During a particularly poignant part of “The Illusion: Dark Path,” I played with the ideas of a darker, less-forgiving version of Kyle Brogan, who traded in his noble nature for a ruthnessness that reflected the darkness that clouded his heart. I know that sounds a little heavy-handed, but this sample is the beginning of a trek that the character really needed to take away from the other True Ones, in order to learn a few things for himself.
The land was dark, desolate, and seemed utterly wasted. It was as if the gods had abandoned all hope among these people, and had simply left them to die. The once plentiful foliage and undergrowth, the plentiful fields, and the lake which had once been teeming with fish, now left no sign of life, aside from the meager peasant folk hopelessly foraging for a meal. A bleak and darkened sky loomed above the valley, the raw, malevolent power seeming to echo in the clouds, and in the black mountains which only taunted the villagers down below.
Zelli was alone at the farmhouse, with Mrs. Wheeler off to get some water from the stream that fed into the lake. They’d learned to boil all of their water after Zelli became sick last week, and so that had also meant many more trips to the source to account for the extra time and the waste to steam.
Mrs. Wheeler had insisted that they continue with the duties of the farm – cooking, cleaning, milking the cow, and gathering eggs. Zelli agreed, but was always wary of villagers wandering too close. They’d lost four of their ten chickens to robbers already, until they had decided to bring the birds into the house, inside of the guest room where Zelli had used to sleep. They would throw seed into to them every day, and had moved the perches from the coop into the room, so that eggs could still be gathered. The room began to smell something awful, but Mrs. Wheeler opened the window and closed the door, and neither she nor Zelli complained.
Mrs. Wheeler continued to try and tend her garden, but could only seem to grow some beets, as well as a few hardy squash that seemed just as stubborn as she was. Everything had become more hopeless, but both realized that they were better off than most. At least there was something to eat, something to survive on, and they still had one another.
She walked around the house, to gather a few more logs for the fire. Even in the last couple of weeks, the pile had become alarmingly low, but with the nearest forest miles away, there wasn’t much hope of finding any more firewood in the near future. She lifted two large logs into her arms and struggled to carry them into the house.
In the distance, Zelli noticed a new figure approaching Cooper Town. His stature was unlike any of the men he’d seen before. He walked alongside his horse, with his brown cloak shrouding his face. But the little child didn’t sense danger when he gazed upon him.
The hilt of a sword protruded from his back, but even that, along with his plain brown trousers and leather boots, weren’t enough to merit any special attention.
It was his stride, his movements, and his demeanor that seemed to catch Zelli’s attention most, distracting her from the rudimentary chore that Mrs. Wheeler had entrusted to her.
He walked with a sense of purpose, a sense of power. It was a very strange feeling, one that she hadn’t seen since Wheeler himself had been taken by the Empress’ Guard two weeks ago. But the stranger was not headed towards the farmhouse. It was obvious that his destination was the center of Cooper itself. She wondered if perhaps this was just one of the Empress’ many scouts. There had been reports of a group of mercenaries gathering in Tarranus, just three miles up the road, so maybe this man was just another soldier-for hire.
She looked at him again, but then just shrugged and continued towards the front. Suddenly she felt the point of a blade in her back. She dropped the firewood out of reflex.
“Don’t make a sound, little girl, or I’ll gut you like a fish.” Zelli’s breaths became short, quick, as she fought to keep her pounding heart quiet. She could hear breathing behind her, but there seemed to be more than one pair of lungs. Though she couldn’t tell exactly, she was almost certain that there were at least three men.
“The chickens,” said the gruff voice behind her. “I know you have them. Where are they?”
“The… the back of the… the house,” stammered Zelli.
“Take me to them,” the robber commanded. “And no tricks.”
Zelli swallowed, and stepped forward slowly, but she then felt the point dig deeper into her back.
“Quickly now,” said the man sharply. Zelli complied, walking towards the front door. She opened the door, and stepped inside. She also heard the boot falls behind her. It was a plain farmhouse, with a small kitchen area, a modest fireplace, and two beds in the front room. Zelli stopped, but even the dig of the blade wouldn’t force her to take another step.
“Let’s move, girl!” The brute replied through gritted teeth.
“How do I know you won’t just kill me as soon as I show you the way?”
One of the men chuckled. “It’s a risk you’ll be taking, little one.” But then the chuckle stopped short, with a grunt, followed by the sound of a body hitting the floor. Zelli glanced to her right, and noticed a dagger blade protruding from the man’s back, as he lay motionless on the floor.
The robber turned around, his blade moving from her back, and she seemingly leapt away, turning to see what was going on. But there was nothing there. There was only the one fallen robber, with the other two searching frantically to find where that dagger had come from. But neither they, nor their victim could see anyone anywhere.
“What is it, Kasan?” Asked the second robber. Both were dressed in rags, with old, dirty tunics and old, worn out leather shoes.
“I see nothing!” Said Kasan. He whirled around towards Zelli. “Are you responsible for this, little witch?”
There was a second grunt as the second man was struck. This time, Zelli saw what happened, but it still happened too fast to really understand what was going on. A curved weapon was embedded in the second robber’s chest, that looked to be some kind of a thin “L” shape. The robber twitched for a moment, and then lay still.
Kasan turned quickly to his comrade, lying as stiff as the first, and then whirled towards Zelli in alarm. He began to back away, fear in his eyes. He was shaking his head as he dropped his weapon, a dagger, onto the wooden floor, and raised his hands in defeat.
“Leaving! Leaving!” Then Zelli saw the final strike. The dark-cloaked man appeared out of nowhere, sword in hand. The blue steel blade fell across the man’s neck as he froze.
“Attacking a little girl?” It was a deep voice, filled with a low thunder of unmistakable rage.
“Just… wanted to… eat,” said Kasan pitifully.
“Too bad,” said the man.
“Wait,” said Zelli. The cloaked man paused, and then looked directly at her. Even with his face shrouded, Zelli could see the fury glowering in the man’s eyes. “Don’t… don’t kill him.” The man looked confused, not understanding. “Please,” said Zelli. “These men are not bad. They have no other choice.”
There was an eternal hesitation, as the man pondered these words, contemplating if he should really follow this little girl’s advice. Finally, the man’s grip relaxed, and he lowered his weapon slightly.
“Go, now.” Came the reply. “You’re lucky this little one still has compassion in her heart.”
He released the man, who hesitated for only a second, trying to understand what had just occurred, and then ran for dear life as fast as his feet would carry him.
The man stepped inside the house, and removed his weapons from the bodies of the two men, replacing them onto his belt pouch before dragging the two fallen criminals from the house. Zelli watched him lift the two bodies onto his horse, tying them to the saddle with a length of rope. It amazed Zelli that the horse didn’t even seem skittish at the signs of death. Undoubtedly, there had been many instances where this animal had seen her master carry out such actions.
“Are you alright?” asked the man, kneeling down to Zelli’s eye level.
“Yes,” replied Zelli resolutely. “Thank you.”
“Yes,” said the man. He picked up the dagger blades on the ground. “Do you live in this house alone?”
“No,” said Zelli. “Mrs. Wheeler will be back from the lake shortly.”
“The lake?” Asked the man, standing up.
“To get water,” clarified Zelli. “We’ve nearly run out.” The man placed two of the daggers on the table, but then picked up the last one, Kasan’s weapon, and slipped it into an empty notch on his belt.
“When she returns,” said the stranger. “Tell her everything that happened. Make sure that she knows what occurred today.”
“And who shall I tell her you are?” Said Zelli with curiosity.
“Call me Brogan,” said the man. He walked over to the doorframe.
“My name is Zelli. Are you a mercenary, Mr. Brogan? Are you off to meet with the others in Tarranus?”
“Not a mercenary,” said Mr. Brogan. “But I am off to meet them in Tarranus.”
“For what?” Zelli saw the look of determination return to the man’s face.
“Let’s just say personal reasons,” said Mr. Brogan he stepped out of the home, and again raised the cloak over his head. “Good afternoon, little Zelli.”
She watched him step out the door, and walk to his horse, again resuming his journey towards the town.
- – - – -
Tarranus really wasn’t that hard to find, perched perilously on the northern fringe of the Lakeside valley, nestled against the mountains above it. As Kyle approached the township, the signs of death and destruction were supplemented by the laughs and jeers of an impromptu celebration. Horses, tents, and burning torches littered the streets, along with numerous mercenaries who looked determined to enjoy drinking until their livers burst.
He walked right into the center of town, his unusual cargo attracting some modest attention. He’d chosen to cart the two fallen burglars along as both a diversion, and also a warning. Though Kyle was strong as an ox, several of the mercenaries around him looked to be carved from solid rock. These were men who made their living by the sword, and Kyle knew that many of them would not be kind unto a former True One.
He recognized several of the insignias on armor or tunics, as well as the flags of a number of the organized mercenary bands. Kyle lost count of the soldiers, numbering well into the hundreds. Obviously, whatever had brought them here was to be a momentous occasion.
Kyle was not so ignorant to assume that it was anything less than related to the Empress herself.
He’d arrived with a very simple plan. Yuri had mentioned that there were six pieces of Regalia. Three were good, and three were evil. If there was any hope of finding the final evil piece before Kelley had the chance, then Kyle might inadvertently end this conflict before it even began. After all, if the Empress didn’t have all three pieces, and Arael and the others found the final good one, then the odds would be significantly tipped in their favor.
But though that was a marvelous plan, Kyle didn’t have a clue where to look.
“Them’s friends of yours, shisno?”
Kyle turned to face the voice, its owner sitting on the steps of the walk-up tavern. He was an older-looking man, with a grizzled beard and moustache, and a weather-worn straw hat on his head. He took another swig from his mug. He didn’t look to be much of a threat, especially considering that his speech was a little slurred. Kyle assumed that he was drunk.
“Can I help you?” Replied Kyle cautiously.
“Aye, shisno,” said the man again. “You can tell me if them two on your horse’s flank there be your drunken friends.”
“No,” said Kyle slowly. “These men attacked me. I’m looking for a place to deposit their remains.”
The man laughed, and spread his arms wide. “Shisno,” he said. “You may ‘deposit’ them anywhere you wish! You’ll be finding no graveyards here, and no one who’ll be respecting the likes of scum such as them, especially in Tarranus.”
Kyle looked around, and realized that the old man was right. The dead and nearly-dead virtually littered the streets, at least where the greater number of mercenaries hadn’t already swept them from the paths.
“If you be wanting a place to put the bodies,” continued the drunken codger. “The dump’s just two streets over.” He pointed before taking another swig, and laughing again, mumbling ‘deposit remains’ over and over. Kyle rolled his eyes and led Thunder towards the man’s direction.
When he finally found the place, the smell was overwhelming. Moldy food, broken bottles, and more than a few dead bodies had been heaped into a large hole away from the main street. But without any proper citizens to speak of, it was obvious that no one cared about the condition of the town. Thunder was understandably agitated by the smell, but had seen enough of such widespread carnage that she only stepped a little more cautiously.
As Kyle threw the two robbers into the pit, he surveyed the surroundings.
The town honestly looked to have already been decimated by war. Log-built homes were burned, pillaged, and ransacked, the smoke in the air was heavy, and this area of the town was dark and unlit, very much opposed to the abundant torchlight at the main street. It was unnaturally quiet, without the sounds of any life at all. There were no crickets, no wolf howls in the distance. The wind hardly blew at all as the moon above was dressed in a shroud of blackened clouds.
Even so, Kyle could see slight movement in the darkness. His first instinct was to defend himself, but these movements did not come towards him. Instead, he peered into the darkness and saw… eyes. White eyes gleamed back through the darkness, reflecting the pale moonlight like miniature mirrors. Kyle could make out the shapes now.
They were women, and children, all bunched together, dressed in rags. They were literally picking through the garbage in the pit, searching for food. The scene pulled at Kyle’s heart.
He watched in sorrow as they regarded him with distrust. No doubt the only men left in this town were the mercenaries themselves. A burning flame flickered to life inside of Kyle’s heart.
- – - – -
Kyle pushed the swinging doors open, and entered the converted town hall. It looked more like a tavern now, with numerous tables and chairs, and a large number of bottles and jugs along one wall. He’d watched a good number of the men walk into this place, and after it had gone fairly quiet, he figured that this was some type of meeting.
A few men glanced in his direction as he stepped inside, but Kyle wasn’t the only latecomer. Mercenaries in general didn’t have a very good sense of time. They had just finished the introductions as Kyle found a bit of wall to lean on.
There were three men at the front of the room. The first was a large man, taller than Kyle, but larger only in girth than strength, who Kyle would later discover was named Rourke.
The second was a definite fighting man. He stood to the right side of the stage, his massive arms folded over his powerful chest. He wore a blood-red armored cloak, with a chainmail tunic beneath. It looked as if he had dressed down, and that there might be a full suit of armor to his usual ensemble. This man, Kyle learned, was the professional gladiator, Rapollo, of Nocke’s former Fighting Colleseum.
But the man at the middle, who looked to be leading the meeting, was a thin, wiry fellow. He was dressed rather well, but not lavishly so. However, it was obvious that this was no warrior. Instead, he looked to Kyle more like a diplomat, much like the judges of Ascent. He spoke with a nasal voice, but with an heir of superiority over these common soldiers.
This was Jasaid, the Empress’ Ambassador.
“Welcome again,” said the wiry man. “I am sure that many of you have heard the rumors. The treasured city that lies beneath the western sands. The city of Kopul-Vul!”
Eyebrows were raised, and there were a few chuckles mingled with expectant gasps. Kyle himself shook his head at the sheer ignorance of men consumed by greed.
Kopul-Vul was nothing but a myth, the golden desert city that had been buried by the gods because of its unbelievable wickedness. Many a treasure hunter had lost his life trying to find the room of forbidden treasure, with more gold than any hundred men could spend in a lifetime. But here these men were eating it up.
“The legend,” continued the man up front. “Is absolutely true, and I have the map to prove it.” He produced from his coat a long roll of parchment, and held it aloft. “However, the Empress desires to bless her soldiers with the bounties of the earth, and most especially the gold which they so rightfully deserve. And so, she has called you together here.”
“What is our cut?” Came a call from one of the mercenary captains.
“All of it,” replied Rapollus suddenly. He stepped forward, his deep, booming voice echoing through the town hall, and silencing the crowd. “I’ve looked over the map myself, and it looks genuine. We will be greatly rewarded for this, boys.”
“You telling me,” replied another one of the captains. “That all we’s got to do is just walk in, take the treasure, and walk out?” He laughed a little. “Not that I be complaining, but that don’t seem exactly right, especially for some old buried city.”
“Too true, captain,” replied Jasaid. “There is one task that you must complete before you may retrieve your reward.” He paused, and began to pace across the front of the room.
“Kopul-Vu is buried within a desert cave, but hidden deep within its bowels is an item of great interest to the Empress. It is a trifling item, really, locked within a steel box with a magical lock. She believes that this item will bring great victory to our kingdom.”
Kyle knew exactly what this item was. It couldn’t really be anything else, could it?
“She only asks that you bring this item to her, and the rest of the treasure is yours to keep.”
There were excited murmurs and mumbles. Finally, Jasaid laid down his proposal. “We leave tomorrow at dawn. All those who will ride for the Empress, be on the western bluff before sunrise.”
Kyle didn’t wait for the official ending of the meeting, but instead stepped away from the wall, headed for the door. He did, however, take one last glance toward Jasaid. It looked as if the man was staring at him. Their eyes met for just a moment, and it looked as if there was a flicker of recognition in the wiry man’s face. Kyle ignored it, and walked out the door. He needed to get some rest, because tomorrow would be the beginning of an important journey.
Jasaid, however, looked out of the town hall window as Rourke completed the meeting. He watched the dark-cloaked stranger as he led his horse into the night. A small smile crept over his lips as the man disappeared into the blackness. He realized who the man had to be. That scar on his face was unmistakably unique. The Empress would be pleased, he was sure of it. After all, when it required a pure heart to retrieve the final regalia, who better to have than the Blue-Blade Warrior himself?
- – - – -
Ropollus regarded the various mercenaries with feigned interest as the morning sun looked ready to peek itself over the mountains of the eastern valley. Some were obviously fighting men, soldiers from various lands. These varied from the muscle-bound grunts of the Northern Forest, to the lithe bowmen of Nahkrim’s former glory, each of which looked gaunt and worn, but whose eyes sparkled with the prospects of an abundant payday.
And then there were the common-folk. Thieves, former squires, knights-in-training and even greedy farm boys looked eager, but the seasoned gladiator knew better than to mistake such youthful vitality for anything but blatant recklessness. They were joking and judging one another, comparing weapons and tools, some bragging, and some shyly watching and waiting for the call to come. There were mostly humans, but also several elves. He also counted two portly utopians, as well as several tetradians, who stood a head taller than
most of the humans beside them.
Ropollus looked about, gauging each of the men in terms of strength and possible skill, making mental judgments. He had traveled some in his time, but mostly in the area of the eastern Red Desert, near his master, Nocke, so his judgments of actual war faring skill were pretty limited. He’d done well in the Colesseum, earning his keep tenfold as he fought for the amusements and sport of the wizened slave master, but had never had the chance to fight in anything but a controlled and organized combat.
It had been a shame to him when the old man had abandoned his trade, leaving his business in the not-so-able hands of Rukoi, his dim-witted son-in-law. At first, Ropollus had wanted to stay with his master, but the reality of his lack of traveling experience, as well as the better prospects of assured food and drink at his new master’s hands had kept him with Rukoi.
Finally, though, his master’s follies had proven the victor, causing the collapse of the Nocke’s former glory and the end of desert entertainment. While some of the nobles of Utopia and even the Kingdom of Sugar Cane had often enjoyed Nocke’s spectacles, the more proper royals of the two kingdoms had pressured Nocke for years to shut down the blood sport. Finally, Rukoi caved in, and Ropollus was on his own, a mercenary-for-hire in
the midlands of Illusionia.
Through the midst of the conversations and banter, Ropollus took care to notice one of the men on the outside, waiting patiently on horseback, but saying nothing. Though a dark cloak was draped over his head and shoulders, his frame betrayed a sturdy build. The intricately carved hilt of a sword emerged from his back, ready for battle, and he wore a belt with several leather pouches.
It was his eyes, however, that seemed to intimidate the old gladiator most, though Ropollus guessed he was at least a head taller than this man. His eyes were dark and determined, glinting coldly under the darkness of his hood. They seemed void of emotion, hungry, but pained. As if this man had nothing left to live for, and therefore had nothing left to lose.
Ropollus caught himself staring, but not before the cloaked figure gazed directly into his eyes. It was unsettling, a feeling that Ropollus didn’t feel very often, and he didn’t like it.
He turned to Jasaid, who was pulling himself onto his horse.
“It is time to leave, is it not?”
“Yes, my friend,” said Jasaid. “Let us depart.”
In a booming voice, Ropollus turned to the scattered group, and began barking orders. He began to point and indicate, gathering the mercenaries into groups of twenty. When he was done, there were six groups, one-hundred and twenty soldiers in all. Jasaid took control over the first three groups, and Ropollus over the second three. Ropollus knew that Rourke wouldn’t be coming along, chiefly because of certain details of a high-profile traitor back in Cooper Town.
The gladiator had made it a special point to add the cloaked warrior to his first group, and he made sure to ride near him. He wasn’t sure what it was about this man that made him intriguing, but Ropollus wasn’t one to be intimidated, and he wasn’t about to allow some random warrior to scare him. He rode up next to the man, and stopped.
“What is your name, soldier?” he said, in an authorative voice.
“Does it make a difference?” The response was slow, controlled. It was even toned, which didn’t betray any emotion, but resonated a powerful aura. It was definitely more of a statement than a question. “I am no soldier of yours.”
Several of the surrounding mercenaries looked over at the response, oddly out of character. It was obvious that Ropollus hadn’t been prepared for such a bold answer, but he narrowed his eyes, determined not to look foolish. “We must have something to call you by,” replied Ropollus coolly.
“For what, may I ask? Have I disobeyed some order?”
Ropollus was becoming annoyed. “I wish to know the men in my company,” he retorted. “Are such formalities so unknown in your uncivilized land?”
“Uncivilized,” smirked the cloaked stranger, tightening the reins on his mahogany steed’s bridle. “If Tarranus your idea of civilization, then I have no interest in your formalities.”
They were beginning to attract a crowd. None of the mercenaries even flinched at his words – Tarranus, to them, was nothing more than a gathering place. But several of the locals, especially the hot-headed farmboys, seemed to take the insult personally.
“I don’t think these men will take kindly to their land being ridiculed, outsider,” said Ropollus. He hoped that he might regain some ground.
“I don’t think the people of of this land,” replied the stranger. “Take very kindly to being forced to live in squalor and filth and struggling to survive, as I saw last night.”
There were murmurs of agreement in the ranks, and it was obvious that such a statement had dissolved the hostility of the locals. This was the reason that many of them were here at the first, for the chance of redeeming their lives before darkness had swept the land.
Ropollus had provided exactly the ammunition that the cloaked man needed.
“Are you planning to be difficult this entire journey, man?” Asked Rapollus, realizing that this was escalating out of his control.
“I do not sleep unless I’m tired, and I do not dance unless I hear music playing.” His eyes shot piercingly into the gladiator’s, again causing a cold, unsettling feeling to wash over him. “As I said before, I am no soldier of yours. I am along simply for the prize, and you’ll find I take orders quite well. But I am not your subordinate, and you are not my superior.”
Ropollus knew how unfair an accusation this was. He hadn’t been trying to demean the man, but instead had simply addressed him. But then, as he thought about it, he had assumed that the man would simply respond, just as his former gladiatorial pupils had. It was just natural for him to assume that these “recruits”, as he saw it, would simply acknowledge him as the leader. That was what was natural, was it not? Wasn’t he the leader? Wasn’t he the one who had been assigned to give orders? It seemed that this cloaked stranger would be holding him to a higher standard.
He pondered briefly whether he should simply dismiss the man, and send him on his way, but such an action in the ranks of mercenaries would cause more trouble than it was worth. Most of these men had nothing but greed keeping them here anyway. To dismiss a man for simply not providing a name would bring into question all of the legitimacy of this entire expedition, which was something that Ropollus could not afford to risk.
He relaxed his features and blew out his breath. “Alright then,” he said, bowing away from the argument. “I apologize. I request, friend, that I may have a name to call you by.”
There was no surprise on the man’s face, and only the slightest hint of a smirk on his mouth. “Bluehawk, then,” replied the man. “You may call me Bluehawk, soldier.”
Several men looked disapprovingly at Ropollus, obviously losing some respect for his giving in. Far more, however, seemed to approve of the cloaked stranger, Bluehawk, who had effectively showed who was truly in power on this expedition. Ropollus didn’t want to dig this growing pit any longer.
“Bluehawk will do.” He walked away, disregarding the curious looks from the onlookers. He turned back to the men, and then called out loudly. “Let’s move out! If we move quickly, we’ll reach Kopul-Vul in two days.”
He resisted checking to see if Bluehawk was going to follow, just to avoid giving him the gloating satisfaction. But even so, Ropollus turned, pretending only to check on the progress of the others. He found Bluehawk directly in the center of the men, answering a question from one of the farmboys. He took special note to pause for just a moment, and grinned at the former gladiator. Ropollus turned away, kicking his steed softly in the ribs.
The trek to the treasured city had begun.
