guards to the palace. Once we’re in the palace, it’s all climbing stairs from there.” “Have you been in the palace before?” Yogron said, suspiciously eyeing Worm.

“No, just studied maps,” Worm said. “I always knew a situation like this would turn up,” he added sarcastically. They made it to the gate into the military district, and Dragomir quickly inserted the key and slammed the gate open. Once they had all hurried inside, he slammed the gate behind him. “Let’s go,” Dragomir said, starting to run in the direction of the Grand Gate. “Time is running out quickly.” Worm and Yogron both nodded, and quickly followed him. Worm noticed that the eyes of civilians, civilians who would all die if they didn’t make it to the palace in time, were glued to the group. “We’re almost there!” Dragomir exclaimed, looking forwards. The Grand Gate, and behind it, the palace, stood ahead. “Come on!” The three of them reached the Grand Gate in unison, and Worm immediately said to the guards, “Open the gate. We have news for the Empress.” “W-what?” the guard said. “What news?” “The news is for the Empress, not you,” Dragomir said. “Open the gates. See these symbols? They’re the emblem of the Nastholan Army. We aren’t intruders. Now let us in!” The guard nodded, speechless, and stuck his key in the gate. He opened the wrought-iron Grand Gate, and as Dragomir, Worm, and Yogron ran into the palace yard, shut it just as quickly. “Almost there,” Yogron panted, running past the guards to the palace door and into the middle tower of the palace. It was a gigantic, circular room, the emblem of Nastholo engraved onto the stone floor, and a round staircase circling the entire tower up to the top. “Let’s climb,” Dragomir said, beginning the long ascent to the top of the tower. Yogron and Worm followed, both panting, out of strength. “We’ve… almost… made it…” Yogron breathed, his voice now hoarse and rasping. “There!” Dragomir said, wrapping his hand around the elaborate knobs of the doors to the Empress’s throne room. He threw the door open, and thundered: “Empress Oceana!” Worm’s eyes widened as he saw the young Empress slash with a turquoisecolored blade at a tall, gaunt, dark robed man with a sword in his left hand. The

man deftly parried the Empress’s blow, retaliating with a slash to her hand that knocked her sword to the ground. “Intruders!” the man said, whirling around. Worm looked into his bright green eyes, and then over his white, wrinkled, and scarred face. He was extremely formidable, to say the least. “Who are you?” Dragomir said, drawing his war hammer from his belt. “Who am I?” the man said, sheathing his sword. “Why should I tell such lowlives as you? Do you not have eyes? Can you not see that the Empress and I are in the middle of a duel?” “We don’t have time for this,” Worm said, walking towards the fallen Empress. “Empress Oceana. We have come from the deserts outside the walls of Nastholo to warn you of an incoming Arrhennian army. They should be nearly at the gate by now.” “W-what?” Celia said, taken aback. “They are… they are here already?” “We saw them with our own eyes,” Yogron’s snide voice added in. “Empress,” the man said, smiling and placing a hand on his sword. “My orders were for them to stay at the mountains and wait for orders from me to advance. Not to-” “Silence,” Celia said, lifting her sword from the ground. “Your ploy will deceive me no longer. Our duel is over.” “Empress Oceana,” the man said, his smile twisting into an evil grin, “I fail to see your point. My armies are apparently already at the gates, and you have no time to ready your own army. Why don’t you just let me finish killing you?” “Chancellor Efson, with all due respect, you have lied about the agreement you made with me earlier. Your armies were never told to stand by in the mountains and wait for your word to attack. I believe the ones who brought your fraud to surface,” she said, nodding towards Worm, Dragomir, and Yogron, “should be your executioners.” “Executioners?” Efson said. He began to laugh. “You plan to kill me?” “That’s what she said,” Worm said, pulling his dagger out from inside his shirt. “Or are you a little hard of hearing?” “And what is this?” The Chancellor examined Worm, looking at his tattered cloth shirt, old black leather pants that appeared to be too large, and a half-broken pair of sandals. “A street urchin dares to insult me?” Efson said through his

laughter, unsheathing his sword. “Very well, try and poke me with that little knife of yours!” “He’s all yours,” Dragomir said, nodding, and stepped to the side. “I think you can handle him” “Hah, I’d like to see that,” Yogron laughed, drawing a long sword from his waist. “There’s no way he can handle a Chancellor alone.” “Thank you,” Celia said, looking at Worm. “I will go and rally the troops. Be careful, for if any of us survive this, you will be rewarded when all is said and done.” She ran through the open doors, and they shut with a loud slamming noise behind her. Worm gulped, looking into the fierce red eyes of the Chancellor. They seemed ablaze with fury, lighting his entire contorted, pale face on an invisible fire. He grasped his dagger in his fist, and, swallowing his fear, walked up to face Chancellor Efson. “You poor young fools,” Efson rasped, clasping his fingers tight around the hilt of his sword, “first the Empress, and now a worthless urchin, challenging me to a duel? I will enjoy killing you.” “I think you’ve forgotten about us,” Yogron said, pointing his sword at the back of Efson’s neck. “No!” Worm exclaimed, his eyes narrowing. “I may be a thief, but I still maintain all of the honor I possibly can. This is a duel, not a three-on-one brawl.” “You are foolish,” Efson rasped, his voice as harsh and merciless as the roar of a great beast. “You do not stand a chance.” “Dragomir! Yogron! Follow the Empress. Help her in any way you can. I want to put this old man in his place by myself,” Worm said. Dragomir nodded, and he pushed the door of the throne room open, and dragged a struggling Yogron out by the wrist, the door slamming behind them. “As for you,” Worm said, directing his gaze to Efson, “make your peace with Ephos now. Before the day is over, you will be a corpse on this very floor.” “Very brave words,” the Chancellor rasped, grinning. “One must admire your sheer gall. Now, let us get this over with before my army destroys this very castle.” “I’d love to,” Worm said, reaching into a pouch on his waist. He latched a metal glove with two hooked knives attached to his right hand, and pointed his dagger at Efson with his left. “Prepare to die!”

“You should be the one preparing your death,” Efson whispered, charging at Worm, his mammoth blade grasped between his two hands. His black robes billowed as he brought the deadly blade down on Worm. The horrifying sword grew in Worm’s eyes as it appeared to crash down on him, menacing, unforgiving, demonic… And he placed the palms of both his hands on the broad sides of the Chancellor’s blade, grasping it with all of his strength, pushing it back. He could tell from seeing the beads of sweat roll past his eyes that Efson was pushing the blade down at him as hard as he possibly could, but Worm couldn’t give up now. The fight hadn’t even started. With a momentary burst of strength, he threw the blade to the side and rolled out of the sword’s swinging radius as Efson attempted a horizontal sweep to his legs. “Can’t get me that easily,” Worm taunted, dashing in towards the Chancellor, ducking to avoid a second horizontal sweep along the way. His eyes flashed with his near-death experience of only a few moments ago, and he roared, digging his clawed right hand into the wrist of Chancellor Efson’s sword arm. His mouth twisted into a satisfied grin as he twisted the dual notched knives in his foe’s wrist, forcing them to penetrate to the other side of his arm. Moments later, he became aware of an earsplitting scream, half human, half animal, that was filling the room. Efson had dropped his sword and was grasping his wrist where the knife blades had penetrated all the way through his arm. “I’m not done yet,” Worm said, lifting his dagger. With a quick slice, he severed Efson’s sword hand, lifting it into the air on his claws. Sliding his dagger back into his shirt, he ripped the hand off of his claws, dropping it onto the ground. The claws were covered in chunks of Efson’s flesh, his blood drizzling off of the dual knives into a puddle on the ground. “W… what kind of barbaric fighting is that?” Efson rasped, curled up on the ground in pain. “W…h…y… is th…is… happening to me?” “Don’t worry,” Worm said, closing his eyes and lifting Efson’s blade from the ground where he had dropped it. “It will all be over soon.” He stepped over to the curled up body on the ground, staring into his red eyes, now liquid pools of fear and contempt. “Call the armies off. If you do, I will let you live.”

“H… hah… you think… I value… my life… over… the goals… of the High King?” Efson said, laughing despite his pain. “You really… are… a fool… kill me now, please… get it… over with.” “You are the fool, Chancellor,” Worm said, pointing Efson’s sword at him. “The only person you should look after is yourself. I learned that long ago. Now,” he said, digging the point of the sword into Efson’s neck, “you will realize the consequences of your flawed principals.” And with a quick flick of the wrist, Efson’s head rolled away from his body, hitting the foot of Empress Oceana’s throne.

“Dragomir. Why did you leave the petty thief with the task of killing the chancellor? You don’t think he could really do-” “Yogron. He is the one,” Dragomir said firmly. “His eyes were the color of the dunes. I’d recognize them anywhere.” “You mean… you think he’s the son of…” “Yes,” Dragomir said. “Do not tell him. I am not sure if he is his descendent as of right now.” He walked down the alley in between the palace walls and army barracks, pulling Yogron by the collar with him. “Your master will want to know of this. Go and alert him immediately.” “What about the Arrhennians?” Yogron gasped, his brown eyes bulging in their sockets. “Perhaps he will help,” Dragomir said with a sly smile. “Don’t bet on it,” Yogron grumbled, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll go.” “Good,” Dragomir said, throwing the back door of the barracks open. “Be safe, old friend.” Dragomir saw Yogron nod as he ran deeper into the alley, chanting incantations under his breath. Dragomir sighed and turned, and walked into the barracks, closing the door with a thud behind him. Most of the soldiers he saw were sleeping, all unarmored. He saw a man and woman playing cards on a table in the corner. “Attention men and women!” Dragomir thundered, raising the battle hammer from his belt. “The armies of Arrhennius are at our doors! You have little time!” He slid a chain mail jacket from the corner over his broad shoulders, and picked up a

helmet and put it under his arm. He could hear the soldiers waking up, murmuring. The man had put his hand of cards down and was standing, face aghast. “This is not a joke! We are under attack! Soldiers, get your armor on!” Dragomir yelled, slamming the helmet onto his head. Most of the soldiers were standing upright now, half-naked without any armor on at all. “How can we believe you?” “I was having a nice dream…” “I had a flush!” “Royal flush, pay up, old fool.” “You have got to be out of your mind!” “I said this is not a joke! The Arrhennians are here! We’re under-” Dragomir was interrupted by another angry soldier. “Oh, give it a rest.” “Yeah, give it a rest!” “SILENCE!” An extraordinarily loud voice rang from the other side of the barracks. The room settled, and the soldiers turned to the source of the new voice. Dragomir turned too, cautious, and saw the form of the Empress. “The man does not speak lies,” Celia’s voice rang. “The Arrhennian armies are at the gates. Arm yourselves, and prepare to die. “As for you, sir,” Celia said, making a motion to Dragomir, “you will come with me. I need your assistance.” Dragomir nodded, and walked across the room, past the dumbfounded soldiers, to the Empress. “Empress, is this really happening?” One of the soldiers said, with a look of fear glazed upon his face. “I’m afraid so,” Celia said, frowning. “Now get to arms! Nastholo needs your defense!” There was a clambering of the soldiers to get their armor on as Celia escorted Dragomir out of the barracks. “What is it, Empress?” Dragomir said, confused. Why had the Empress, the ruler of the entire empire, asked him for help? “I need someone to accompany me to the Hall of the Magi,” Celia said, beginning to slightly run towards the palace again. “We must consult the Circle of Eight for help.” “The… Circle of Eight? But isn’t that just a rumor?”

“It seems you are indeed a relatively low ranked soldier,” Celia said, breaking into a full speed sprint. “It is no rumor. The Circle does indeed exist.” “Low… ranked?” Dragomir said, stopping. “Why is it that you want such a low ranked soldier helping you?” “Because you won’t be low ranked for long, not if Nastholo survives this. You’re the one who brought the news of the army to me.” “Oh, right,” Dragomir said, beginning to run again. “So, about the Circle of Eight…” “We’re almost there,” Celia said, pulling an elaborately decorated staff from her back. “In the name of Ephos, open this door!” She exclaimed, pointing her staff at the air, looking at an enormous marble door in the side of the palace. A bolt of lightning, with an earsplitting screech, descended in front of the door, striking it with full force. “That didn’t open it?” Dragomir said, shocked. “Yes, it did,” Celia said, watching lines of bright blue light appear on the door. With a rush of cold air, the door slid open, practically sucking the two inside. The door shut behind them, engulfing the two in total darkness. “Come,” Celia said, “our destination isn’t far now.” Dragomir nodded, and began to follow Celia into the darkness. The corridors they were walking through were twisted and narrow, not to mention pitch black. “Dragomir,” Celia said, her voice quivering. “No one has disturbed the Circle for hundreds of years. I have heard from the records of them that they are extremely eccentric, but do not take anything I have to say about them as truth.” “Hundreds of years? That means that they’re been around…” Dragomir started, his face draining of blood. “They have been around, supposedly, since the dawn of time. The most powerful mages in the entire world…” Celia said, spreading her palm on a flat rock surface before her. Glowing, purple lines began to trace over the stone, forming into a pattern… An enormous purple eye then took shape, bulging out of the stone, gazing ahead. “The Empress of Nastholo demands access to the Hall of the Magi!” Celia said, staring at the eye. The eye closed, and shrunk back into the stone wall.

Suddenly, the wall began to shake, and with the sound of grinding stone and shattering rock, the stone exploded. “That’s one way to get in,” Dragomir said, walking forward. He drew a spear from a sling on his back. “I will protect you until we arrive at the destination.” “That won’t be necessary,” Celia said. “The room in which the circle resides is only a small walk across this pool.” Dragomir looked down, and saw a shallow layer of water over an ornately carved blue stone floor, with a slightly indented path of gold that seemed to lead to a door. “Down that path, right?” he said. “Yes,” Celia said, “now let’s get moving. The Arrhennian invasion isn’t going to wait all day.” Dragomir nodded, and stepped into the pool, onto the golden path. He offered his hand to help Celia down, and the two walked down the path, water up to their ankles, to a gigantic golden door. Celia slammed her staff into the water, and with a swift movement, pointed it directly at the door. “Unseal!” She said, rather loudly. Suddenly, a sphere of blue light appeared on the arched top of the cavern, and it began to rotate. The sphere shot a cylindrical beam of light at the bottom of the door, the beam moving from bottom to top multiple times. “This should open the door,” Celia said, looking at an astounded Dragomir. “I have… never seen magic of such a magnitude before… I didn’t think it existed in Nastholo,” He said, clutching his spear. “It frightened me at first.” “No powerful magic?” Celia said, walking up to the door. “Nonsense.” A gigantic ray of light suddenly burst out of the seam which the beam of blue light had been tracing, and the door burst open. “Who is it who disturbs the Circle of Eight?” A loud, rasping voice that sounded like two stones grinding together screamed. “Where is Ronjok of the Sands?” Celia yelled into the door, over the sound of the doors creaking open and the waterfall of light that had emptied into the cavern. “Ah… now here we see the face that destroyed Nastholo,” the grinding voice said, completely ignoring Celia’s question. The voice, disembodied up until this point, was correctly assigned by Dragomir to a figure in obscenely long robes slowly descending from the stairs behind the door.

“What are you talking about? Nastholo… destroyed?” Celia said, still yelling. The figure (Dragomir could not tell if it was a male or female) threw his hand at the door, slamming it shut with so powerful a force that several stalactites from the ceiling of the cavern collapsed into the water. “You… will destroy it. Syndioch stated several hundred years ago that you would.” “Who – who are you?” Celia said, her face contorting. “I am Ronjok of the Sands,” the figure said. The light that had filtered into the room earlier had displaced by now, so Dragomir could see the figure’s face, which was clearly male. “Ronjok!” Celia yelled, slamming her staff on the ground. “Why have you not awakened the golems?” “Why would I do such a thing?” Ronjok said, contorting his mouth into a toothless grin. “The city is under attack! Thousands of people will die if you don’t do your part to defend us!” “Yes… we know,” Ronjok said, “as you most likely know, the golems are bound to my essence. To have one of them be destroyed would be to have part of me destroyed. I will not awaken them unless I know that we can win.” “So you put yourself in front of the entire city?” “Go find another Sand Mage willing to sacrifice himself for your futile exploits. Syndioch has already foreseen your loss. He is the essence of time, just as I am the essence of sand. He has seen the destruction of Nastholo, your death, and the death of your General here. It will all be over within hours. I do not do the bidding of my underlings.” “Underlings?” Celia said, her eyes burning. I am your Empress!” “You are a fool… both you and Emperor Nastholo. Do you think that you are the true rulers of this empire?” “Ronjok, you…” “Who do you think you are?” Dragomir thundered. “I’ve heard enough… and from what I’ve heard, you aren’t loyal to anyone but yourself!” he continued. Grasping his spear in his right hand, he closed his eyes, and, knowing he had no other choice, hurled it at Ronjok’s neck.

“Do not make me laugh…” the spear crumbled into a pile of dust, which reformed itself into a pair of gigantic stone hands. The hands wrapped around Dragomir’s neck, strangling him, stealing the essence of his life from his lungs… “If I could be killed by such primitive ways, do you think I would still be alive? Now…” With a last squeeze, the stone hands crumbled into dust on the ground, leaving Dragomir hunched over on his knees, gasping for air. “You… you…” Dragomir rasped. “You traitor,” Celia spat. “Come, General Vaguston. We do not need the help of archaic and traitorous mages.” Dragomir nodded, and he rose from the ground. In all of his years, he had never imagined that the Circle of Eight would be reclusive, traitorous monsters… He followed Celia out of the Hall of Mages, breathing generous gasps of air. Looking back, he saw that Ronjok had already gone back behind the golden door, safe from harm in his impenetrable haven. “Empress, can we…” “General, do not fret over these matters. Those mages will play little part in our victory today.” The two quickly exited the Hall, walking back up the twisting passageways from which they came.

Yogron walked down the dank passages between the castle and the barracks. His feet splashed in the small pools of mud and water as he shed is Nastholan armor, pulling a black cloth hood over his head. He dropped his heavy, useless sword in front of him and drew a pair of poison-tipped stilettos from his belt. Is the spy really the successor of Gant… the Ninth Son? Had he apprehended the sole person who had a chance to save Saundrol from the threat that was about to arise? ‘These answers will come soon enough…’ he thought to himself, beginning his ascent over a tall stone wall. He had to get to The Nameless as soon as possible, or The Syndicate might not take action to defend Nastholo from the oncoming assault. Jumping down from the wall to the other side, Yogron tapped the ground with his foot to make a trap door appear. Falling down through the door, the hole above him was immediately replaced with the cobblestone it had been made of

just a few seconds ago. Before his feet touched the ground, he had a firestick pointed at his forehead. “Oh, point that Ephos-damned contraption at someone else, Grion,” Yogron said, pushing the metal barrel of the firestick away from his face. “The Syndicate has changed, Yogron. We do not accept people from the streets into out grasps… we cannot afford to,” Grion said, sliding the firestick into a belt across his abdomen. “Now, what brings you here?” “I… I have… I think that I have found him…” “Found him? You mean…” Grion said, his eyes widening. “Yes… yes. The ninth son.” “Yogron, you were always a fool. Do not make me kill you, and don’t go where you aren’t welcome.” “Wh-what?” Yogron said, gripping his daggers tightly, sweat building up in his palms. “What are you implying?” “You are in the Nastholan army. We all know that. For all I know, you could be planning to kill The Nameless if I give you an audience with him!” “That is enough,” a voice said. For the first time, Yogron looked around the room he was in… there was a dirt floor, slightly muddy, and the walls were covered in torches. There were small passageways leading in every way imaginable from the room. The voice, though, seemed to be coming from behind him… “Grion, why are you persecuting this man who you once called a friend? He says that he has found information of utmost importance… let him share it. A man in a long red and black coat which dragged on the dirt ground walked out of one of the passages behind Yogron. “My lord!” Grion said, kneeling on the ground. “What brings –” “Do not bow to me, Grion. All Godkin are equal, and if you bow to me, I have every reason to bow to you. There is no reason to respect me more than Yogron here,” the robed man said, almost in a whisper. “Nameless,” Yogron said, regaining his composure. “I have found the Ninth Son of Gant.” “Already? The Ninth Son?” The Nameless said, his eyes lightening. “Why did you not bring him to this old man?” “Because Nastholo is under attack. I haven’t had the chance.

The Nameless’s eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed, and he pulled his ornate red hood over his scarred and wrinkled face. “Come with me, my friend. As you know, I am a master of the necrotic arts. I shall assist you in defending Nastholo.” “No,” Grion said, baring his teeth. “We must retreat! We cannot be discovered here! The Syndicate must not fall!” “And why is that, Grion?” Yogron said. “Are you afraid that The Syndicate cannot handle the forces of Arrhennius?” “The road to Siffession… it is an extremely long one… you will not make it –” “Siffession? Who said anything about Siffession? We have to go to Islyeon!” Grion shouted. “Grion, you fool!” Yogron exclaimed, raising his lead dagger to his neck. “We cannot go to Islyeon! The entire way is likely blocked by squads of Arrhennian soldiers, and I have no desire to meet them!” “You will not convince him,” The Nameless said. “Let him go. He will learn through his dance with death.” “Dance… with death? Are you saying…?” Grion said, “That going to Islyeon is writing a death sentence for myself?” “Sounds good with me,” Yogron said. “Fine then. Nastholo must not fall.” “It shall not,” The Nameless said. “We will defend it until out last breath leaves out lungs.”

Worm studied the bloodied body of the fallen chancellor, the body tarnished and unfit for such a beautiful and ornate throne room. He held Chancellor Efson’s head in his hand, not minding the blood running down his arms. “You weren’t a very wise man, were you?” Worm said to the severed head, looking into its eyes. “But, all life must some to an end, isn’t that right?” He had killed a man, murdered him for an offer (a terrible offer none the less), and he felt relatively calm about the whole situation. A disembodied voice then spoke to him; “You killed him. It enlightened you, made you feel pleasure, did it not? The joy of killing? “You shall know who I am in time…

“Come now, Ameus, tell me that you don’t know who I am…” “What are you talking about? Who are you talking to?” Worm blurted out, not knowing where to stare to look the disembodied voice in the eye. “Time, Ameus. You are the Ninth Son, and your destiny will soon be made quite clear.” “Ninth son? What in the world are you babbling about?” “Time is short now, I must be going. I imagine that we should meet eventually.” Worm sat down in the throne, unconsciously, and held the Chancellor’s head. “You Arrhennians are so white. Pale, really…” and Worm drifted into a state of pensiveness… who was the strange voice that spoke to him… what was it… was he ill? Had he drunk too much Silverberry Wine last night? His eyes were just about to close, sending him into a deep sleep, but… An earsplitting note echoed over the entire city of Nastholo. Worm’s thoughtful state was broken as Chancellor Efson’s head rolled off of Worm’s startled hand and fell onto the floor. The battle of Nastholo had begun. Worm shut his eyes and stood up. Why was he doing this? Why was he, a thief and now a murderer, trying to save a city that would persecute and kill him given any chance? He walked forth to the closed throne room door, the pools of blood on the ground squelching up in between his toes, up and over his feet, the blood of his foe consuming him, drawing him down… “You feel remorse?” The disembodied voice said, returning, like caramel dripping from the ceiling. “You do not like to kill? Now that will not do… not at all…” “Who are you?” Worm said, grasping his head. A sudden migraine had just come over him; he could hardly hear the crash of the south gates coming down, the conglomeration of the screams of the Nastholan citizens and the battle cries of soldiers, the clashing of steel, the sounds of war. “Face the facts, Ameus. You felt it… his life running through your veins, his eyes draining of his soul…” “Stop… talking… to… me…” Worm fell to his knees and pounded his fists on the blood-covered floor, splashing the red substance onto his clothes.

“Go and defend your city, Ameus… you people need you to kill for them…” Worm picked up his hands, let the blood drain out between his fingers, and stood up. His legs were shaking, his hands were quivering, his body was blind to the commands of his mind as he limped slowly forward, leaning against the door, pushing it open. “Yes, that’s right… go and fight,” the voice said. “I… I won’t… speak to you...” Worm said softly, walking out of the door and to the spiraling staircase; Chancellor Efson’s sword had found a way into his hand, and he found himself dragging it behind him, slitting the carpet and leaving a trail of blood on the stone. In this battle, he would undoubtedly kill again… was he ready to face it? Face watching a death caused by him again? “I must not kill… I must not kill… I must not kill…” he lied to himself as he neared the bottom of the stairs. It seemed that the presence of the voice had gone, and his headache with it. The shouts, screams, and sounds of warfare were made louder and clearer as he neared the palace gate, when… The gate crashed to the ground, right in front of Worm, an inch closer and it would have crushed him. “Freeze!” An Arrhennian soldier said, looking back behind him. He was leading an entire squadron of soldiers, who were advancing into the palace. They were all alike… black armor, white face, hair under helmet… like a herd of animals... “Leave,” Worm said, his voice quivering. He closed his fist around the Chancellor’s sword in his right hand, drawing the knife from his waist with his left. “You are all animals… all the same… pitiful…” “Is that… is that Chancellor Efson’s blade?” the captains said, but before he could answer, Worm had launched himself into the group of soldiers, impaling the captain through the heart. “F… fool! In the name of House Sonsong, you will die!” One of the soldiers stammered. The soldier had a dagger through his neck before he could finish his sentence. “Too slow,” Worm said. He twirled around his sword behind him, decapitating a soldier who was preparing a surprise attack as he yanked the dagger out of his previous target’s neck and kicked the body to the ground. “Are there any other volunteers?” Worm said icily, in a callous rage, letting his weapons hang limply from his grip. Blood rolled off of the edges of the blades,

dripping onto the bodies on the ground, creating another massive pool of blood. The remaining soldiers drew their weapons. “You cannot fight all of us! We… we outnumber you fifteen to –” A dagger hit his forehead, the blade driving through the skull and into the fleshy recesses of the brain. It was not Worm who had thrown it. “I believe that’s fourteen to one,” Yogron said, perched in a hollow of the palace wall where a stained glass window once stood. “Yogron!” Worm exclaimed, bewildered at the thought of the cynical, hooded soldier helping him. “Yes, you can stop staring. I’ve brought help,” Yogron said, jumping down from the window and landing on his hands and feet on the ground. Suddenly, the corpses of the soldiers that Worm had already killed began to shake and quiver, and suddenly, a skeletal hand burst out of one. The skeletons of the bodies were emerging, leaving their old flesh behind and answering to a new master. “I see that you have met my army, Arrhennians…” the voice of an old man said. An imposing man in black and red robes stepped forwards, supporting himself on a twisted and wizened staff that appeared older than the man himself. “Kill them, my minions.” “Ah, Nameless. I see that you could make it as well,” Yogron said. “It seems I could,” the man that Yogron had called Nameless said, while watching his skeletal minions destroy and devour the Arrhennians, new skeletons constantly being raised from the dead bodies. “Who are you?” Worm said, looking at the old man. “And what kind of magic is that?” “Ah, obviously you have never witnessed the necrotic arts. A beautiful school of magic, if you are attracted to the aroma of death,” the Nameless said. “Move forth and support the Nastholans, minions!” “He is the lord of The Syndicate,” Yogron said. “You are of great interest to him, and instead of bringing you to him, he decided to come here.” “Yes; that is true, my friend. Yogron tells me that you call yourself ‘Worm’?” “I don’t know my real name, or I imagine I wouldn’t be in that situation, would I?” Worm said, narrowing his eyes. “Ah, ah yes. You do not know who you are yet. Very curious,” the Nameless said, smiling. “Come with me. We shall fight first, and speak later.”

“You… know who I am?” Worm said, his eyes widening. The one thing he had searched for… what he had searched for for his entire life… it was within his grasp! “Worm, that is something you must figure out for yourself. And you will, if we survive this battle,” the Nameless said, walking out of the door, now covered in the ripped open, boneless bodies of the Arrhennian soldiers. “No. I want to know now… I’ve wanted to know my entire life, you cannot deny me that!” Worm shouted at the mysterious man known as The Nameless, rage surging through his veins… “No,” the Nameless said curtly. “Your destiny speaks great, great things for you, Worm. I will accompany you to where you must go to find your identity, that is, after this battle is over.” “The battle…” Worm said, frowning. “Yes,” Yogron said. He had been so quiet that Worm had forgotten that he was there. “Nastholo… it is very likely that without the help of every soul in the city that she will fall.”

“Fall back!” Dragomir yelled. He motioned his hand back towards the Engineers’ Guild. “You, Demonsthes. Tell as many civilians as you can to take cover in the Engineers’ Guild Hall. The rest of us will hold them back.” Dragomir and most of the remaining Nastholan army was being backed into a corner… a relatively small corner at that. The Arrhennians were advancing like a menacing thunderstorm, not the kind that creates a wondrous spectacle miles away, but the variation in which bolts of lightning crush the ground with impact right in front of you. Not surprisingly, this is precisely the type of spell that the Arrhennian Mages were casting. As soon as their Battlemage Unit had entered the city through the North Gate (they had decided to surround the city before entering), darkened clouds began to spread only yards above the highest point in Nastholo, drenching the ground with bullet-like rain and occasionally frying a soldier or two – Arrhennian or Nastholan – with a lightning bolt. A mixed squadron of Arrhennians was advancing towards Dragomir’s army, their captain had his helmet visor pulled over his head (Dragomir assumed that it

was to keep the elements of the storm out of his face), so Dragomir couldn’t see the face of his enemy. “Surrender! We outnumber you ten to one!” Dragomir shouted, holding a spear above his head. “Ten to one?” The Arrhennian captain said. Dragomir could only imagine seeing a smirk behind his helmet. “Your whole army outnumbers my squadron ten to one? How pitiful. Our army outnumbers your’s one hundred to one. Your army is too small to do anything to us!” “His army may be…” Dragomir looked up, and behind him, he saw three figures: Yogron, Worm, and a tall, robed man holding a wizened staff. Dragomir could only imagine that this was ‘The Nameless,’ the lord of The Syndicate. “…but mine is not,” The Nameless finished. Dragomir’s eyes widened as he saw the enormous horde of… creatures… following The Nameless. There were skeletons, ghouls, and undead bodies in the masses, some wearing remnants of Arrhennian armor, some wearing Nastholan armor, some wearing the clothes of peasants. “So, Captain,” the Nameless rasped, glaring at the Arrhennian squadron. “Will you surrender now?” “Wh… what are you? What sort of dark arts are you –” the Arrhennian started, staggering back. “It’s called the ‘Necrotic Arts,’ and I refer to it as a slightly beige color of art myself, not entirely dark. Now, are you prepared to die?” The Nameless said. He snapped his fingers, and his undead army released itself on the Arrhennians. “Convenient, isn’t it?” “Dragomir! It’s good to see you again,” Worm said, nodding to greet Dragomir. “Ah, Sir Worm. I see that you have completed your task and made it out alive,” Dragomir said. “Now, with you three in the game, it seems we have a chance. We must secure the North Gate and the South Gate to stop the influx of Arrhennian soldiers, and –” “General! General Vaguston!” a rasping and panting voice said. Dragomir, hearing the sound of clanking armor, turned around. “Yes, Demonsthes? What is it?”

“The Arrhennians… they’ve taken the residential district! They’re slaughtering citizens!” Demonsthes shouted, still panting. He put his hands on his knees, and fell to the ground. “What!?!” Dragomir shouted. “The Arrhennians… monsters! I never thought that they would be heartless enough to kill civilians!” “Do not despair, friend,” The Nameless said. “We will drive them out. Now, I imagine that you know the path to the Residential District from here?” “Of course,” Dragomir said. “Worm, Yogron! Let’s move out!” Worm nodded, and began to dash alongside Dragomir. Yogron drudged behind, and The Nameless had broken into a somewhat slow, tranquil jog, with his undead army strolling behind him.

The sound of the pipe organ, harmonious and yet horrifically flat, echoed over the entire town of Arr Efson, making the wooden walls of the houses shudder in both fear and pain. The chilling song wafted through the Forest of Time, mingling with the branches, violently blowing the leaves. The sound was coming from the top room of the fortified wooden hall in the center of the town. The robed man’s fingers danced over the expertly carved and fashioned wooden keys, pausing for emphasis every few seconds. His eyes were closed as he played, and small strands of his hair blew in his face. His pale, practically nonexistent lips curved into a smile, and he lifted his fingers from the keys as he heard the door creak open. “A fine morning, Brother,” the man said to the ascetic who had walked through the door. “And how is the monastery?” “The monastery is well,” the ascetic said, bowing to the man. “And how are you, Sire Efson?” “I am quite all right,” the man named Vossler Efson said. His voice was as smooth and chilling as the melody he had been playing on the organ. “Did you… did you get the news?” The ascetic asked him. “Yes, yes,” Vossler said. He stuck out his arm, whistled, and a crow flew in the window and landed on his shoulder. “My… associates get information to me faster than anyone could.” “So… how are you?”

“Father was a fool,” Vossler said. “I ought to personally thank the one who killed him, as I would have probably done it myself.” “What are you saying? How can you-” The ascetic started. He seemed in shock. “He was close to the High King. He fell under its influence,” Vossler sang. “There was no conceivable way that he would not be killed by one of us.” “One of us?” The ascetic said. “Yes,” Vossler said, smiling tranquilly. “Us, as in the few who can see the true evils that take place in this world. My true father was killed years ago.” “Regardless… there is someone here to see you,” The ascetic said. A woman, with her black hair cut to her shoulders with a crescent-moon pattern in the back walked into the room. She bowed curtly to Vossler, her angelic face glowing. “I shall leave you to discuss… matter…” the ascetic said, leaving the room. He shut the door tightly behind him. Vossler walked over and slid multiple bolts over the door. “Miss Amber Fenera… what can I do for you?” Vossler said, polishing his nails on his robes. Amber’s face, which had been frozen with intensity up until this point, burst into a grin. “The High King is dead,” she said, with triumph in her voice.

The residential district was completely overrun. Dragomir, looking through the gates, saw that the soldiers weren’t moving at all. Sadly, most of the citizens were lying on the ground dead. The others were in the same state as the Arrhennian soldiers. “These soldiers,” The Nameless said, frowning. “They do not look truly… normal.” The soldiers in the residential district did not look normal at all. Worm glanced at them, and although he could not put his finger on it, something was wrong. “Say,” Yogron said. “What ever happened to the Empress?” “She took the military district,” Dragomir said over the thundering rain. “We should meet up with her if we can get through here alive.”

“Let us make haste then,” The Nameless said, waving his hand. The corpses of the peasants came back to life, in various warped and disconfigured forms, minus the flesh. The risen skeletons began to hack at the still-as-stone Arrhennians with splintered bones. “Very interesting,” The Nameless said. “They don’t even seem to care.” “Follow me then,” Dragomir said. “If your flesh-beasts can hold the soldiers off, we should be fine.” “Hold them off? More like use them as punching bags,” Worm said. “Let’s hurry up and find the Empress so that we can decide what to do next.” Dragomir nodded, and stepped forward into the gauntlet of motionless soldiers. Walking through the groups of Arrhennians and undead, he seemed surprised that none of them made a move to attack him. “Come on,” Dragomir yelled back, stunned. “I think that it’s safe.” Suddenly, Worm saw a figure running towards them in the mist and rain. Upon closer inspection, found that it was the Empress, her young figure getting closer and closer by the second.

“Run!” She yelled, her voice echoing off of

the houses. “Ronjok! He’s betrayed us!” Then he saw it… the ground was slowly churning, grasping at the corpses of both the Nastholans and Arrhennians indiscriminatorily. The reason why the Arrhennians were strange-looking was because they had shafts of narrow stone through their backs, and they were leaning against the walls dead. “Ronjok?” The Nameless said. “of the sands?” “Get to the locomotives,” Celia panted, finally approaching the group. “We can escape… on a locomotive car… there’s no way… Ronjok is killing everyone… we have to leave if we plan to strike back…” She then collapsed onto the churning ground. Before the demonic hands of earth pulled her underneath the ground, Dragomir lifted her up and flung the unconscious body over his shoulder. “To the locomotives!” Dragomir roared, beginning to walk. The weight of Celia’s body over his shoulder only slightly impedimented his movement as he broke into a run. “We’ve been betrayed! Save who you-” Worm heard the army that they had left behind scrambling and screaming. Apparently, this Ronjok (whoever he was) had attempted to, or succeeded in killing them. After turning the corner, Worm concluded that the latter was truth.

“We’d better hurry,” Yogron said, looking at the dead bones. “I’ve seen enough death today for my entire life.” Dragomir nodded, and the group ran towards the locomotive stations behind the Engineers’ Guild Hall.

Vossler was surprised at the news. In fact, he was so surprised that Amber could awaken him only after pouring six and a half buckets of cold water on his face. “What… what did you say?” Vossler said with his eyes wide. “Did you say that the High King, Arhos Deseon, is dead?” “Yes,” Amber said, smiling. “Assassinated.” “Assassinated?” Vossler said, still getting over the shock. “Guess who Vizier Iorphes has called the chief suspect?” Amber said, turning grim. Vossler felt the blood drain from his face, gulped, and helpfully pointed at the mirror in the corner. “Well then.” He whispered. “To Nas Oceana we go.”

PART II: Revelations Bentley’s eyelids flickered for a moment as he adjusted to the arid and blinding light of Nas Oceana. He grumbled to himself and let his massive hand fall to the ground. It almost scraped the dusty cobblestone streets of the market town. One would think that at least someone would notice a man who was eight feet tall (normally thirteen. He had gotten used to crouching so that he could walk through doors), nine feet wide (from shoulder to shoulder. He had to walk sideways through doors anyways), and ten feet ugly, but alas, one was wrong. Bentley knew that one was wrong; because he had little trouble going anywhere he wanted without notice. He sighed, and continued to plow through the masses of people. Nearing the edge of a pier, he reached into a large metal collar on his neck and pulled out a bag. He looked into the bag and pulled out a handful of shards and gems, letting them run through his fingers and back into the bag. His last client had paid him generously. Bentley let the bag settle in his palm, and brought his other hand down on the bag, smashing the shards and gems, grinding them to dust. He then threw the bag into the ocean, as far out as his arm could manage. Bentley did not value personal possessions.

Worm yawned and opened his eyes. He was leaning against something that felt like wood. Funny, he thought, there wasn’t any wood in locomotive cars. Suddenly, he felt a staff hit him on the head twice. “It’s about time you’ve awakened,” The Nameless said. “Er… where are we?” Worm grunted. “Nas Oceana,” a voice that sounded like the Empress said. “Empress?” Worm said, standing up. He had apparently been leaned against a wooden pillar in the middle of a gigantic pier to sleep. “I thought you were out cold.”

“Empress?” The voice said, and suddenly, Worm realized that the caramel voice sounded nothing like the Empress. “The correct title would be ‘Baroness,’ if you were to address me formally at all.” Worm spun around to see a woman leaning against another pillar. She had long, gray-blue hair and appeared around twenty-five years old. “Lia Slatesong,” the woman said. “Dragomir spoke to me about you. Said you were important.” “Worm,” he said, but had a feeling that she already knew what he called himself. Lia Slatesong was just about to speak, when Worm saw Dragomir and Celia approaching from behind. “Come to think of it,” Worm said, to no one in particular. “Where did Yogron go?” “He said that he didn’t want to continue this path of death,” The Nameless said. “I have appointed him as the head of the Syndicate while I accompany you.” “Accompany me? Where exactly are we going?” Worm retorted. “Atrophes,” The Nameless replied emotionlessly. He turned his head curtly to Dragomir and Celia, who were now in the close vicinity of the group. “Ah, Worm. You’re awake,” Dragomir said, nodding. “I trust that you have met Ms. Slatesong?” Worm nodded, and caught a glimpse of Lia’s face shining. “So, why is it that we’re going to Atrophes?” “You are,” Celia said. “Dragomir and I have decided to go to Islyeon. We must rally the Alderians and Fenlos for battle if we want to take back Nastholo from that traitor Ronjok.” Worm saw her eyes twitching, and felt an angry quiver in her voice. “You’re mad,” Worm said. “I love it.” “You are going to Atrophes to find your purpose,” The Nameless said to Worm. Worm held in laughter. “Good one,” he said, reaching over to pat The Nameless on the back. His hand was immediately whacked by The Nameless’s staff. “What was that for?” “You will find what you most desire, and, in turn, your purpose, when you go to Atrophes,” The Nameless said. “It is not, and was not, a joke, in any way, shape or form.”

“You could try and stop being so cryptic,” Worm said, rubbing his hand.

“This idea of yours,” Amber grumbled, “involved walking through miles of desert?” “Ah, no,” Vossler’s singsong voice said, his maroon velvet coat fluttering in the sea wind. “Shortcut.” The two Arrhennians walked down the cobblestone road that led to Nas Oceana. Vossler, although putting on a front of toughness, was, in fact, as tired as Hell and had to lean on his staff to walk any further. Suddenly, he heard a voice in his head, one that he had heard several times in the past… “Vossler. You are a very important child.” “I’m not a child,” Vossler said. “Unless you call twenty-one a…” and he stopped when he realized that no one was listening to him. “You must seek the Ninth Son. Only then will you truly realize your purpose. Only then will your destiny become clear.” “What, as mud?” Vossler had had this conversation before, many times earlier in his life, and every night for the past few months. “See that you watch over Miss Amber Fenera. She is, perhaps, more important than yourself.” Now she’s a child; Vossler thought. Not even of age yet. “The Ninth Son waits for you now…” Vossler had never heard that before. Suddenly, his face felt very wet, and cold. Very, very cold. He opened his eyes with a start, and said; “That gets very old, Miss Fenera.” “It also gets more fun every time. Now, get your ass out of bed. We need to get out of here, pronto.” Vossler nodded. He remembered that they had arrived at Nas Oceana the other night, and they had rented a room in the inn. He pulled his maroon velvet coat from a bedpost, slipping it over his black robes. He looked at Amber, with a boyish grin that made him look ten years younger; “Ready to hijack a boat?”

Bentley was muttering curses to himself, pushing his greasy black strands of hair from his face. No one, not even Bentley, knew why it was greasy. No one cared to. He moved away from the pier that he had thrown his pay over, surprisingly silent for his size. He reached into his collar and pulled a small piece of paper out… STRIOD DESEON A single name had been written. The name of his next target. While reading, her crashed into a strange man in a red velvet coat with obscenely frizzed hair. “Oh, I’m sorry,” the man said. He had a teenage girl with him, and the both looked as if they were in a terrible hurry. Bentley grunted and continued to walk down his path, making sure to get in front of the odd couple. He had a boat to catch. And by catch, he meant steal and kill anyone who tried to stop him.

“Here comes trouble,” Dragomir said, glancing back at the two boats that were moored to make sure that no one had stolen them. He then stared ahead the road. Two Arrhennians, a man and a girl, were walking up the road. Worm saw Dragomir’s eyes lock with the red-velvet coated man’s eyes, with contempt.

“Well,” Vossler said, “well, well.” “What is it?” Amber said. “Those boats look decent,” Vossler said. He was eying a pair of small black boats that appeared to have steam engines. Both were sleek, compact, and dangerous-looking. “Who are they?” Amber said, motioning her head towards what appeared to be a rag-tag group of travelers to Vossler. They were getting ready to board the two ships. “Our targets, I guess,” Vossler said, moving his eyes to lock in place with those of the biggest man in the group of travelers.

Bentley had silently snuck behind the group of people. They looked, combined, more strange (and dangerous) than him. He also had seen the robed man in the group who had looked, to him, very similar to a certain Lord of a certain Syndicate. “Worm, can you hear me?” The Nameless said. So the boy is called Worm, Bentley noted. If The Nameless knows him, he must be important. “We will depart for Atrophes shortly – Worm, are you even listening?” Atrophes? Bentley began to think, and he walked forwards, then back. He then dove under the water near the ship that The Nameless had said was headed to Atrophes, and clung to the bottom of the ship. For once, he did not feel like killing to gain passage.

Worm heard a loud splash, and he turned around to look at the boats. They were all right. “Worm! Worm, listen to me!” The Nameless said. “Yeah, what is it?” Worm said, turning his head to face The Nameless. “Arrhennians,” Dragomir said. “The Empress and I should…” “Is that… wait,” The Nameless said. “Wait here. They do not mean us harm.” “You know them?” Worm whispered. The Nameless nodded. “Dragomir, we should go,” Lia said. Celia nodded. “Leave these dealings to the Syndicate. We will make our leave now –” Celia said, stepping onto one of the black boats. Lia took Dragomir’s hand and walked to the end of the pier, near the boat’s dock. “Wait!” the Arrhennian man yelled. “Waaaait!” The man ran up to the The Nameless, his hands on his knees, panting. “You… don’t happen to be going to… Islyeon… do you?” “Vossler!” The girl scolded. “I don’t have much expertise in the field of commandeering ships, but I know that asking first is definitely not the way to hijack a boat!”

“Maybe,” Vossler said, panting, “There’s no need to steal.” “Yes, Vossler Efson; Ms. Amber Fenera, I cannot help but saying that I have expected you here,” The Nameless said. “Efson?” Worm said, looking at Vossler. “As in the late Chancellor Efson?” “Ah, so it was you,” Vossler said, staring at Worm. “Thanks.” “Wh-what?” Worm said. “Did you just thank me for killing…” “A traitor, my father,” Vossler said. “Evil, evil man.” “But, but…” “Don’t judge me by my race,” Vossler sang. “Just because I’m from the West doesn’t mean that I’m evil.” Vossler mused for a moment. “She isn’t, either.” “So why, then,” Dragomir said, walking forward from the pier, “are you here?” “For Ephos’s sake,” Amber interjected. “We’re people, are we not? This is a market and a port. We mean no harm to –” “We’re running away,” Vossler said. “I’m under suspect for assassinating the High King.” All of the faces in the room went white. Suddenly, a clamor of armor could be heard in the distance. It looked as if Vossler’s statement had triggered an influx of Arrhennian soldiers, or perhaps they had just followed the locomotive car to Nas Oceana. “Time to run,” The Nameless said. “Vossler, Amber. You are free to come with us.” “How do you know who we are?” Vossler said, incredulous. “There will be time for that later. Come,” The Nameless yelled. A shot from a firestick landed on the pier, piercing a hole in the wood. “Or you could stick around,” Worm said, sarcastically. He most definitely didn’t want them to stick around. He shot a quick glance at Amber. Dragomir and his group had already gotten into their boat, and started the steam engine. Vossler, Worm, and Amber ran towards the remaining boat, The Nameless standing at the entrance to the pier, making sure that the other three got onto the boat safely. The roaring of the oncoming squad of Arrhennian soldiers could be heard getting louder and louder…

“Go!” The Nameless shouted. “Start the engine!” Worm pulled the cord to start the steam engine, and the boat began to slowly inch, getting faster and faster every second… The Nameless jumped, landed in the water, and reached up a hand to grab a metal bar on the side of the boat. He waved to the Arrhennian soldiers as they became visible from the port, shooting their inaccurate firesticks into the water near him.

Bentley was clutching to the bottom of the boat. His lungs were almost out of air; he estimated that he had about five minutes before he drowned. He did as much of a shrug as was possible underwater, and closed his eyes.

“I suppose that we didn’t have time for formal introductions on the pier, did we?” The Nameless said. His robes were dripping with ocean water as he climbed aboard the small boat. He was squeezing the water out of his grey and black thin beard. “Right,” Vossler said, his chin resting on his fist. “We’ll start with you. Who are you, and why are we here?” Worm was sitting on the edge of the boat with his feet over the edge, dangling in the water. He leaned his head back; “That’s what I’d like to know,” he said truthfully. “Where in the flames of Ephos are we going?” “I’m sorry,” The Nameless said. “I believe you both know me. My name is Nameless, and I am the head of the Syndicate. We are going to the city of Atrophes.” “What a surprising revelation,” Vossler said. “Now, be good children and get to know each other,” The Nameless said, walking into the cabin. “This won’t be your last journey together.” The three of them watched the door close behind the strange, nameless man, and then began to look at each other.

“Amber Fenera,” Amber said quietly. She had been leaning against the wall of the cabin, silently until now. She pushed the rim of the oversized hat up, revealing her eyes to the two other travelers. “I am the sole daughter and heir of the second Fenera branch family,” she said with a smile. “Right. I’m Worm,” Worm said. “Son of no one and bandit extraordinaire. Pleased to meet you.” “And I’m Vossler,” Vossler said, brushing a small amount of dust off of the shoulder pad of his coat. “Pleasure,” Worm commented. “Now, it might just be me, but it looks like you two don’t really know what’s going on either. I think all three of us deserve an explanation as to why we’re on this boat and where exactly we’re going to.” Vossler nodded and stared at the cabin that the Nameless had meandered into, glowering. Amber smiled and stared at the door. Worm just stared. They heard a splash breaking the silence, perhaps a large fish or extremely odd-shaped swimmer surfacing, and another splash of the thing retreating into the water. In the silence, Worm took a small amount of his cluttered mind to think about how nice the cool wind was at sea. He had never been out of the Nastholan Desert in his lifetime. It looked like that was about to change drastically, for whatever reason The Nameless had.

Amber was crying over the side of the deck. The violet moon had recently risen, and it was resonating it’s aura of dark light, pulsing over the placid water. She had never known anything outside of the city of Arr Fenera before she had been contacted by Vossler many years ago. Vossler had told her something about listening to her elders, and that it was ‘extremely important that she took heed to what he had to say.’ The first time that she had left Arr Fenera to visit Arr Efson, she returned to an assassinated father and a mother driven insane by grief. She had lost her place in the city within the year she had left. Amber reached behind her neck and gently pulled a chained topaz pendant out from under her shirt. She looked into the flawless stone, and recalled the foggy memories that she had about how her family had been like for the first ten years of her life. She laughed in her throat, dropping the pendant into a small bag that was

lying on the deck. Staring out into the night, she realized that she didn’t know what to believe. Her family, one of the most respected in the Arrhennian Empire, had promised her a position in royalty when she was of age. At first she had thought that they had cared about her; she had even met the High King once. Arhos Deseon, the High King who had been assassinated just days ago. And then there was Vossler, who had taught her the evils of the High King and certain families of the Arrhennian Empire. His voice, she had thought, brimmed over with truth and valiant righteousness. That tone in his voice had gone. Maybe, she thought, Vossler doesn’t believe that there is a right or wrong side anymore? Maybe I shouldn’t either? Are the Arrhennians right? Should they go and confess to the Vizier Iorphes himself? There was no doubt that he was in charge with the assassination of High King Deseon… And then there was this ‘Worm’ character. He didn’t look like the bandit extraordinaire that he had called himself; with his half-tied turban, elaborate turquoise earring, and half-buttoned coat, he looked more like a youthful, rebellious soldier or mercenary. Somehow, though, Amber felt that she could trust him. That other character, who had called himself The Nameless; however, she didn’t know about… Suddenly, Amber heard an almost silent splash from under the boat. She felt the boat vibrate as she saw a hand that appeared two feet wide grasp the side of the boat. Stepping back, she saw a gigantic abomination of a man hauling himself onto the boat. He was a mountain unleashed from the grip of the earth, a leviathan, a juggernaut… “I didn’t see you there, Madame,” Bentley said, pushing the greasy – and now wet – strands of dark hair out of his face. Amber shivered, stepping back. The darkness of the night was getting to her; she must only be seeing things. “This is my ride to Atrophes. Don’t mind me,” Bentley said. “Who… who are you?” Amber asked, now leaning backwards against the other side of the boat. “My name is… not the issue as of now,” Bentley said. “I can trust that you won’t tell any of the other passengers that I’m on this ship, right?” “Are you… are you going to kill me?” Amber said, shaking. “Why are you here?”

“No, I will not kill you,” Bentley said, “that is, yet. You are not my target.” “I’m going to… get help…” Amber said, slowly walking backwards towards the cabin. “Listen, woman,” Bentley growled. He was surprisingly swift while walking, and reached Amber within seconds. He gripped her neck in his hand, pressing her up against the wall of the cabin. “If you tell anyone that I’m here, I will crush your skull and throw your body into the Sea of Memories. Is that clear?” “Wh… why are you… yes…” Amber said. The giant was constricting her air passages, she couldn’t breathe, and she had no option but to oblige to his demands for the moment. “Good. I will be watching you,” Bentley said. “Now, is there anywhere under the deck I can sleep? I’ve been swimming for hours.”

“Ameus, why are you doing this?” the voice said. Worm was sitting in a small room that might as well have been a prison cell. There was a bed, a small crystal light on the ceiling, and a window that opened about ten feet above the water’s surface. “What exactly am I doing?” Worm said, turning his dagger in his hand. “Following a bunch of people that you don’t know,” the voice said. “It’s funny that you even trust a man who won’t give you his name.” “Trust? Who said anything about trust?” Worm said, sitting down on the small bed. “I wouldn’t trust him farther than I could throw my dagger.” “I know you,” the voice said. Suddenly, Worm felt the presence of another person in the room. “I know you and I can see that you trust him.” “Who are you? Why should I listen to you when I can’t even –” Worm noticed that, right behind him, another man was leaning against the wall of the room. “My name,” he said, “is Lyiar.” He was about as tall as Worm, but there was something about him that made him look extremely menacing and dark. “But never mind this talk about that old fool. There is something important I have got to tell you.” Worm stared at the man in disbelief, moving the small flap of his turban from over his right eye to make sure that he was seeing correctly. How did this person, whoever he was, get on the boat?

“How are you here?” Worm blurted out. “Who are you?” “I just told you who I am,” Lyiar said, blowing at the golden hair that fell into his eyes. “Now, do you want to hear what I have to say or not?” “You didn’t answer my first question,” Worm insisted. “Fine,” Lyiar said. “I guess that you don’t need my advice.” “No,” Worm said, “I suppose that you can tell me what you had to.” “Good,” Lyiar smirked. “Now, I want you to listen carefully. You have to find the Oracle of the Vaettir. She’s somewhere on the continent of Empheros. That’s where you’re heading, isn’t it?” Worm nodded. If he remembered right, Atrophes was on Empheros. “So what exactly is this ‘Oracle of the Vaettir’? I’ve never heard of anything like that.” “That’s what the message was,” Lyiar said, smiling. He drew a blue saber from his waist, and pointed it at the wall of the room. “Now, I bid you farewell. We will meet again.” He slashed four lines in the wall, in the shape of a vertical rectangle. The shape he had cut glowed for a moment, and was then replaced with a black, jewel-encrusted door. Lyiar pushed it open and walked through, closing the door behind him. “Wait!” Worm said. “What kind of help was that?” But it was too late, as the door had already sunken into the wall and vanished. Worm stared at what he had just seen, and thought over what Lyiar had said to him. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed onto the bed.

Worm’s jaw was shattered; salty-sweet blood was running down from both corners of his mouth. He heard a thousand screams from behind him. Turning, he saw that the eldritch wail had come from the clacking mandibles of a gigantic beast that was rapidly approaching from behind. It emitted another thousand-scream screech, its insectoid tails flailing wildly in the air. It was getting closer now, but Worm’s feet were frozen in place, he tried to scream, but only a gurgle of blood responded to his impulses. He suddenly realized that he had an odd, red-bladed sword in his hand. He raised it as the beast rampaged his way, futilely pointing it at the monster’s mammoth pincers…