EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (265 page)

Taron is considered the largest and richest city in all of Tarmerria. The people are heavily taxed but consider the tradeoff worth it, considering the amount of funds needed for maintaining the safety of a large city. Wages are much higher to begin with due to the skill of the labor force. Blacksmiths, armorers, furriers, masons, roofers, even locksmiths all thrive here.

One of the largest sources of income is Taron’s heavy participation in the games. The market is large for slavers, who buy and sell criminals from cities that simply look to turn a profit from someone who would be executed anyway. Slavers rent their “
goods
” to Taron to compete in the great arena called “Moxis.” Here, they charge per person at the door to watch the carnage.
 

Many of the criminals and the poor souls who simply made the wrong people mad are given a set number of trials they would be forced to face. If that number can be reached, they win their freedom. This mockery of justice was never intended to add any fairness to the games, but is merely used as a psychological tool. It is widely accepted that most never get past the first two trials or so. But a person’s instinct to survive takes over, and they will try as hard as possible as long as it seems survival is a possibility. This seems to work well enough to give the paying mob a rather spirited contest.
 

Tarmerria has plenty of culture, but remains wild in the sense that all towns and cities are independent of one another. Every town and city looks out for itself and rarely seeks aid from neighboring towns, and even more rarely provide it. That is not to say that it never happens, but it comes at a steep price. Aside from just being compensated for any aid provided, there is the perplexity of status being lost or gained.
 

The ranking of most cities and towns is directly tied to the amount of financial or political influence tied to that town. If a neighboring town is in economic turmoil or recovering from siege, the surrounding areas that have to share the same resources would actually benefit if the town were to dry up. As such, to provide aid on any level to a potential enemy, or at least a competing rival that could pose a threat in the future, is done rarely, and only at great cost to the recipient.
 

In fact, to dispose of an entire town that seems to be gaining strength and may pose a threat in the future is rare, but not unheard of. There are a number of ways to do this and not draw too much negative attention. The most common is to simply hire leathers, or mercenaries, if the militia’s resources are not sufficient enough.
 

Leathers have a reputation for not being skilled in anything but sword-wielding. Their notoriety precedes them, and most reputable tradesmen would never hire a leather for anything, no matter how minimal the skill level needed for the position. Leathers are either hired to kill, or not at all.
 

An accepted practice amongst the cities and towns is to hire leathers to ransack each other, making the attacked town inhospitable and thus forcing the populace to flee to the town that initiated the attack in the first place. With this plan of attack, two objectives are accomplished: the threat to power is no more, and the attacking faction’s numbers and resources increase.
 

In Tarmerria, the wildlife far outnumbers the small patches of civilization scattered across the continent. Countless beasts roam the fields and forests. Because of the existence of creatures such as the alcatross, a fierce carnivore large enough to take down humans, most of the continent is largely unexplored. Little is known about the lands that lie to the far north and south, except that the north is predominantly an uninhabitable desert and the south is an impenetrable forest.
 

Apart from the minor skirmishes and takeovers, no major battle has taken place in Tarmerria for hundreds of years. The last documented war, the “Undead War,” took place some four hundred years ago, and unlike the world of old, which historians continue to try to piece together, it is very well documented. It was a time when humans banded together to fight against the crytons, whom the humans named “the undead.”
 

Calling the crytons “the undead” is a deceiving concept born mostly out of superstition due more to their physical appearance than to any biological similarities to a walking corpse.
 

The war between humans and crytons lasted for fifty years, according to the records kept. The war was bloody on both sides, and in the end, the crytons retreated into the Mogan Forest, which is why it is sometimes referred to as the ‘Dead Forest.’
 

Most humans believe whatever crytons remained were probably killed by the unnatural energies dwelling there. No human could have ever returned from the dark forest, so why would the undead be any different?
 

Accounts of the war feats of the crytons include sketches of the war machines used by them. Their ingenuity was considered brilliant, and many historians believe they would have driven the humans into extinction if they had not been outnumbered fifty-to-one. There are detailed descriptions of the mystic powers used by many of them, accounts of creating fire from nothing but their bare hands and calling down lightning from the sky to strike their enemies.
 

Why did the war happen in the first place? No one knows who struck the first blow, or why. Nonetheless, the war raged on for decades before the humans drove the crytons back.
 

A favorite ghost story told by the elders entertains the idea that the undead still exist, and have found a permanent home in the dead forest. There, they wait patiently for the human world to lower its guard, and then they will rain fire from the skies and take back what they believe to be theirs.
 

Now would be as good a time as any, given that the humans are hardly united. Each town and city worries far more about its own affairs and survival. Any unity developed by humanity post-war is now nowhere to be seen.
 

Ghost stories have little bearing in the harsh daily life of Tarmerria, and folks keep doing just enough to see the next day come and go.
 

But there are far worse things lurking in the uncharted shadows of the realm than superstitious rumors…a far greater evil than the human world has ever known.

Chapter I

S
MOOTH
WOODEN
BENCHES
PROVIDE
LITTLE
comfort. Walls of brown stones encase the oval-shaped room.

For hundreds and thousands of men, this dank, musty room is the last sanctuary they will ever see before going to the afterlife.
 

The air is full with the usual sounds of grown men crying and whimpering while curled up on the floor. Men who consider themselves brave and hearty when tested by life’s trivial challenges now rock back and forth as they hug their own shoulders, sobbing uncontrollably while relieving themselves where they are. Others laugh hysterically as their minds break like twigs spun through a tornado. The rest remain quiet and reserved to their fate while they kneel on cold stone, praying to the deity of their choice, with no answer or sign forthcoming. Ironically, praying seems to make men feel more in control when giving up all control. It is easier to believe your life was never yours to begin with.
 

Even through the pungent smell, sheer emotion carries the strongest scent of all. The air is thick with pure terror. Only the strongest men could resist the onslaught of the looming reality swimming around the room. It would seem death itself is more welcome than the reality of having to think about it.
 

A warrior sat back against the cool stone and began to take in the whole scene. A room full of dead men who could not accept the cruel reality of their fate was nothing more than an annoying distraction to him now as he tried to clear his head for the upcoming test of survival—a test he not only didn’t fear, but found a strange sense of exuberance and even acceptance for. After all, we all meet our end sooner or later. No sense fearing the inevitable.
 

Continuing to let his mind relax, he found the cries and whimpers of the irrelevant souls in the room begin to fade into a muffled, distant hum, becoming nothing more than background sounds similar to wind rustling through the leaves of trees off in the distance.
 

With the warrior’s mind coming under a relaxing trance—a battle tactic learned long ago—his conscience drifted to the events leading up to his newest challenge. He thought back to a life that no longer belonged to him...

This is going to be a slaughter
, the warrior thought to himself. More than fifty trained mercenaries would be attacking an unsuspecting village in the middle of the night. “Where is the honor in this?” the giant grumbled while fingering the handle on his axe, a handle shaped to represent the head of a wolf, complete with fangs and yellow eyes. If that wolf could talk, it would brag of the many souls taken over the years, none of which had been taken through anger or vengeance, but simply because that was the job that needed doing that day.
 

Leaning back in the saddle of his great warhorse, he eyed the men to his left and right without looking directly at them. It always seemed easier to prepare for battle when there were no distractions of morality or even friendship. He tried not to engage in any small talk or even make eye contact with friends before his “job” needed doing.
 

“You don’t like your duty now...huh, Morcel?” spoke the man to his right in a low, grumbling voice while looking around at everyone else, trying to gather approval for his jest.
 

The men in the immediate area let out a forced laugh but kept their eyes low. Forced because it was no secret how Morcel viewed such missions, and a touch nervous because there was not a man here who wanted to suffer the wrath of this killer merely over a jest.
 

The warrior’s head whirled around and looked directly at the man, who flinched, seemingly unnerved by the sudden attention given by those bright green eyes—a piercing, unnatural green that seemed like two emeralds gleaming in the dark.
 

“I’m glad you’re up to the task of killing women and children, Grom,” said Morcel in a rather lighthearted fashion as he leaned in close. “If any of the larger women give you trouble, I promise to protect you,” he said smugly.
 

Booming laughter echoed through the camp while an embarrassed Grom dipped his head and began fiddling with the reins of his horse.
 

Morcel decided not to push it any further. There was nothing to be gained by starting any arguments over something as out of place as morals, especially before preparing to purge a town of women and children. Besides, he had no bad blood towards Grom, or anyone else here for that matter. Most here were just following orders to earn some coin.

Sure, there were always the ones that actually enjoyed the killing. Some even enjoyed the victims screaming and pleading for their lives, as if it were some sort of game. They were no different than boys burning ants with a looking glass, trying to play god. But he wanted to believe most viewed all of this similar to the way he did: just hoping to get this cowardly act over with so they could go back to their wives, or whores, or whatever their illusion of love may be.
 

“Line up, you soulless leathers!” cried a booming voice from the back of the group.
 

“Leathers” was simply a nickname given to mercenaries, who were often described as leather—hard and tough, but not very refined.
 

“When the scout gives the signal, we charge, got it?”
 

Whistling and cheering followed the blunt command, for these men were killers, but clearly not soldiers.
 

“Arrowhead formations now,” said Belar in that deep, authoritative voice. “Leave none alive…” His voice trailed off as he spoke the hollow sentence his heart wanted no part of.
 

Belar was a tall, thin man who had seen his share of battles. This was certainly evident by the numerous scars across his chest and back, none of which could be seen due to his jet-black full-body leather armor. However, no visual evidence was needed to convince anyone of his past or skill set. His steady voice and dominant stare spoke a thousand words. The man could be giving instructions on how to sew, and the whole world would stop and listen.
 

Belar didn’t like this any more than Morcel did, but he had even less of a choice. Belar was the captain of the guard for the town of Athsmin, and had been sent to lead the pack of leathers in this mission.
 

The sleepy farmers’ town known as Brinton had been climbing in rank due to several good crop seasons and many well-run family businesses the last few years. Naturally, this was seen as a threat to the financial well-being of Athsmin, so that was it, then—wipe them out and blame local bandits for the unfortunate fate of the town. The militia back in Athsmin would take no part so no one could trace the slaughter to their doorstep. Not that any real investigation would ever take place. Such politics were not only accepted, but silently applauded as long as no witnesses remained. Only the strong survived in this harsh world, and none of the larger cities had any real reason to look into such grave misfortunes that befell smaller, insignificant towns.