Prologue
Prologue
The Middle Ages
Zeko gripped the edge of the massive table covered in battle maps, leaned forward in his chair, and sniffed the messenger trembling before him. He smelled fear. “What news from the battlefront?” he demanded.
The messenger bowed low and long. A bad sign.
“My Loch, I don’t know how to t-tell you this,” stammered the messenger.
Zeko the Warloch squinted but said nothing. It was not his job to make the messenger’s task easier.
The messenger swallowed and cleared his throat. “My Loch, the battlefront is abandoned. The Warriors have…” The messenger struggled to find his voice, “have left. Their weapons are on the battlefield and the defending army has rallied and is marching to our realm.”
Zeko stood, and his cloak swirled around him in spite of the absence of wind. The messenger took several steps back.
“The battlefield is abandoned.” He repeated softly to himself.
The messenger nodded.
“The Warriors are…” Zeko leered at the messenger. “Gone.”
The messenger nodded again.
“The defending armies are MARCHing to our realm.” Zeko raised his voice for emphasis.
The messenger nodded and wiped a trickle of sweat off of his stubbled chin. He stepped forward, thinking that Zeko was taking the news better than expected.
He wasn’t.
“Guards!” Zeko barked to the men outside his heavy plank door. No one came. With a slight gesture, Zeko performed a staying spell on the messenger and walked to the door. He swung it open and found no guards. He looked around the great hall, and noted the absence of guards at all of the stations: the bottom of the steps, the grand entryway, and the armory’s entrance. Anyplace a sentinel would have been standing, should have been standing: empty. A couple servants saw Zeko perusing the hall and scurried away like mice under the flare of a match.
Zeko returned and stood in front of the messenger. Only the messenger’s eyes could move.
“You’ve heard the expression, ‘Don’t kill the messenger”. Zeko said calmly.
The messenger’s eyes rolled and darted expressively.
“I don’t subscribe to it.” Zeko returned to his place behind the strategy table.
He looked at the charts and the maps: maps showing newly created borders signifying the Warlochs’ kingdoms. Boundaries including the freshly acquired wealth of conquered nations. He looked up at the messenger, not seeing that one’s trousers darken. Instead, he saw the years rolling through his memory: years of testing the special humors invented by the Warloch of science, careful selection of prime female and male subjects, the images of laboring women as they brought forth sons prenticed to the Warloch’s battle warden, the clang of metal as those sons trained against each other from five years old on, the first great battle promising endless power the globe over. Regaining his vision, he saw the messenger again, his body one continuous paralyzed tremor. With the flick of two fingers, the messenger crumpled to the ground.
Zeko strode the length of his room, cloak billowing behind him. He stood at its center and raised his arms. The anger burst within him and he let fly with the destruction spell and watched with no satisfaction as the tapestries, suits of armor, assorted pots and armaments began circling the room in a tempest of rage. At the apex, they burst apart into ash and snowed down upon the room, leaving a layer of white dust an inch thick. Zeko left the room, the sweep of the door pushing more ash out of its way. Every human within the fortress’ walls would have joined the dust. They were easily replaced. The messenger behind him was easily replaced. The tapestries were easily replaced. The armaments, the adornments, the furniture; all were easily replaced. The Warriors, however, were not easily replaced.
The Warriors had taken twenty-five years of study, potions and magicks to create. Women chosen for their health and longevity had been captured and used to breed the Warriors. Potions, magicks and humors had been infused with the offspring to create soldiers so powerful that the Warlochs’ enemies would cower before them. The Warriors had been used to overthrow several realms in the past five years, uniting the land under one government swearing fealty to the Warlochs. The humans were enslaved to do their will. The Warriors were the brawn to enforce that fealty. And now the Warriors were gone. Left of their own free will, supposedly.
The messenger’s ill-timed missive threatened Zeko’s formerly secure position as the BattleLoch. Zarastrid, the mastermind behind the Warloch coven, would personally see that Zeko’s immortal humors were put out of balance. Or simply put his head on a stake and lead into battle with it.
Zeko stood outside the empty, ash-filled fortress and surveyed the lands surrounding it. He would find another messenger from among the serfs that weren’t already serving as war mules. He would send for Zarastrid.
Once Zarastrid arrived, they would summon the remaining Warlochs, and they would have a counsel. The Warriors would pay for their disloyalty. Oh yes, they would pay. He promised himself.
The Middle Ages
Zeko gripped the edge of the massive table covered in battle maps, leaned forward in his chair, and sniffed the messenger trembling before him. He smelled fear. “What news from the battlefront?” he demanded.
The messenger bowed low and long. A bad sign.
“My Loch, I don’t know how to t-tell you this,” stammered the messenger.
Zeko the Warloch squinted but said nothing. It was not his job to make the messenger’s task easier.
The messenger swallowed and cleared his throat. “My Loch, the battlefront is abandoned. The Warriors have…” The messenger struggled to find his voice, “have left. Their weapons are on the battlefield and the defending army has rallied and is marching to our realm.”
Zeko stood, and his cloak swirled around him in spite of the absence of wind. The messenger took several steps back.
“The battlefield is abandoned.” He repeated softly to himself.
The messenger nodded.
“The Warriors are…” Zeko leered at the messenger. “Gone.”
The messenger nodded again.
“The defending armies are MARCHing to our realm.” Zeko raised his voice for emphasis.
The messenger nodded and wiped a trickle of sweat off of his stubbled chin. He stepped forward, thinking that Zeko was taking the news better than expected.
He wasn’t.
“Guards!” Zeko barked to the men outside his heavy plank door. No one came. With a slight gesture, Zeko performed a staying spell on the messenger and walked to the door. He swung it open and found no guards. He looked around the great hall, and noted the absence of guards at all of the stations: the bottom of the steps, the grand entryway, and the armory’s entrance. Anyplace a sentinel would have been standing, should have been standing: empty. A couple servants saw Zeko perusing the hall and scurried away like mice under the flare of a match.
Zeko returned and stood in front of the messenger. Only the messenger’s eyes could move.
“You’ve heard the expression, ‘Don’t kill the messenger”. Zeko said calmly.
The messenger’s eyes rolled and darted expressively.
“I don’t subscribe to it.” Zeko returned to his place behind the strategy table.
He looked at the charts and the maps: maps showing newly created borders signifying the Warlochs’ kingdoms. Boundaries including the freshly acquired wealth of conquered nations. He looked up at the messenger, not seeing that one’s trousers darken. Instead, he saw the years rolling through his memory: years of testing the special humors invented by the Warloch of science, careful selection of prime female and male subjects, the images of laboring women as they brought forth sons prenticed to the Warloch’s battle warden, the clang of metal as those sons trained against each other from five years old on, the first great battle promising endless power the globe over. Regaining his vision, he saw the messenger again, his body one continuous paralyzed tremor. With the flick of two fingers, the messenger crumpled to the ground.
Zeko strode the length of his room, cloak billowing behind him. He stood at its center and raised his arms. The anger burst within him and he let fly with the destruction spell and watched with no satisfaction as the tapestries, suits of armor, assorted pots and armaments began circling the room in a tempest of rage. At the apex, they burst apart into ash and snowed down upon the room, leaving a layer of white dust an inch thick. Zeko left the room, the sweep of the door pushing more ash out of its way. Every human within the fortress’ walls would have joined the dust. They were easily replaced. The messenger behind him was easily replaced. The tapestries were easily replaced. The armaments, the adornments, the furniture; all were easily replaced. The Warriors, however, were not easily replaced.
The Warriors had taken twenty-five years of study, potions and magicks to create. Women chosen for their health and longevity had been captured and used to breed the Warriors. Potions, magicks and humors had been infused with the offspring to create soldiers so powerful that the Warlochs’ enemies would cower before them. The Warriors had been used to overthrow several realms in the past five years, uniting the land under one government swearing fealty to the Warlochs. The humans were enslaved to do their will. The Warriors were the brawn to enforce that fealty. And now the Warriors were gone. Left of their own free will, supposedly.
The messenger’s ill-timed missive threatened Zeko’s formerly secure position as the BattleLoch. Zarastrid, the mastermind behind the Warloch coven, would personally see that Zeko’s immortal humors were put out of balance. Or simply put his head on a stake and lead into battle with it.
Zeko stood outside the empty, ash-filled fortress and surveyed the lands surrounding it. He would find another messenger from among the serfs that weren’t already serving as war mules. He would send for Zarastrid.
Once Zarastrid arrived, they would summon the remaining Warlochs, and they would have a counsel. The Warriors would pay for their disloyalty. Oh yes, they would pay. He promised himself.
Chapter One
Zarastrid’s Log, Day 25
The Year of Our Loch 1559
The last of the intended mothers was acquired today. The women are strong and healthy. Each has been chosen for her heredity of longevity. They all fought their capture, a good sign. None fought harder than the last, handpicked by myself from a monastery of fallen women. I call her Agnes, which means chaste. I do love irony.
Agnes and the others will go through a period of quarantine, as we make sure their humors are in balance. Between the leeches, potions and magicks, we shall create the perfect hosts for what we have designed.
The order of Lochs is in agreement that we will go forward with our original plan. Once we have bred the Warriors, we will be able to achieve world domination.
I have to stop writing now, as my hand aches from where Agnes bit me.
Zarastrid’s Log, Day 25
The Year of Our Loch 1559
The last of the intended mothers was acquired today. The women are strong and healthy. Each has been chosen for her heredity of longevity. They all fought their capture, a good sign. None fought harder than the last, handpicked by myself from a monastery of fallen women. I call her Agnes, which means chaste. I do love irony.
Agnes and the others will go through a period of quarantine, as we make sure their humors are in balance. Between the leeches, potions and magicks, we shall create the perfect hosts for what we have designed.
The order of Lochs is in agreement that we will go forward with our original plan. Once we have bred the Warriors, we will be able to achieve world domination.
I have to stop writing now, as my hand aches from where Agnes bit me.