The Essence Wars - Chapter One

Sorr clasped his hands together to keep still, pleading to the gods that the entire wooden table wouldn’t shake as a result.

Arryl spoke to each chairman, after a comforting nod to Sorr. It was his first attendance at a high-priority meeting, and only Arryl himself understood his fear. The man was lean, tall, and his tone was full of authority. His eyes, however, had a gentler touch.

“Gentlemen, and lady,” he began, winking at Ussuia, the only female representative. “I am so greatly privileged to have you all here. The sixteen of you have pulled many strings to arrange our agreements, and I sincerely apologize for any inconvenience you have experienced with my guards.”

The man stole a glance behind him. Six burly men stood, gigantic swords on their backs and expressions unwavering.

“... you see, our regimen has been so busy with the Misthaven and the Tribes, that security has become our top…”

Ussuia interrupted him. “With all due respect, cut the crap.” She mocked, “Don’t act like you are the only ones with Misthaven knives in your backs. The damn assassins target our merchants and our smiths, as if they’re determined to throw our economy in the toilet. I doubt they’d wipe either, those dirty bastards.”

“Enough.” Arryl spoke, an edge in his voice. “They target your economy because there’s no way they’re breaking through your city walls,” he said, much softer, obviously banking on flattery.

It seemed to work, though, as Ussuia relaxed in her chair. She looked at the two who came with her: Gunril her advisor, along with a capable-looking warrior, whom Sorr assumed was a mercenary.

“Oh, because your people obviously suffer by them,” the warrior said, rolling his eyes. “You thrive on your merchants. Look at this room! How much did those paintings cost you, five hundred gold?”

“Tyern! I warned you, it’s never your place to speak here,” Gunril scolded him.

Sorr looked around. The man had a point. The room radiated nobility, its furniture elegantly carved and its hanging chandelier glinting of diamonds.

He turned to Arryl, expecting the man’s anger to show through his courtesy. Instead he laughed.

“What, this old room? It was designed for finesse, nothing more. So often do we have ambassadors from every crevice of the Realm, that we merely want to play appearances. I doubt even my own quarters could be called so elegant!” He laughed again, revealing the wrinkles beneath his mouth.

“... But enough squabbling. The point I was trying to make, as you all have guessed, is the seal of companionship between our two cities.” He motioned towards where Sorr and the others were sitting. “The large and warrior-driven providence of Gerren-”

Sorr tensed as Ussuia’s eyes fell on him. “-And you, the proud and respected people of Stormhilt, whose territorial control knows no bounds.”

Ussuia chuckled. “Them’s a lot of big, fake words you like to use.”

Arryl smiled, though it lacked his usual sincerity. “Quite.”

Sorr noticed the Stormhilt’s advisor lean over to his bodyguard, and whispered in a way that he might not be noticed. Sorr glanced around, appearing that no one did. The guard nodded once, and calmly left the room.

Meanwhile, Arryl continued to speak. “And so I’m sure you can see the necessity of our partnership. We have harmoniously thrived together for so many years. It wouldn’t be that large a step to make it a full alliance. We would stand unmatched among the Realm. Our enemies would reconsider any move against us!” The man blinked. “Gunril, where has your guard gone?”

The old advisor replied, “We both thought we heard commotion outside. He’ll guard right out that door.”

Ussuia further dismissed the subject. “If we could get back on trail here, I’d like to announce our willingness to cooperate with your proposal…”

~~~

Tyern walked with a casual pace, already a quarter mile from the meeting room. The bearing swords on his back punished him for walking so fast, but he did his best not to stand out in the streets of Gerren.

‘Keep an open eye out there’ was all the advisor instructed of him. If they were truly going to aid Arryl’s city, they needed to ensure its people maintained the polite sincerity he did.

Tyern received strange looks from the roaming soldiers, as he expected. His thick armor was certainly not the thin, fitting cloth worn in Gerren, and he doubted his face was much of a spectacle.

He ducked into more of the back alleys, strolling until he found an unpleasant sight. One that curled his mouth into a grin. His blades had long been without blood.

Leaned against a wall was a cowering man, most likely a merchant. Two soldiers harassed him, a male and a female, laughing and tossing the man’s coins to the ground.

“Get up,” said the male soldier. The female kicked the merchant. “You greedy scum, withholding money from the Warrior’s Regimen!” She kicked again. “Who do you think protects you? Bleeds for you? Dies for-”

Tyern didn’t let her finish. He slammed her with the side of his blade, so forceful that she rolled along the ground. The other soldier helped her up, glaring at the attacker.

“You impudent…” he began, his voice coursed with rage. “Now both of us see you, we can arrange an informal execution right here and now!”

Tyern shrugged. His left hand reached to his back and pulled out another blade, a smaller one concealed in his armor. He twirled both swords fluidly, regaining a sense of their weight.

“A dual-wielder,” the female remarked. “So you’re a Stormhilt brute, then? Leave now; I wouldn’t want to see your advisors catch word of this.”

Tyern stared back coldly. “They won’t.”

He rushed forward, his blade in collision with hers. The other soldier jumped in, but was immediately halted but the other sword. Tyern danced, edges whirling between them. He landed many cuts on his opponents, but their pressuring him stopped anything fatal from reaching.

The female guard fell back, so Tyern allowed the other soldier to swing in with his mace. Tyern evaded, but it didn’t end there. He ran up the mace’s hilt, stepped up the man’s arm, and kicked his head with his spare heel. The man curled backwards, unconscious. Tyern backflipped from the kick and landed on his feet lightly. His brown hair dipped into his eyes, his green pupils a fury.

The female charged, but Tyern spun. She cut air, but received a large slash across her back and sides. She crumpled.

“So,’ she spoke, despite blood in her mouth. “Not your typical Stormhilt, then.”

The attacker shook his head. “No. It is by my sheer honor that you survive.” He pressed the tip of his blade close to her face. “But know that I am Tyern, the red samurai. Know that even in aiding you, I stand judgment amongst your ranks.”

He walked off. The cowering merchant had already run away, but many of his coins remained. Tyern scooped them up, finally again relaxed.

It was only ten seconds before something landed on him. He dropped on the ground, hard, and grimaced from the impact. A figure had landed atop him, but through the dark clothing and hood, it was indistinguishable.

“Having something against Gerren, do ya? I watched you dance from that roof,” the stranger pointed, his voice a soft whisper. “But you’re right. You aren’t the typical Stormhilt. There’s another layer to you… a grudge, perhaps? Either way, this makes you extremely useful.”

“Who…” Tyern attempted to speak through the pain.

“Consider me a messenger of Misthaven,” he said, amusement in his voice. The figure then pulled out a dagger, twirled it once, then shoved it through Tyern’s shoulder. He howled in pain.

“You will stop the alliance, the one that has just been made. You are more than capable of spreading hate between the two cities. Do so, and the reward is great. Fail or betray me, and your ‘honor’ isn’t the only thing that will disappear.”

With that, the figure ran off, leaving a knife lodged in Tyern. It certainly wasn’t fatal or poisoned, but it would be hell to pull out.