Short Stories

Madark & Serif

“Ah... he put you in chains, did he? He is cruel that one.”

Madark lowered his head as Serif moved closer.
“You lost twice, Madark. The first time you lost is when you got angry. I am not sure what haunts your past, what devils beguiled you to be so filled with such hatred. Yet, it is apparent that you let your hatred and anger dictate your actions. That was your first loss. Your second? Your second was when you stopped being angry. When your rage subsided, when the tears dried, when your sadness filled the void left by the receding hatred. That was your second loss. Twice the loser.”

Serif sat down beside Madark. Serif tried to find a comfortable position, pressing his back into the tree Madark was bound. The chains were frozen and rigid against Serif's back.

“Our Tier is not one of honor, Madark. Piss on what the devil's thoughts are of us. Run. Hide. Fight-only if you can win. You chose to march out alone. You chose to give up. You lost the fight long before we arrived on this star.”

“Have I not been burdened with enough torture for one day?” Madark asked sarcastically, in a hopes that Serif would cease yet another long-winded speech.

They sat for moment in silence as the snow gently fell, adding a fresh layer to the grounds around the outskirts of the camp.

Serif nodded and stood up. “Never accept your fate, brother.” Serif began to walk, carving new footsteps into the snow.

“My fate has been thrust upon me. By you, by my sister, by Shrine, by everyone!” Madark shouted.

Serif stopped and lowered his head. “React in a disproportionate manner.”

Madark sighed deeply as his wrists fell limp and the chain slid down the trunk of the tree. He knew a lecture was coming. He should have said nothing at all.

Serif smiled, “Madark, fate is yours to decide. You made your choices. You found the treacherous captain of the Fourth. You fought him... and you lost. You were merciful. Why, brother, why? Do you not understand? Still? After all this time? When wronged, you must be vicious in your retribution. You must be disproportionate with your response. Lose a finger? Take the hand! Predictability is a death sentence. I followed you. I knew exactly where you were going. How do you suppose I arrived before your soul was liberated? I did not stop you. You were making a choice. A conscious effort to be the master of your own fate. But then, somehow, you allowed your rage to subside, your grip to loosen and you surrendered yourself to our enemy. You did not run, did not try to scream, shout-no, you just surrendered as if you wanted the claws of fate to hold you in place. Why? Well, I know why. As I already told you, you let go of what drove you to go out into the night. You let go of what makes you strong. Live in spite of them all, Madark. Live purely to spite them. If it takes a hundred-a thousand years, lie, cheat, steal, and when the time is right, when you can maximize your prize, take the hand. Be disproportionate. Be cruel. But never let them think you as predictable.”

Madark watched as Serif walked away, down the hill and up to the hastily crafted gates of the Last Tier camp.
He began to shiver. He tugged on his bindings to stop the numbing of his extremities. He tried to ignore Serif's monologue, tried to distance his thoughts from Medina, from Shrine, from everyone. He sat in silence, periodically looking towards the well lit camp. He thought of his bed. He thought of the time in the tower, under Aris Ascarian's watchful eyes. He felt safe in the tower, away from the ground floor from which whatever devils dwell below Shrine's surface. Yet now, he felt alone, sitting on the cool ground beneath him. The snow had now melted away from where he sat and now his only solace was that he was not on Shrine. He tugged on his bindings again, peeling bark from the trunk of the thick tree. He really left me? The thought made Madark laugh softly. When Serif had first approached during the night, Madark was awash with relief that he would be set free from his shackles, only having to pay the sum of suffering through another of Commander Serif's sermons, yet Serif had walked away and left him to his fate. Madark pulled hard on his bindings again. His eyes began to swell up. Madark wanted to cry. He pressed his forehead into the cold bark of the tree as a tear breached his defenses.

Sometime passed while Madark sat motionless. The tears were now frozen. The snow had stopped, the clouds parted as morning began to crest over the trees. A chilled silence passed over him. The air seemingly had been evacuated. He turned his head and was surprised to see the Last Tier Commander's Warlock levitating just above the snow. He never trusted the unblinking, unflinching, eerily calm machine. It was holding a mantle. Its expression only seemed to move in subtle ways in the past, yet on this morning, Madark saw no movement, nor the slightest inkling of life behind its vacuous facade. It moved close, Madark flinched, jerking his head away from the Warlock. It draped the thick woolen mantle over his shoulders and circled around the tree. The chains buckled and fell away. As quickly as It had appeared, the warlock had vanished. Madark knew It still lingered around him, yet It was now invisible to him.

Madark stood on cracking and stiff legs. A sharp pain flashed his lower back. The cold mornings reminded him of Avaric Keda's dagger, how he twisted into his back. Madark grimaced away the pain and then nodded several times as a show of thanks to his liberator, unsure if It would be aware, let alone, acknowledge the gesture of gratitude. He moved his arms as the chains dragged around him. He looked towards the camp and then back into the wilderness beyond. Madark wanted to walk out into the wilds of this foreign star, out into desolation, away from everyone and everything. Yet, his stomach rumbled. He had been without food or water for more than a day. His arms may be free from the tree, but his hands still had shackles around the wrists with long, heavy chains dragging along side.

Am I truly free? Madark asked himself as the chains dug into the snow around him, just barely visible.

Madark thought for a long moment what would happen if he never returned to the Last Tier, if he simply began walking away. He thought of all manner of beasts that would accost him. He thought of the monstrosities that exist within the northern reaches of Shrine and if they existed here too. He thought of wolves and other predators that may ambush him. He thought of the remnants of the Fourth Tier searching out stragglers to seek revenge for their fallen captain. He thought of what his sister would think. He thought of food. Can I forage without the use of my fingers? Would Serif send out a search party? Would Garr run himself ragged to find me? Why did Serif send his Warlock to set me free? Madark was paralyzed in thought. Free from the tree, he was bound in thought. If only to be a bird and fly away. To become lost like The Eighth.

“I'm a coward...” Madark resisted the urge to sit and cry. He collected himself before walking towards the Last Tier camp, his chains dragging along in tow. After the ridicule and mockery, I will eat and slip off into the night.

“Madrigal!” The guard at the gate shouted as he gestured towards to open the gate, “you're back!”

Madark grimaced. What fate awaits him beyond these doors. What ridicule and mockery are in store for a coward. Madark walked hesitantly as his chains clattered along the dirt behind him.

A shout, “Madark!” Madark knew it was none other than Mestin Garr's voice.

A roar echoed through the camp as sleepy eyed members of the Last Tier began clapping and whistling, banging cutlery on the plates serving morning rations.

Madark halted in amazement. Are they mocking me?

“Madark! You absolute devil! I told them you would be back, that you'd break those chains!” Mestin Garr said as he ran towards Madark, his wild, unkempt red hair reflecting the morning sun. Mestin embraced Madark deeply, “you smell like shit, but-come, breakfast's still warm.” They walked towards the makeshift dining hall. “We knew the Captain's chains weren't strong enough,” Mestin said, patting Madark's shoulder through the thick mantle. “This is nice, where'd you get it?” Mestin asked, referring to the woolen mantle.

Madark shrugged.

Mestin sat Madark down at the nearest table and ran over to retrieve breakfast. The members around the dining hall were all smiling and nodding, raising drinks towards Madark. Madark received a warm drink and tried to hoist it up, however, his hands were still bound. Some laughter rose.

“I suppose I need the key from the good Captain.” Madark said in a hushed sarcastic tone. Laughter rose again. He was happy. Yet, behind his smile, Madark still wanted to weep. He was unsure why. Why am I so weak? He cursed himself under his breath, fighting the urge to surrender himself to tears. Mestin returned with food. A moment later, Captain Baren's steward arrived with the shackle's key. Mestin eagerly snatched it from his hand, and after several long, awkward moments, Mestin managed to unlock the shackles and the chains fell away, drawing everyone's attention towards Madark once again. Madark held up his drink in a modest fashion and another roar echoed out from members of the Last Tier.

“So come on then, what happened?” Mestin Garr asked eagerly as the commotion fell to a dull roar. “Did Serif really give it to you? His sword?”
“Yes.”

“Well go on then, show the boys.”

Madark shook his head and jeers and boos groaned from around the table.

The doors opened wide, revealing Commander Serif standing proudly on the threshold, his left thumb tucked into his belt and his right hand resting on the hilt of his newly acquired sword.

The dining hall fell silent. “Brothers.” Serif scanned the room and then looked directly at Madark, “I see you finally broke free... good,” Serif said smiling and nodding.

Madark cocked his head slightly. Did he not send out his Warlock?

“Brothers,” Serif continued, “I bring good news. The rangers of the Third have sent word to the other Tiers. It seems they have found the remnants of the Fourth. The Sixth are headed to meet with them,” Serif noticed the gathered diners eyes narrowing with bated breath. “So...,” Serif gave a long, dramatic pause, “we will let our betters sort it out. Tonight. Tonight we return home.” A raucous roar bellowed out from the Last Tier. Serif nodded at the group and then locked eyes with Madark. A moment passed and then Serif left the dining hall.

Madark sat motionless among the celebration. Home? Already? Madark frowned. His opportunity to flee, to walk off into obscurity had vanished.

Commander Serif strutted into Shrine's Fulcrum. The Commanders of the other Tiers spoke in hushed voices as they watched him approach.

“Ah, the coward returns. Was your so-called Tier too afraid to close this unsightly chapter in Shrine's history?” Illias Ire, Administrator of the Seventh said loudly.

Serif ignored the comment and approached his chair. The seat of the Eighth Tier, long vacated, and now the temporary seat of the Last Tier.

“That seat is unfit for your kind,” said Illias Ire in a more aggressive tone.

“Your jest wounds me, Sir.”

“'Tis no jest!”

“Aye, 'tis no wound neither.” Serif sat comfortably and looked to the opposite end of the crescent-shaped conference desk and locked eyes with the First Tier Commander. Medina Madrigal looked sullen. Serif nodded with a soft smile. Medina blinked, her facial expression unchanging and then looked away towards the entrance of the Fulcrum as Antecedente, Aris Ascarian walked in followed in tow by the Prime Antecedent, Kara Kazarian.

The domineering Aris was dressed in his customary robes befitting of the Telemancer's station, fine embroidered silks, blue on white, the colors of the AMS guild. Kara Kazarian wore an elegant dress, the silken threads were thin and transparent, revealing her figure. Serif narrowed his eyes.

The Ballad of Aris Ascarian

“It started with a dream.., and in that dream I saw our death. I saw the people of our great civilization praising gods!” Aris scoffed, “gods! Gods in the sky! Living, breathing gods that engulfed the horizon for as far as one's eyes could reach. They were screaming.., a deafening roar that shook thoughts and stripped me of my will-it was madness! Their voices were deep and terrible. A rhythmic chant so loud, so frightful, I could not think, I could not move.., their reverberations gripped my heart. I was paralyzed. My voice was soft. My cries were but a whisper. I tried to call out, to resist, yet I was only able to watch, to watch as their worshipers maimed those that did not worship their screaming god. It was chaos. The screams of the people? They were drowned out by that of their gods. The butchered bodies that lined the streets.., even in such a gruesome state, the people still lived, their lust to kill unabated. They dragged themselves. Some without limbs. Others without eyes. They swung erratically, creatures possessed! Moving in a hypnotic dance to the beastly shrieks above. They were all trying desperately to appease... it was the most horrible experience of my life. And then, I woke up. I was in abject agony. The grip on my heart still lingered. A force that seemed to be squeezing my humanity, piercing my veins and filling my soul with a vile substance, a substance that spread to lungs and mouth. I could taste the decay...”

Aris turned to the balcony, hesitating at the threshold, “still now I fear to look up. To risk seeing the grotesque faces of those devils which are burned into my eyes. I do not want to be one to first acknowledge their presence. To be the one that causes the end of our people.”

Aris moved back into the center of his chamber and placed Celeste unceremoniously on a an ornamental platter once reserved for ripe fruits now sat with rotting figs. “This power. This curse. An imbalance. A poison, one which the antidote alludes us-kept from us! I cannot think clearly. The dreams invade and attack all reason! I feel wrought with weakness! Feeble! How am I to carry this burden when my waking thoughts turn to death and my sleeping mind manifests that ever-present fear of the looming threat above us?”

“Do you still dream of it?”

“Sometimes, yes. Yet now, it has transitioned to a new dream. A dream of me being in control, standing over there, overlooking the city and jumping.”

“In your dreams, you end your life?”

Aris hesitated, “thus far, yes. But there is comfort in this dreams. The uncertainty ends. A myriad of path ways. The possibilities. Each action causing a new and unpredictable reaction. While in that sweet dream, I fall, those paths I cannot predict begin to fall away with me. As the speed of my descent hastens, the variables converge into one true inalienable fate.., and only in that unique moment, before I am reacquainted with the world below, that brief, blessed moment, I feel peace, that my fate is absolutely certain.”

Medina looked to the balcony and then back at Aris. She never thought she would see someone so proud fall so low. Aris Ascarian, Antecedent of the AMS Guild, Grand Telemancer, savior of Shrine in no less than two separate occasions, would be so pathetic. She turned her head towards the platter, daring not to look directly at the orb, opting to look at the fresh figs. She sighed, “perhaps the First should take-”

“No!” Aris erupted. He jumped to his feet and rushed over to the Celeste, knocking the platter to the floor. He was breathing heavily, clutching the orb to his chest with his back turned to Medina. He faced the balcony, “I would sooner leap forth from this tower than surrender anything!”

Medina was unmoved by the outburst. She had saw her brother in states of madness far worse than this. Before she was unprepared. She wanted to allow for moment of silence so Aris may collect himself, but she did not, “I suspect you will fulfill your prophecies. Consumed by this urge to carry the weight of fate, you-”

“Leave me!”

“The fate of our world-”

“Leave me!” Aris echoed loudly.

Medina continued, “how tragic. That the fate of our world rests on you and Serif, two squabbling children, seemingly consumed by power? Pride? Fear? I do not know, but the devils you fear screaming in the sky's above are none other than your own voices.”

The heavy oak doors closed behind Medina, leaving Aris alone. He knelt down, clutching his chest with his left hand in the center of his chamber.

“Please come back.” Aris whispered. Aris himself unknowing if the whisper was to the orb or Medina.

Avaric Keda Finds The Free Sails

“Avaric Keda? Here? This is a remarkable sight indeed.” Kosten stood facing the self-proclaimed Bandit-King of Angellen.

“Oh, Indeed, indeed! I am here in the flesh.” Avaric ensured he enunciate every word, seemingly savouring the encounter.

Urneius smiled, “we thought you and your cohort went mad?”

Avaric Keda exchanged a shy smile. “Oh, indeed. We did.”

“What are you doing here, Keda?” Kosten asked, trying to show absolute patience.

“My people and I were searching for something.”

“Interesting. Us as well.” Urneius responded. “Do you require help?”

Avaric continued to smile, “oh no. No. Our search is over.”

“You were searching us? It has been some time since we went home. Perhaps, you could guide our way?” Urneius responded with a smile.

“Oh, no. No. I'm not searching on behalf of Shrine.”

“On behalf of new masters?”

“Perhaps? We all serve some greater power in one way or another, whether we realize it not,” Avaric looked to his left and right and nodded, “you and your lot have made impressive strides. Strides that crossed the stars. Oh, it was challenging to find the elusive Free Sails,” Avaric paused, “but.., low and behold,” Avaric scanned the crest of the hill, “-where is Shae?”

“Our Dear Commander Shae is dead, Keda. He has been gone for sometime now.” Raise said in a remorseful tone.

“Oh, I see. Who leads this... rabble now?”

“We are our own masters,” grunted the very large and imposing Tyress Daraia from behind Kosten.

“Oh? Your own masters you proclaim! Yet slaves nonetheless. Slaves to a thirst that cannot be quenched. A lust for more. Am I mistaken? Are you not servants to this new lust?”

“What do you want, Keda?” Kosten's facade of patience began to slip.
“Oh, Derjinn, you old dog of war, I am here to take you all-”

Shadows moved as Avaric's bandits revealed themselves to the assembled Eighth Tier.

“This is a dangerous game you dare play, Keda.” Saj'a Raise said. She had known they were being watched, but even she was surprised at how many of Keda's bandits went unnoticed.

“Oh, Saj'a, my dear, the games are all we have left. Stand and deliver!”

Madark’s Prison (Unedited)

Madark faced Hanish, his eyes began to swell up as he refused to look into the dark cell. He was nudged forward. Madark swallowed what remaining pride he had left, “please..,” Madark begged, sounding like a whimpering dog, whiny and pathetic, “don't do this to me.”

Hanish's eyes widened in amazement. He cocked his head back and laughed cruelly, “oh my! How absurd! A Madrigal begging?” His voice oozed contempt and ridicule. “The days of yore are far removed from this one. It's truly remarkable.” Hanish paused, “in. Now.”

Madark thought about his sister. He thought Aris and how he should have surrendered him to his fate when Avaric Keda's forces attacked. He then thought of his own fate. I'm going to die here. The devils below only needed a few more scraps of whatever remained of his mind. His breath turned from ragged to panicked as he looked around for an escape. His feet and hands were bound and a long spiraled stairway lie below and above. A cornered animal will behave erratically. Madark jerked free from his captor's grasp, taking one clumsy step up the stairs and was then struck hard on the back of his head. The blow made Madark stumble and then slowly fall backwards. His captors did not catch him. He fell backwards, his spine and other bones absorbing the initial few stone steps. He then tumbled down the stairway, end-over-end seeing flashes of blue hues and bodily nails beginning to penetrate the surface. He bounced from step to step. He slowed his momentum and leapt to his feet, his head was throbbing, blood and hair obscured his vision. He tripped, tumbling further down the stairway. He could hear echos of laughter from above as he rolled, eventually colliding hard with a heavy door at the base of the stairwell.

Madark lied motionless, every muscle and bone in his body felt battered. He heard the footsteps approach through dulled senses, the voices and laughter were muffled, his ears clogged with blood and other foreign debris. Unable to hear, see or say anything, he felt a slow, delicate incision from beneath him. A smooth cut along his abdomen. Rage then fueled him. He was all too familiar with that feeling. Madark screamed, swinging violently around him, swiping and hitting Hanish's ankle as he thrashed about on the floor. Suddenly, a dozen stiff booted blows landed on Madark, each subsequent blow angering him more than the last. He screamed a scream fueled by pain and murderous rage. He was going to kill everyone! But, as quickly as the thought emerged the his world went dark.

Madark woke on the floor of the cell, his fine black hair now heavily matted with dirt and blood. Madark stood, every bone and muscle sending pulses of pain throughout his body. He saw a bed before in the dimly lit cell, scrambling to climb atop. The ground beneath is bed began to glow, beads of blood-stained sweat began to fall onto the stained linens.

“Help me!” Madark pleaded. Madark continued to call out for help until his voice went hoarse. He crouched down on the bed, spasms of pain radiated from his lower back, where Avaric Keda had once pierced him with his dagger. Madark felt a sudden sensation, a delicate cut along his upper back, where it rested against the stone wall. He flinched forward, daring not to look behind him. He sat starring at the door. She will come. She must.

Madark stood upon his bed, his bound hands trying to find purchase on the windowsill above. But there was no light in his cell, the windowsill opened into a large cavernous room where the Shrine Guard housed their members. The cells were often empty. The ancient room had modern uses, their original intent were now lost to history. They were converted into prisons during the times of unrest, when the Tiers of Shrine fought for control of the Fulcrum.

Madark stomped his feet on the frame of the bed and screamed a violent scream. Yet, his screams now were quiet, his throat had been dry for days. The water and food left by the Guard stat untouched on the opposite side of the room. Madark dared not step foot on the cold floor of his cell.

“Shut up.” A guard's voice. His voice was equally exhausted from the last few days of having to scream profanities at Madark in an attempt to silence him.

Harlon stood atop the spiraling stairs that led into the depths of the Fulcrum's prison. He stared down at Medina with an outstretched grin that spread nearly ear-to-ear.

Medina sensed his eyes and paced her steps, focusing her mind on remaining calm, to show as little emotion as possible. As she approached the top of the stairs, she then raised her head to see the Shrine Guard commander's smug, punchable face.

“He has been quite the nuisance, Commander Madrigal, screaming incessantly of devils in the night. The guards toss and turn in restless sleep due to his outbursts of madness. And the smell is horrific-”

“Yes,” Medina said interrupting Hanish as she continued to walk, “I sympathize with your plight.”

Harlon stammered, “my-my lady, do you not wish to set your brother free from this unfortunate predicament?”

Medina stopped, perhaps her ploy worked, she turned, “and have that nuisance be my burden?” She sighed, “at what... compensation?”

“My lady, Madrigal! The Guard ensures all of Shrine's inhabitants behave in conformity with the agreed upon rules and stipulations set out during the Reine Accords. Your brother struck the Antecedent! He threatened to maim and murder within the tower, the tower which resides within your jurisdiction.”

Medina gave a blank stare.

Harlon continued, “a lowly sum of a thousand gold, or the equivalent in grams of osseous matter will satiate the Guard's justice.”

“One thousand gold? A ludicrous sum! After he's been beaten, tortured and held for four days without my knowing?” Medina resisted the urge to scoff aloud.

“Beaten, perhaps, but he was not tortured! His wounds are of his own design.”

She turned and continued to walk away from Harlon, down the marbled steps of the Fulcrum.
“Five-hundred gold! The Guard's warlock is here to facilitate the transaction and Madark will be freed immediately, lest he languish here... and the rumors of his madness breech these walls.”

Medina stopped again, turning back up the stairs. This time, Harlon's face wore a more conciliatory and hesitant expression. The First cannot be held hostage to the Guard, even at the cost of sacrificing her own brother. “How disgusting. That the corruption from the Guard flows from the shit in its bowels to its throat. You wish to extort the First?”

“Extort?” Harlon proclaimed in anger, “there is no extortion happen-”

“You're no better than a common slaver, your words wreaking of shit, ransoming the deranged to line your coffers? Disgusting.”

Harlon grit his teeth, turning sharply and walking away.

“Free him now,” Medina shouted, then resumed her normal cadence of speech “and the First will remember the generosity and leniency of the Guard.”

Harlon was now the one to stop. He whispered in hushed tones to a nearby guard and then turned his head to Medina, “it is done. Do not forget the Guard's generosity this day.”

As Medina walked out of the Fulcrum, down into the belly of Shrine, she thought about the true cost of having Madark released.