The Reign of Bahldi the Great during the time of The Eastern Conquest. Ninety years prior to the reign of Barte Son of Moshere. In the desert plains of Lativia. Summer months.

Skotádi hurled the curse across the valley while his voice echoed off the buttes surrounding the river basin.

“This is the decree of Bahldi the Great, conqueror of Lativia’s kingdom,” he announced.

A brilliant burst of light swallowed the sun for a crushing moment and then, like a sheet of ice, the Vouchsaver’s spell crystalized. Sharp fragments of rime fell on the enemy’s army. Horses reared and froze, forelegs stretched, stiffened in mid-air. Men’s arms froze above their heads, swords suspended, glistening in the sun. Every fighting man in the Lativian army—mounted or on foot—solidified. Bahldi charged, his cavalry thundered from the foothills, their battle cry rang in Skotádi’s ears. A bloody massacre took place before him as the enemy shattered like fragile glass with the swipe of Casdamian blades.

Skotádi once gloated in this magical mastery, but today a cynical smile thinned his lips. The death of the Lativian soldiers didn’t bother him. He drooled at the sight of their dying bodies when their pathetic souls drifted above their corpses as tiny yellow clouds of pain and defeat. If he were in the fields, he would consume those vapors of death, a savory lunch for a Vouchsaver. The tasty morsels would have given him strength, confidence, and even more power, which would eventually benefit his bondmaster, the emperor.

What a waste!

For three battles the emperor sent him atop a hill or mesa to wield his curse, far enough from killing fields that Skotádi could not reap the harvest of souls. He’d been brewing over this oppression all morning, and now that he saw what a huge in-gathering he could have devoured, he clenched his fist. Hot air streamed from his nostrils. And to think of all the boasting the emperor did the night before.

Bahldi’s conquest of the northeastern kingdoms lasted over three moons’ time. They traveled over mountains and plains, conquering cities and villages, and gathering bounty as their victory allotted them. Bahldi took the glory for himself even though without the Vouchsaver he would have fallen a long time ago. What did Skotádi get as a reward? Not the satisfaction of tribute, nor the tang of men’s spirits, but a mere mage’s pittance. Didn’t he and the emperor have a bond that sealed their psyches as one body? Was being a Vouchsaver to Bahldi worth nothing more than enough coin to buy a bowl of stew?

Today marked the ultimate victory, the final subjugation before the Great Rivers prohibited their crossing to further conquest. After plundering the city of Lativia, Bahldi would travel south and return to Casdamia as the Grand Lord of all that lay east of Casa de Moor and southeast of Ream River. ‘The Mighty One’, Skotádi heard the emperor call himself while boasting to his confidants. Not a mention of the Vouchsaver and the magic that put his enemies in their hands. Not a word about Skotádi.

“You must give me rein to wander the killing fields and reap the bounty.” The taste in Skotádi’s mouth turned bitter as the emperor chuckled when the wizard visited him in his grand marquis. The tent swayed in the desert breeze—tapestries that hung as walls rustled—the lantern flickered. Bahldi lay against the embroidered pillows piled on the sheepskins. He had a parchment bound in leather on his lap, and a quill in his hand, sucking the tip. He did not bother to look up at Skotádi.

The Vouchsaver’s lust for souls burned hot in his gut and hotter even more now that the emperor ignored him.

“Your incessant soul-sucking would warn our enemy of our tactics. I don’t care to have you seen, nor even rumored. No, Skotádi, you must remain anonymous at all times.” The bald man looked up at Skotádi and squinted his dark beady eyes. His long mustache rippled when he sneered. “Better no one but our men know you even exist. You’re not a pretty picture, Skotádi, most of our men would rather not see you at all.”

Skotádi’s appearance frightened people, but did he care? His potions boiled over and splattered on more than one occasion, pitting his face. Long nights of conjuring magic deepened the hollows of his eyes. Still, appearances had nothing to do with the bargain the emperor made.

“And take the glory for yourself?”

Bahldi shrugged. “What is glory? You wanted half the kingdom, didn’t you?”

Skotádi would have no power if he were only owner and not ruler of the kingdom.

He’d grown tired of Bahldi. One could not break a Vouchsaver bond, but if he made more power for himself than he made for Bahldi, the tables would turn, and Bahldi would beg him for mercy. That very night, Skotádi vowed he’d retreat into the caves of Mount Ream and create mayhem for the emperor.

Cho Nisi Magic

Stars glimmered in the heavens—their reflections sparkled in the sea as jewels would if they were submerged in pools of dark waters. A ribbon of silver from the moon rise outlined where the earth ended, and firmament began. The western shore of the Island of Cho Nisi blushed, beckoning breakers to grind its shells and stones to powder. Crabs scrambled about sideways, scavenging for whatever menu the tide served.

Arell rested on driftwood, his bare feet buried in the cool sand, his dark hair tied back over his shoulders. He wore his embroidered gambeson, more to stay warm than to boast his princely status. The plume on his hat quaked and his cloak rustled with his movements as he carved an arrowhead from a fine specimen of jade he’d found that afternoon.

Chief Silas—dressed in his ceremonial tunic, beads adorning his neck—beat quietly on a cottonwood drum with other members of the tribe. They chanted an incantation that provided a protective spell around the island, making it invisible to foreign eyes. Tradition mandated the vigil whenever the Cho Nisi faced danger. Arell’s father, King Rolland, and many of the island’s warriors left a little over a week ago to aide their neighbors to the North in a battle against a dark lord. They would return soon. Tonight. Arell lifted his head often, watching the sea. With the return of his father’s ship, Silas would have to lift the spell to let them in.

A warm breeze shifted sands along the beach, sweeping a lock of hair into Arell’s eyes. He brushed it back and breathed in the sea’s fragrance, satisfied in the choice he made to help Silas keep watch tonight. Just as the wind carried the sand, so too, rumors floated in the air, and some had reached him earlier today. Whisperings from the city of Moaton that he should be more princely and enjoy the wealth of the palace. To Arell, the night skies along the shore dwarfed the majestic halls in the castle. White sands were more lovely than silken pillows and gilded furniture. No incense brought to him in royal bronze burners could match the fragrance of the ocean. No, on these beaches lay his sanctuary. The rumors didn’t bother him.

A soft tap hit his cloak and laughter came from the cliffs above. Arell peered over his shoulder at Silas’s two daughters tossing pebbles at him. He waved at Serena and her younger sister Bena, both wearing white chitons that caught the moon’s rays and made them glow like angels.

They blew kisses. He shook his head and turned back to face the sea.

“What would you do if you ever had to take on the responsibility of the crown?” Silas asked him as he glanced back at the girls and chuckled.

“The Moaton Crown? King of Cho Nisi?” Arell shrugged. He never gave the idea much thought since his father showed little sign of aging. He would worry about succeeding him in due time. His grandfather and several hundred immigrants came from the Casdamian Empire on the mainland to the island, seeking refuge years ago. Their treaty with the Cho Nisi chiefs granted them their own village and gave them power as envoys with foreign nations, as long as they lived in harmony and respected the native’s way of life. When his grandfather died, his father took the throne and ruled peacefully for decades. Arell, having a Cho Nisi mother, preferred living with the tribal people and spent little time in the palace. The Cho Nisi taught him to hunt and fish and build canoes and many other crafts. Fresh air and white shores lured him away from the rigid stone castle, built high on a hill overlooking the entire island and all the sea. Equally dark and cold nested the immigrant village of Moaton where his father’s people lived.

Arell opened his mouth to respond to Silas when the chief moved away from him. Two soft hands covered Arell’s eyes from behind, and girlish laughter warmed his ears. He placed his carving down on the driftwood, reached back, and took Serena’s arms. She wiggled away. He stubbed his toe on driftwood as he leapt over the log and chased her. Bena tossed another pebble at him when he caught Serena, who hadn’t tried to escape. He lifted Serena, cradling her in his arms, and swung her around. The fabric of her silken dress wafted in the breeze. She weighed next to nothing compared to his strength. He marveled at her smooth dark skin and her catching smile. Holy Idols! What a pretty woman! As he set her down, she grabbed his hair, her dark eyes tempting. “Let go,” he laughed, trying to free himself. Bena threw another pebble.

“Oh, so you want attention too?” he asked the younger child. Serena released his hair and Arell caught the little one in his arms and tossed her into the air. She screamed. When she could barely catch her breath from laughing so hard, he set her in the sand. Serena grasped onto his arm, pulled him to her, and kissed his cheek. He would have liked her kiss to last longer and on the lips, but being a tease, Serena slipped away. The two girls hurried back up the hill.

Arell sighed, not in the mood for running up the hill barefoot. He glanced at their father. “What would I do if I were king? Why I would bring your daughters into the castle and have them wait on me!” He laughed, sat down, and rubbed his sore toe.

Silas shook his head and took a seat on the driftwood. “You would make an interesting king,” he chuckled. “My daughters are fond of you, Arell. Perhaps you’ll marry one someday.”

Arell shook his head in protest. Too soon for him to marry, he gently rebuked the Chief’s attempts to couple him with Serena. Her father didn’t need to find a husband for her. As lovely as any jewel, with her silky black hair, doe-like eyes, and bronze skin, her compassion surpassed her beauty. She cared about people, cooked better than any native on the island, and knew the healing remedies of the tribe. She could wed any warrior she chose. Arell wondered why she flirted with him so much. His right as a Moaton prince shouldn’t impress her. With her father, the Cho Nisi chief, she already held the title of princess.

“There are too many attractive girls on the island, Silas. I’m not ready to settle on anyone in particular. You know that.”

The chief nodded. “No. You’re too flirtatious to have my daughter. Someday you’ll take life more seriously, and then maybe I’ll consent.”

“Me flirtatious?” Arell laughed and glanced back at Serena. Who flirted with whom? His smile bent slightly, and he chuckled as he resumed carving.

Silas tapped on his drum softly and Arell regarded the sea. Had the sun been up and the sky clear, the tips of Mount Ream and Casda de Moor would peek over the horizon. Even then, one had to look hard to see them. Tonight, nothing but a dark vista suggested an endless ocean.

“Your father would be hard to replace. He’s a righteous king, wise and kind. I told him not to be a part of this battle, but his good heart carried him away to help those people.”

Arell nodded and considered Silas’s frown. For a moment, the chief’s doubt quickened his heart. He didn’t expect something to go wrong, did he?

“Father, look!” Serena called out from the hill behind them. She pointed toward a shadowy mass in the sky, moving at rapid speed, blotting out the stars and darkening the moon.

The chief stood and waved to the drummers. “Skura! Shadows of evil,” he announced.

The warriors, seeing the encroaching danger, picked up their instruments and ran down the beach, positioning themselves at key points along the way, until the last few men vanished into a nearby cove. Their chant immediately stirred the elements. A strong wind and ocean spray blinded Arell. The shoreline rippled, whirlpools formed in the sea, and a waterspout rose to the sky, climbing higher and higher until it reached the stream of darkness. As the cyclone swallowed the skura, they formed an ominous cloud that spun for a moment and then stopped. Arell held his breath as the earth stilled. A flash of lightning, a roar of thunder and the waterspout imploded. With a blood-curdling shriek, the entire body of skura fell and disappeared into a turbulent sea.

Arell watched through his spyglass and then focused on something in the water. “Silas!” He tucked the scope into a pocket in his gambeson. “Those skura were chasing a boat with our standard. The dingy is coming this way.”

Silas whistled and waved to the drummers. The chanting ceased as the men signaled each other, and soon the wind died down, allowing quiet waters for the skiff to enter.

“It’s Father,” Arell announced. He splashed into the surf but stopped before he reached the dinghy. He had expected to see his father at the bow. “Where is he?” Arell asked the men on board as the hoy drifted ashore.

King Rolland should have been greeting him by now. Several men slipped out of the dinghy and into the gently rolling waves, guiding the craft to the beach. There were no happy words that met Arell’s ears. No cheers of triumph. Arell waded further and helped pull the boat in, his cloak drenched—his hat flew into the breakers, but he didn’t retrieve it. He asked again, but no one answered.

“I command you to tell me. Where is my father!”

“I’m sorry, Vasil. The king has fallen,” one warrior said. “He’s in the boat.”

Reflections of stars glistened in the sea and cast a dim light on the people on board. The men ambled somberly—the wet boards of the skiff’s deck creaked under their feet. The moment lasted for eternity as they beached. Arell climbed into the dinghy, his heart in his throat, afraid to face the reality that waited. Lying on the wet deck, hands folded across his chest, face peaceful in the moonlight, rested his father. Arell knelt next to him.

“He can’t be.”

Breathless, cold, and pale as the moon, his father’s eyes were closed, his soul gone.

Disbelief stunned Arell like the sting of a centipede, and thrust him into another space and time, numbing his senses.

No one spoke.

Once the men had secured the hoy, someone touched Arell on the shoulder.

“Come,” the chief said.

The warriors carried the king ashore and laid him on the sand. Arell stood over his father, too stunned to speak, too dazed to weep. He shook his head. His heart screamed, but not a sound escaped his lips.

“Arell,” Chief Silas spoke. “What are your orders?”

Arell had no orders. He had nothing. Nothing!

“How did he die?” Chief Silas asked the men.

“An arrow through his heart,” one warrior whispered.

Their voices resonated like iron against iron as Arell gazed upon the lifeless body. His father couldn’t be dead. This didn’t happen! He felt Silas’s stare.

“Arell?” Silas said.

The shock had consumed Arell.

The chief turned to the men. “Keep vigil tonight. Watch for ships. Have sentries secure the castle,” Chief Silas waved to the others. “Drummers!”

Several men ran quietly up the hill while the other warriors encircled Arell and his father’s body. They chanted a dirge—the Cho Nisi Farewell Song.

The sea brings life as it trundles ashore

A heartbeat rolling like yours and mine

Milling sand from rock and stone.

Forever tumbling down life’s gravel path

Swaying, singing, reeling

Until the last of days, we see

At rest, our soul slumbers

Like the Sea of Nisi, soaking the sun with eyes closed

Farewell, my king.

Arell’s grieving soul found solace in the gentle rumble of calm breakers rolling on silvery shores. He spent his days sitting next to his father’s grave on the grassy slope overlooking the sea, refusing to return to the castle where memories were too painful to bear. He chose instead to spend his time outside. Alone. He thought it not fitting for a man, much less a prince to weep, and so Arell composed songs in his head and sang them to the wind, to the seagulls, to the starfish that clung to tide pools near the cliffs. He walked the coastline during the day and lay in the graveyard under the stars at night. How many moons lulled him to sleep he never counted, but if he had spent the rest of his life in melancholy by his father’s grave, he would have been content.

After the seventh day of solitude, Arell returned from his walk along the coast to the burial grounds and found Chief Silas waiting for him. The older man stood solemnly as Arell trudged through the sand and up the hill. He avoided looking at Silas. The man no doubt would lecture him on being a chief—insist that he had a responsibility to lead the people of Cho Nisi and keep the island peaceable from the violent world that surrounded them—to hold fast to tradition and ceremony. Yes, Arell knew the native way of life. He learned the integrity and honor of the Cho Nisi. However, if Silas wanted a king to live in the castle, Silas should be that king, not Arell. His legacy died with his father. Arell wanted nothing more than to live humbly on the beach.

Arell walked past Silas, hoping the chief wouldn’t say aloud what they were both thinking. Silas grabbed his arm gently but firmly. “You need to eat.”

“Eat?”

“My daughters have brought you food.”

Arell looked beyond the chief and saw that Serena and the chief’s other daughters, not too much younger than himself, had spread a blanket on the grass near his father’s grave. On the blanket were clay pots filled with cooked food, fruits, and a flask of wine.

Arell shook his head. His hunger had left him after the third day of fasting. He had no desire to eat. “I can’t.”

“No. You must. We’ll eat with you.”

“Silas—” His voice tapered. Refusing the natives’ kindness would be offensive, but how do you forget your troubles? With food? With companionship? He’d be dishonoring his father to overlook his sorrow. “I can’t just quit grieving, Silas. My heart won’t let me.”

Silas shook his head solemnly. “Grieve as you must. But your father left you his throne. You must rule from it.”

Arell shook his head, looked at the sea, and breathed the salty air. Like life itself, the ocean was a never-ending sway of waves, faithful in the rocking of the breakers—eternally the same. He had no desire to rule anyone. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?

“There is much trouble in this world, Arell. You saw the skura swarm when our warriors came home. That won’t be the last we see of them. We’re in a dangerous position. Our enemies know that our king died. They may plan an invasion. Who will lead us out of danger?”

“I’m no leader, Silas.”.

“When your grandfather came to settle here, we had a truce. He and his heirs were to be our ambassadors, keep us safe from invading nations. That contract has come to you, Arell. You are the holder of that scepter.”

His father had educated Arell enough to know that Silas spoke the truth. After the assassination of the emperor of Casdamia, his grandparents immigrated from Casdamia. They had a choice—flee or become slaves. They fled, and Cho Nisi took them in. In trade, the foreigners offered new skills that made the islanders’ life simpler by helping them build sturdier homes that the winds could not blow over. They had made a road through the forested part of the island where the natives fetched fresh water and constructed carts and brought horses from the mainland. Everyone benefited from the trade, so much so that the Cho Nisi appointed the Moatons as mediators to foreign nations and allowed them to appoint their leader as King of Cho Nisi. The immigrants built a castle and the surrounding village high on the tallest hill of the island, which they called Moaton—a tribute to the lake they created which encircled the castle.

“Arell, the same danger in which your father’s people fled hovers over this island. Should the Potamians attack the island, there is nowhere for us to flee. We have no other choice but to fight. When a ruler falls, it leaves a void on his throne. The king’s heir or the king’s enemy will fill that emptiness. Which is your will for us?” the chief asked, his face dour.

Arell sighed heavily. Silas spoke the truth.

“His heir,” Arell whispered.

The chief nodded slightly, not only in agreement with Arell’s answer but in approval. Arell would step into his father’s place.

“It’s destiny then, I suppose, isn’t it? Very well.” He observed the individuals who had gathered and the brilliant party that had begun. “It’ll be hard to live in the castle alone. I’m not sure I can do it, Silas. Those walls are permeated with the essence of my father and my grandfather. I am not near the man they were. I’m inexperienced.”

Chief Silas didn’t respond to Arell’s excuses or musings. He simply waited for Arell to talk it through. “You’ll see me here on the beach more often than not. Fresh air and the sea are what I love. This is my existence. I cannot renounce any of this, Silas.”

“I know. And I’ll visit you in the castle, as well.”

“Be my advisor?”

Silas nodded. “My family will go with you. My daughters, my sons.”

His sons? That may not be so easy. Silas’s two sons. Bejal and Ross were proud Cho Nisi warriors and despised everything about the Moatons, the castle, and even him. Arell chose not to press the matter.

“You’re a good friend, Silas.” Arell smiled at the girls. Their beauty and cheerfulness comforted him. Even during native funerals, they celebrated life, like today, with a feast spread out before him.

Though Silas’s sons were not in attendance, other young Cho Nisi men brought their drums and lyres, already playing music. More people appeared on the hillside, laying more woven blankets, and more food. More wine. Many of his father’s people from Moaton mingled with the natives.

“Your father’s spirit is here with you, celebrating. Join him,” Silas took his arm and led him to the feast. Serena handed him a chalice of wine.

Silas waved his arm. “Choose which one of us you want to serve in the castle. All these people have offered to move into the palace with you if you so desired. Even my daughters.”

Arell nodded and broke into a smile. “No one would live on the beaches then Silas.”

How could he not accept this amity? He beamed at Serena and her sisters and the other young women who, dressed in white linen chitons with flowers braided into their hair, and beaded armbands around their silky bronze skin, giggled flirtatiously.

He could make do, he supposed.