Short Story: "The Desert"

The Desert

The Gashbolian Desert was an uncaring, bloodstained ocean of sand, an all-consuming void where if a person aberrated from the caravan trade routes, they would die; if a person drank their water too quickly and heedlessly, they would die; if a person travelled into an ambush, they would die, but it was still Dolvyre’s [1] home.

He exhaled and mopped the sweat on his brow with the back of his hand. He was tall and sturdy. “Dolvyre the Stalwart” was an epithet, which he was aware of but insouciant to, conjured from his soldiers’ argotic [2] brew, although the soldiers had another sobriquet for him, one that radiated with far less endearment than jeerful contumely, “Dolvyre the Pale One”, although he was not the only half-breed to appear pallid to Gashbolians. Dolvyre wore light armor that had been specially designed by a god for the desert climate, but today it was heavier, and hotter, and more like a prison than protection; additionally, it exacerbated his otherness to the Gashbolians. This was the first of its kind. Embossed on the breastplate, the Fraugean Sparrow, a small brown, sharp-beaked, black-speckled bird with a bright yellow underbody, was flying from the right of the abdomen to the left shoulder, flying away into the sky, unwilling to be caught alive. The armor was forged and wrought from a newly discovered mineral. A large white mineral typically located a quarter of a mile in the earth had been found protruding from the sand like a finger pointing to the sky by a blacksmith who was temporarily leading a caravan of their King—Krauph was his dreaded name—because the commander who was to lead them that day had fallen ill the prior night and was relieved of his duties by the king—permanently.

With the heat on his helm, strapped to which was a beige cloth so that a soldier could cover his mouth during a sandstorm, and rearranging the locations of the books, manuscripts, and documents in the archives of his memory, Dolvyre tried to remember the blacksmith’s name. He looked into the cloudless sky, searching through each tall bookcase, one out of a million easily. Grasping the parchment that held the elusive name, he came out of the capacious treasury with the name Haviir [3].

Haviir was not a native of the land but an immigrant from one of the Great Kingdoms and was searching for the legendary forges, with their magnificent tools and ores, of the lost city Amarath, the city given and destroyed by the gods, who, to the people of the Great Kingdoms, would be one of the lower gods underneath Anea the Mother and Ârenor the Father but, to those enduring in the Gashbolian Desert, they would be Maukom, the god of earth, soil, and sand, and Freya [4], the goddess of fire. But he did little exploring. This was primarily because the king kept Haviir inside his castle where he would forge splendid weapons, and, since his discovery of the white metal, armor. Being a caged bird depressed the smith.

Haviir had asked one of the men if the caravan passed by the stone regularly. The man ruminated for a moment drawn like an arrow on the string of a bow before nodding and then finished the conversation with a †˜yes’. Daylight had been upon them for six hours, enough time for a naked human to bake. When Haviir examined the stone, he discovered it was cold despite bearing the sun’s crushing weight. Enchanted by this puzzling truth, he and the other men dug it up and found that it was larger than he believed it to be. Haviir asked for the earth Quolens [5] to lift it and bring it with them. They indulged him, and soon the king ordered the retrieval of more of the mineral, for before this, armor was rarely used by the troops. Haviir had to have assistance with the melting of the ores from some of the fire Quolens; those who smelted the first are now his personal assistants. Haviir never fully understood the mineral’s properties, and many had believed he could deduce it because of the knowledge that the people of Great Kingdoms were purported to have.

Dolvyre’s armor was made from that first rock. It was a gift honoring his bravery and leadership in the Battle of Heisk. With his chin almost lying on his chest from his persistent daydreams, he was about to relive that ceremony but pushed it aside for another time, and as he reclaimed his awareness, Dolvyre, with closed eyes, overheard a murmur of contention. Eyes awoken, he heaved his head up. Upon the tall sand dune protecting some of his men from the sunlight and dipping to the left, he urged his camel to turn towards them while next to him, his second in command, also sitting upon a camel, Nomare, a lean youthful soldier with a thin, angular face, homologous to an isosceles triangle, a dear companion to and only friend of Dolvyre since their days in training, and Dolvyre’s personal savior in the Battle of Heisk, observed this and made his beast complement Dolvyre’s beast’s spin. Dolvyre looked down at his soldiers with a grimace but not his normal scowl, which usually surfaced during battles and bellicose debates. They had come from Ilckur in the north close to the border to Monjul, the Great Kingdom of the West, which, along with the other Great Kingdoms, constructed all of the political boundaries of Zequara. The land they were in had been named after the Gashbolian Desert—Gashbol—by them.

None of the clans or miniature monarchies would have ever agreed to the naming of the country if they had been there. Knowing where the borders were was knowledge typically reserved of the King Krauph and his military advisors, and although he was an advisor, Dolvyre found most of the discussion drab, despite the members’ pugnaciously ramblings of invading southern Monjul, an idea that he believed would be reckless and impetuous because they lacked the supplies and manpower to win the conflict. Despite the king’s assent, he never went to future meetings after his opining. But since then, the king had taken an interest in domestic affairs, which was tantamount to mean †˜invade, slaughter, and conquer’.
And it was so. Krauph claimed that it was to unify the land, to create a unified †˜Gashbolian’ army. Krauph’s approach, however, strayed from that vision.

Dovlyre had received new, inexperienced recruits fresh from the training grounds and had surmised with hope only that they had been trained by the one who had trained him, but doubted it. There discipline was lacking: men would not remain still—their joints ached to be bent and used for fear of them malfunctioning in battle—there was an air of questioning, with a scent of a desire to survive, his tactics as if Dolvyre were leading them aberrantly from how they were taught; and his men, amused by the recruits’ palpable trepidation, were telling them that only one or two hundred recruits would survive their first battle with Dolvyre as their commander, who was forthright both in speech and action. Without properly addressing his second in command, he, outstretching his arm, waited for Nomare to equip him with the Signaling Horn of Vairux, an antiquated, banded tool that was used to notify a tribe that they were about to be invaded and should prepare themselves. It fell out of practice by most of the younger commanders who adopted Krauph’s tactics of massacre and pillaging. After Nomare had given him the horn, Dolvyre blew it, and a thin prolonged bellow disseminated throughout the dry, cloudless sky. He handed the horn back to his second as the noise was desiccated by the sun. The murmurings continued, and then he spoke.
“Silence your whimpering, worms! And those mocking the recruits, close your lips before I cut your tongues out! Your fun has been had.” They reacted quickly. Their voices dried into the sand. Attention was directed on the man on the dune as if he were a king on a throne.

Dolvyre went on, “Warriors! On this burning day together, we shall conquer the village Gaava. If there are Quolens among us, we are not sorcerers. There may be a small number of you among our populace, but I refuse to have any of you. We are soldiers, warriors. Proud and strong. If my men so much as catch you conjuring your magic, then your death will be listed among the casualties. And if it sits not well with you, then come and challenge me for your right to be a trickster! And lest you forget, my blade Shula is known as the Blade that Cuts the Elements. If you do not know my name, then you may cheer it after this day is won. As for strategy, let Krauph the King deal with gambits and stratagems. We are here to fight like men and die like men!”

Pausing in his speech, he looked to Nomare, who, understanding his request, observed the village, part of which was ensconced within a craggy butte covered lushly with shrubbery, grass, and, on vines climbing it, abundant with Luinnes, an orange-petaled flower sometimes found farther south near the brackish coast, a sight so uncommon in these parts that it was a clear sign of an oasis, and saw that its commander was riding out of it with a stiff army wearing nothing but beige garments and waiting for direction. Nomare told Dolvyre of this.

“Blood may be conserved today! Stand idle!” After he had told Nomare to maintain order in the ranks, Dolvyre’s camel spun and charily descended the sand dune. As Dolvyre and the enemy leader approached each other, Nomare, a sweating sentinel in the sun, drank, in swigs, water from his canteen, which, when periodically lowered and raised, caused the remaining water to undulate about in its gut. Nomare ordered the left flank to climb the gap between sand dunes. Dolvyre’s camel halted when greeted by another camel. The enemy commander, whose curved sword was sheathed on his belt, wore a dirty white cloak and hood over his head.

“Someone from Ilckur—Ilckur, the home of filthy vermin eaters—blowing the Sacred Horn of Battle? Must be a dream. You scum of the north quit that covenant when your farce of a king came to the throne…. Krauph, that’s its name.”

“I am of Ilckurian blood. Lived there my whole and never seen any vermin eaters there, though. You should praise your god that I’m the one you met and not that king of the vermin eaters. He would’ve descended and razed your village… exterminated your people. I am here to prevent bloodshed. Surrender now and none shall die—on both sides. My army lies behind that sand dune with the man on top. No worries, they’ll not attack until both of us return to our respective sides. You are dealing with honorable soldiers, and an honorable leader.”

“Intimidation is your best effort? Your tactics have staled.”

“It’s not intimidation. My second in command decided, of his own volition, to get them around the sand dune.”

“Ha! I’ve seen this technique used before. Years ago.” The man sighed. “Let us start anew. The name passed down from my forefathers is Rungar Ceppul. You said you intended to avoid bloodshed?”

“The name bestowed upon me by my father [6], Thrün, is Dolvyre.”

“So, you have foreign blood? Explains some of your unorthodox behavior.”

“Yes, I wish to avoid bloodshed, if that be possible. We have come to annex Gaava, use it as a base of operations for further expeditions—”

“—That will result in annexation of more territory?” Dolvyre scanned Ceppul’s countenance, wary and perspicacious, before nodding. “As the representative of our chief, I would like to know what would befall my people if I let you occupy us. Would we still be in charge of our own village and its operations?”

“You will be given someone to oversee your village, so I cannot vouch for what the person charged with that duty may do, but I’ll request that you, your people, and your customs are respected.”

“Are you not concerned where our chief is?”

“No. It concerns me little.”

“… And why should I believe you? You merely command an army.”

Dolvyre’s eyes sharpened. “Fool! I am Dolvyre, Royal Commander of King Krauph! Conferred upon me is the right to lead an army and all of King Krauph’s armies in his absence. Do not take my position lightly.”

“Lightly I will not take it.” Ceppul tugged on his camel’s reigns, veering it around. “Alright, let me take you to our chief to discuss the terms of… your occupation.”

“My men will join us, a standard precaution.”

“Of course.” Dolvyre raised his open palm, each finger tensely spread apart, before Ceppul had responded completely. A mellifluous Fraugean Sparrow flew in the cloudless sky and chirped while higher a hawk, with anxious talons bereft, for many days, of flesh, stalked it sedulously. A shadow grew and crawled across the sand toward the oblivious other, and then only one shadow flew over them. A tale recounted by none. Before entering the village, Ceppul signaled, by pointing his four fingers down and his thumb up, a common gesture for Gaavan military, for his men to stand down while a battalion of two hundred Ilckurians came within propinquity. When Dolvyre and Ceppul had been reached by the smaller group of Ilckurian soldiers, who had divided, as is mandatory in Ilckurian protocol, from the larger group that remained behind as another precaution, they perambulated onwards to the village. One of the soldiers had handed the Signaling Horn of Vairux to Dolvyre, who strapped it across his chest, before they started for the behemothic rock. Gaavan men, who scuffed up sand in their hurry, preceded them and told the civilians to stay in their homes. The village sloped downwards.

Protruding from the rotund rock in the desert, buildings, whose windows, of which there were few, were draped with brownish-red cloths, loomed over them, and those on the left cast shadows onto the sand-paved streets, which were spectacularly wide for the battalion marching in. Two paths coming from the direction of the area beside the tor intersected the main road at an angle and then would merge with the next or previous path by way of another path; thus, it created a cobweb, a nexus on the surface. The buildings were shaped accordingly for this purpose; none were congruous—some were triangular shaped; some were rhombus shaped; and some were irregularly shaped. Two soldiers whom Dolvyre had fought alongside and who had demonstrated their skill in war maneuvered to his flanks so as to ensure the safety of their esteemed commander, but they, as they understood and expected, were not noted by their leader.

As they approached the domed building embedded in the corner of the butte, a clamor of doors slapping the walls upon which they were hinged resounded through the threads of the nexus. Celeritously, Dolvyre, inattentive to the actions and movements of Ceppul and the Gaavan soldiers leading them, glanced over his left shoulder, his eyes reading each line of the situation. Footfalls stomped and resonated louder as they neared. The unsheathing of swords dragged his attention away from the advancing soldiers. Again, the shadow of the hawk flew over Dolvyre, who had just unsheathed his sword, which was accompanied by the blades of the other soldiers, both friend and foe, when he was tossed off of his camel, which moaned while it tumbled into the expanding puddle of its blood, because an unnamed soldier had burst out of a door a few feet away to the right, had run to his camel, and had sliced off its front legs with a wide-ranging swing.

Other Gaavans had followed him out of the same door and from elsewhere. Clanking of swords rapidly pervaded Gaava as blood seeped and flowed sinuously down the sand. This tactical deception however sanguinely presented by the Gaavans did not give them the advantage, for they were without armor and the Ilckurians were not. While he lifted himself up, Dolvyre grabbed the hilt of his sword, which he had dropped. The man who had slain his camel swung his sword at Dolvyre before he had finished rising, yet the man’s attack was deflected and the sword thrown from his hand. Dolvyre viciously pierced him through his chest before he had reacted to his missing weapon and, after placing his foot by his sword, shoved the soldier off of his blade and to the ground. As he walked towards the mendacious Ceppul, he cut through another soldier, who was charging at him from his peripherals. Screams of Gaavans were an unremittant [7] noise to be heard; nevertheless, they were assiduous in valiantly avoiding death.

Unsheathing, with his left hand, his sinuously curved dagger on his back, he slashed a soldier’s throat and continued on towards his goal of murdering the temporizer, the ambusher, the deceiver, Rungar Ceppul. A dust cloud had formed and enshrouded the battlefield, but it did not hinder Dolvyre’s search; because of the dust, the remaining Ilckurian forces surrounding Gaava descended. Ilckurian soldiers had already run by him and killed Gaavan soldiers, some of whom were protecting their commander who was passed from one Ilckurian to the next without harm despite actively engaging the soldiers in battle. Dolvyre kicked Ceppul’s back, and he, stumbling forward, caught himself before he fell to the ground. Ceppul retaliated by swinging his sword round, but Dolvyre halted it with his sword. When Ceppul had spun himself around, he was punched several times in the face with Dolvyre’s dagger-wielding hand. As quakes trembled through the earth, a sign that some Quolens inhabiting Gaava felt no constraints in war, an intransigent attitude that had once resided in Dolvyre, Dolvyre’s sword reifying its master’s baneful contempt pierced through the chest of Ceppul, who had lost the fight when he had staggered backwards from the onslaught of Dolvyre’s punches, but only missed his duplicitous heart. After he had deposited his dagger into its small scabbard, Dolvyre’s nails clawed into Ceppul’s sanguinolent [8] throat.

“Immersed in sand today is he who slayeth trust and burieth it in the bloodied sand yesterday. And in ignominy shall he who doth ignore the sanctity of which he doth bridge with another be stranded to wander Rãmkilm [9] eyeless, tongueless, and heartless.” [10]

Dolvyre painstakingly removed his sword from Ceppul’s stomach. Ceppul screamed, but it was one voice within a choir echoing the same banal cries. Having fully extracted his blade, Dolvyre threw the moribund body, which would be reclaimed after the battle so that the apposite ritual could be performed, and pressed on through the nebulous screen of dust and sand. One of his men defended his left flank while he slashed an oncoming soldier. They marched on and killed more, and other Ilckurians joined them, and fewer and fewer screams and rumblings were being heard. As they trudged forward, Dolvyre descried a dead Gaavan soldier embosomed upon his inconsolable, lachrymose mother who had stumbled hastily out of her home to her son, who at the time was lying upon a wall. Stupefyingly bewildered, Dolvyre wandered from his troops to her while he sheathed his weapon. He stood over them ponderously. Reflecting on the young soldier’s face, a boy’s face, he realized that most of the soldiers, Gaavan or Ilckurian, were naught but frightened children.

“You must return to your home. This place is unsafe.” Looking up and seeing an Ilckurian, the mother wailed louder. Bending over, Dolvyre grabbed the soldier’s right arm, laid his hand on its left torso, and attempted to hoist the corpse onto his right shoulder when the sobbing mother shoved and punched Dolvyre because, as an Ilckurian, he was defiling her son’s corpse, but eventually she capitulated and led Dolvyre to her home on the opposite corner across the sand path. Dolvyre laid him by the door inside the house and departed without hearing her gratitude. Many yards ahead of where he rejoined his men at the intersection, a large, blunt, almost frustal [11] rock emerged from the sand to the left and smote many Ilckurians to their backs and crashed into one of buildings. Dolvyre had finally encountered one of Gaava’s earth Quolens. He unsheathed his sword. After he, having run to the corner with some nearby Ilckurians, had charily peered around it and found a tremulous boy, whose tensile arms, pointing outward with fists, were shrunk next to the lower part of his ribcage, he scanned the area near where the protuberant horn of rock was to see if the Ilckurians who had been attacked were unharmed, and while he tugged his head to do this, he saw some Ilckurians who were leaning against a building on the other side of the intersection and who espied him when he glanced in their direction. He looked near the horn to see that some of his battered men were rising while others lay unconscious or dead.

Dolvyre tried to discern any rocks that were at his feet, but because the ground was blurred from the now receding haze, he could barely see anything. Another quake and horn came, but he ignored it, for it was only an act based upon terror. Before he sank to search for rocks, he covered his face with the cloth attached to his helm. He grabbed one. Immediately after, he stood up and threw it at the buildings diagonally from the corner and to the side of the boy. Following the cracking noise, a rumble erupted while, weapon at ready, Dolvyre ran out from his hiding spot. With morale revived, the Ilckurians began to follow their leader. The Quolen raised a small boulder, which concealed his upper body, from the earth and impelled its movement towards Dolvyre who, anticipatorily grabbing the hilt, so that his blade divided his body symmetrically, and raising it over his head, swung down and sliced the boulder vertically and kept charging, with blade being drawn back. Dolvyre thrust his sword. Blood spurted out from the boy’s back.

He withdrew his sword. And the body crumbled down. Soon after, quiet enveloped Gaava, and the nebulous cloud settled.
With his remaining soldiers, Dolvyre traveled down the path and into the vertically wizened butte, whose stringy desiccated pale green grass, which was tussocky in places and which became more prominent as they had neared the village earlier, pulsed and bounced where the wind winnowed and whose thorny vines of Luinnes had slithered down the rock face, where, deep within, the sere chief resided. Four guards ran up the bank to defend their king but were slain quickly by Dolvyre’s soldiers. Finally and surprisingly, stone doors, crafted by earthen Quolens and embossed, very fastidiously, with a tower wreathed in flames underneath a four-pronged star, the common symbol of those claiming to be the lost successors of Amarath because the tower is mentioned in nearly all legends and tales of it, from where the doors were divided, untowardly stood as the last keepers of the Gaavan ruler, the once mighty Helkul, who slouched, ashamedly in his withered and quiescent state—unable to lead his people, to defend them, from this attack—the forthcoming expansion of Krauph’s domain—that he foresaw—in his deteriorating throne of soil and sovereignty, and suspired hoarsely and heavily.

Pushing, with some difficulty, the doors open and then entering, with two of his soldiers, into a confined hall that sloped several more feet ahead of them and led to the throne room, Dolvyre expected three things when they got to the room: the first was that more guards would be standing in wait, the second was that the room would be cool, and third was that the room would be blindingly dark; none of those expectations were fulfilled; instead, the capacious, roundish room was alight mainly by a ray of sunlight that had somehow burrowed its way through the center of the butte, a hole unseen to the Ilckurians from the dune, and with that sunlight came heat, while some torches embedded in the room aided the great flame, and there were no more guards protecting their king. Their absence signified to Dolvyre arrogance because he thought that the dearth of guards was that no one untoward was ever expected to enter the throne room, although it was because the king wished for solitude. On the throne in the sunlight sat the Gaavan king whose unkempt white beard shone luculently. Weary, Dolvyre stepped forward.

“Forfeit your throne or die along with your soldiers! Your army has been destroyed! Now surrender with dignity and honor!” Only the king’s haggard suspirations could be heard. The king lifted his head and raised his eyes from the spot upon which they were continually fixated, the location being on the border of the sun and the shade, on a singular point of the circle, indiscernible from its adjacent companions, before he nodded acquiescently. Dolvyre marched out with his men, and when he reached close to the center of Gaava blew the Signaling Horn of Vairux twice to signal their victory. Awhile after the horn had been blown, Nomare had descended with some soldiers to claim the men of Ilckur while, in accordance with Dolvyre’s orders, the embittered Gaavans did the same, but ignoring his duty, Nomare searched for Dolvyre, who had been retracing his steps so that he could find the body of Ceppul, and Nomare found him sitting morosely before it, almost leaning over it or prostrating for forgiveness. As he stepped forward, Dolvyre asked him for the body count.

“I don’t know. People are still being searched for. Nothing’s been reported to me yet. What are you doing?”

“I’m performing last rites.” Knowing that phrase, Nomare quieted as Dolvyre began the ritual; as he vowed, Dolvyre cut and carved out Ceppul’s eyes, tongue, and heart while softly, repeatedly murmuring some lines from the threnodial paean section of the epyllion “Olsthus’ Triumph”, whose repeated lines (translated) went as follows:


Amarath, the city of purple flowers, has sunken
Into the mouth of red Rãmkilm, washing the warm
Sand in murrey. Standing lonesome before the
Fierrous [12] arms and their tangled violet fingers in
The sky and watching the color fade to an ashen
Grey, Olsthus had attained victory for the devil.
The tower fell in flames.

Then he just sat by the body, and Nomare left. As the sun waned like the ephemeral embers of a wil-o’-the-wisp, while the welkin became blended with red and orange, Dolvyre pondered rather pendularly on what was to happen to the citizens, who had not been involved in the battle but had been sequestered into their homes and had sanguinely hoped that their people and their might were superior than the dreadful Ilckurians, because King Krauph, who was spitefully vindictive, would endeavor to crush their spirits for their people’s temerarious eagerness to defy his will and their lack of obsequity, and thus further augment the Gaavan’s inherent odium for all Ilckurians. As he was reflecting over that, another thought flew into his mind and supplanted these concerns, like a butterfly piercing the horizon’s throne as it climbed upwards, and it eased him very slightly while also enkindling a different, closer worry.

He knew that a report would be asked of him if not directly from Krauph himself, then his council. By half an hour, Nomare, returning with the body count, gave it to Dolvyre, who was still sitting and thinking. One hundred and sixty-seven Ilckurians were dead. The daylight was tenuously hanging onto the land.

“Have the men prepare the camp outside of the village.” Nomare followed his orders. But Dolvyre never arrived. He had departed from Gaava, and from Gashbol. The Royal Commander had abandoned his duty.

1. The name Dolvyre is actually a bastardization/”Gashbolized/Ilckurized” form of Dolviir, due to his father being a Monjullian; thus, the pronunciation of the name would be closer to Dol-veer than Dol-vire.
2 Adjective form of argot: argot+ic
3 It should be noted that the suffix –iir is a masculine suffix of the Great Kingdoms, which are close together on this language tree, as opposed to Gashbol and the Lesser Kingdoms/Territories. The suffix –iir, although common, is not always present in all names of the Great Kingdoms.
4 This goddess bears no relation to the Scandinavian goddess of the same name, and was generated by myself. The generation of it is/was purely coincidental.
5 This term is a loanword, which occurred during Monjul’s occupation of Gashbol. Quolens are people who are able to use the elements, the four common ones (fire, earth, water, air). Additionally, there are other unique abilities. Gashbol is primarily inhabited by earth Quolens, but has begun to increase in populations of the other three. The farther south one goes in Gashbol, the less likely one will see fire, air, and earth Quolens and the more likely one will see water Quolens because of their propinquity to the ocean.
6 People of the Gashbolian Desert typically state: “The name passed down from my forefathers is X Y”, where X is the surname and Y is the name, while people of mixed birth, as in the case of Dolvye, whose father was from Monjullian lineage and mother was of Ilckurian lineage, and slaves, who can never rise to higher ranks in armies, state: “The name bestowed upon me by my father is Y”. Dolvyre’s case is atypical because he evokes his father’s name. Males may only name their children. Females may name a child if there is no other living male relative. Thrün is a mandated Ilckurian name. If someone decides to permanently reside in Ilckur, then they must forsake their original name and be designated a new †˜Gashbolian’ name. There are exceptions to this rule, like Haviir, who is privileged to retain his name for his service to King Krauph. Another oddity is Dolvyre’s rank. Dolvyre’s position was created specially for him because his leadership allowed Ilckurians to claim a victory at the Battle of Heisk. Normally, a child of mixed descent could not reach a rank that could interact with a king. Until Dolvyre’s bravery and prowess in battle were commended, other prominent soldiers had commanded smaller forces, e.g. a unit, but none could command an army except for the king (rebels excluded).
7 Synonym for unremitting
8 Containing or tinged with blood
9 Second syllable is stressed Rãm-kilm. Rãmkilm is the Gashbolian name for the underworld.
10 To be lucid on the matter, the reason that Middle English is used in this passage is that of its antiquity. The phrase comes from an Ilckurian fable, which is surmised to be contemporaneous with the fall of Amarath.
11 Frustal is adjective form of frustum, which in this context mean “related or pertaining to the shape of a frustum”. An additional adjective form could be frustumal.
12 Alternative word for fiery.

“Ha, doubt she’d have the time to miss ya. Considerin’, her concern would be with whoever’s between her legs, givin’ it to her.”

With Nomare on his right, Dolvyre strode into Krauph’s throne room. Conversing had been heard through the narrow antechamber. He shoved his way through the dissimilar, asymmetrical circles within the crowds and towards the trapezoidal dais, which extended from the wall and supported the king’s and the queen’s throne.

Lurindea, daughter of Adrok, king of Haquor,


“Ah, Dolvyre, how has the conquest of Gaava gone?”
“After being tricked into an ambush, my men fought without direction within and claimed victory


“So the rumors are true. The king’s heir shares a resemblance with the High Commander.” At that, Dolvyre, scowling, stopped, wound around, spat, “Lest you forget that rumors have a tendency to take a man’s head”, and then stormed off.



Foros’ flames consumed Dolvyre, and Nomare was stupefied and devastated by the loss of his friend while Lurindea was despondent, but from the inferno came a warrior armored with rock—Dolvyre was a Quolen, and with his revenance, he symbolically heralded in a paean of sunlight. Everyone was dumbfounded, even Krauph, who had not even expected him to be one. Dolvyre, who stumbled to his knees, panted and coughed as his stone armor splintered before crumbling and appeared to deliquesce in a torrent of dirt off of him.
“I—I—Arrgghh! Disgraceful! I instinctively protected myself with it.




“You—you knew?”
“Don’t insult me. Course I knew. What? Do you think my eyes and ears are only on my face?”
“When?”
“When? How is it not obvious? The minute I fucked her for first time, although I didn’t know who had fucked her before, but because I was promised a ripe bride by her vigilant father, then it was childishly simple to deduce that only someone in my company could have done it. Foros, he wouldn’t do it; he’s too spineless and obedient. What would any of the council members gain from it? Then it became clear that you were the only one left. Now I didn’t want to assume without evidence, so I had you followed one day, while I was off at war. I was quite amazed that my loyal Royal Commander had betrayed me.”
“What is my punishment?”
“Punishment?”
“Yes, I have betrayed you. Surely, you wish for my death?”
“For what? Fucking my queen? A woman who was used solely as a political tool to gain Haquor as an ally? Kill you, my greatest warrior, for fucking her? I might be a little indignant, but I’m not going to foolishly and unwisely behead you. You’re far too valuable. Excluding this case, Dolvyre, you’re too noble, a trait that is both admirable and manipulatable.”
“But your heir! He is my child!”
“Do you wish for me to behead you?! Do you desire death? I don’t care about the boy. My legacy and greatness are here and now. I’m conquering land so that I can rule it! Not so that some half-cooked progeny can! Now then, you’ll have to keep up the pretense of secrecy; Lurindea so far has.”
“Wait, you’re allowing this to continue? And what do you mean “Lurindea so far has’?”
“Why shouldn’t I? You’re guilty and ashamed, but it keeps you allegiant. Being from the south, she’s less appealing than any other whore on the street. After finding out, I told her that I knew, her face—astonished—and then, and then, I threatened her, telling her to continue playing her little game with you, with the addition of her getting information from you, or else I’ll kill you. However, despite that looming threat, it was nevertheless difficult in extracting information from her, until she bore her—your—son.”
“What kind of information on me did you want?!”
“Things pertaining to allegiance and whether dissent was stirring within you. A man usually confides in his woman these things.”