Son of the Sixth

Prologue

Gregor wiped the sweat from his brow with a filthy forearm, the dirt doing its best to transfer from weary arm to weathered face. The day was warm, almost hot, and Eriath’s red moon was visible even in the orange glare of the afternoon sun. The farmer paused and allowed the breeze to caress his face. He smiled. This was his favourite time of day. An hour until tools down and supper. He caught the smell of his wife baking bread and wondered what else might be on the table tonight. Perhaps it would be the rabbits his young son had trapped the day previous. He has his father’s hunting skills, he thought proudly. He looked up, scanning the sky for any of the moon’s five brothers, but saw only the red. He fondly recalled the day he saw all six together in one sky, when he was much younger and didn’t have the worry of a harvest on his mind. The village had celebrated that night. The gods co-habiting the sky seemed to reassure the villagers there would be no more conflict, and that the dark days of the Long War were behind them. He laughed inwardly at the thought. An annoying bug woke Gregor from his daydream. He picked up his scythe, brushed away the bug and continued his labour. Moments later, he heard his son shouting out to him in the excited tone only his seven year old could muster. Father! It’s Sam! He’s having the babies!

Gregor threw open the side door to where sixty pounds of loyal brown canine laid, heavily pregnant and panting up a storm. She was a good dog, a strong and hard working beast who had kept his chickens and livestock safe since she was a pup, and her constant barking may well have seen off many a trespasser from his land. His son, who loved her, had named her Sam, thinking the she-dog was a he. Gregor hadn’t the heart to tell him, and Sam could be a girl or a boy’s name so there was no harm done. Father, help him, cried Herbert, a little unsure of what would happen next. He looks like he’s about to bust!

He’ll be fine, reassured Gregor, just nature taking its course, boy.

They waited for a couple more minutes for the first pup to arrive. Herbert expected to see fluffy little dogs jump from their mother’s loins, and seemed a little perturbed when the big dog chewed through the birth cord, before licking her first slimy pup’s face free of the birthing sack. The second came some twenty minutes later, and in a little over two hours, six newborns mewled noisily and sought their first milk from their exhausted mother. Five brown pups, just like their mother, and one black, much larger and more alert than his brothers and sisters. Gregor snatched up the sixth born pup and walked quickly out the rear door.

Father, the pup needs his mother, piped his son. Isn’t he too little to start working?

Go eat your supper, boy. Mind yourself now.

Gregor took the pup to the rear of the house and wrung its neck with little ceremony. Sorry little feller, had to be done. He looked down at the broken pup and said a prayer to the yellow god of luck. I hope Lewcas has need of a dog, as much as I have need of his good fortune.

He buried the dog quickly and returned to the farmhouse, where he washed his hands and sat down to his cooling rabbit stew. With his first spoonful, he felt his son’s eyes upon him, and he returned his gaze with a sad smile.

What did you do with the big one, father? asked the boy, wide-eyed. His mother put her hand on Herbert’s in an attempt to make what was about to be said less painful for his young ears.

In between bites of black bread and rabbit stew, Gregor did his best. Son, when things are born into our world, the gods are granting us a gift. He gestured with his wooden spoon over to the new pups, sleeping quietly with their mother in the litter box. When a sixth is born, he usually comes out a little different, stronger or smarter, sometimes faster. Remember that chicken got hatched we couldn’t catch?

Herbert smiled at the memory. I remember. Took a while to wrangle that one.

The farmer nodded and chewed. And we make a gift of the sixth in return for the gods’ blessings. Gregor gave his son a wink. That big black pup didn’t feel a thing, and he just might bring us some good luck next harvest, or keep your lungs free of the pox, or, it might keep your mother making us these fine dinners. He smiled at his pretty young wife, who returned in kind.

Herbert stared at his stew, and with his mouth full of bread and a concerned look in his eye, blurted, What happens when people have six children, Mother?

Gregor held up a halting hand as his wife began to speak, cutting her off. Boy, the chancellor doesn’t allow people to have six children, or even five on account of the Long War.

Never again, the family whispered as one.

Having six blessings would be greedy now wouldn’t it, and we don’t want to anger the gods or break any laws of men. I think that’s enough questions for one night, eh?

The family held hands around the table for a thoughtful moment, and finished their meal.

Later that night, Gregor rubbed the brand on his neck, got up from his wooden chair and walked down the hall to check on his son, who by now should have been asleep by all accounts. He peered into the room. His son’s voice spoke from the darkness. I can’t sleep, Papa. Can you tell me the story of the moons again please? Please, Papa?

His son loved the story, and in truth, Gregor enjoyed telling it to him when he couldn’t find sleep. He took a seat at the end of his son’s bed and watched Herbert’s eyes light up, eagerly awaiting the tale. Gregor began, doing his best to do the voices of the gods’ justice. In the days before man, the gods themselves lived on Eriath. They made the valleys and the mountains, planted the trees and coloured the sky blue. They filled the rivers with water, and made the clouds so we would never be without. Then they filled the lands with animals, and the oceans with fish and the sky with birds. And when they were done, they set about to see who had done the best job and to elect a leader to rule them. Well, they all thought their labours were the most worthy, so they argued and fought. Drudu, the boldest of the gods spoke first, his tentacles flailing. Look at my caverns and caves, and the magnificent creatures of the underworld I have created to live within them. Truly, I am the one who should lead us."

No! protested Hodgrimm the Blue. Have you not seen my oceans and rivers? Wondrous things filled with fish to feed your creatures of darkness, Drudu. I am the only one worthy to rule."

Hah! laughed Cochegnor, the beautiful red goddess. My fires warm the very world itself. Without me you would know only the bitter cold. It is I who should be queen.

Old Mother Grewd spat, and thereby created the marshlands. Have you not looked at what adorns the valleys and hills? Trees, plants and animals, all of my own creation. Without them, all would starve.

Golias, wisest of the gods watched them argue, save for Lewcas the Lucky who listened patiently, playing with his deck of many cards. Golias proposed them this. I will make men. Men with free will, and the god whom most men adore, will grow strongest and rule us all.

Lewcas agreed. And I will bless with luck, any of the men whose hearts are true and whose labours are worthwhile.

Gregor ran a loving hand over his sleepy son’s head. And then, the six gods left Eriath to live in the heavens. But, they left a part of themselves in the earth for men to find. Their very essence in the form of precious moonstone.

Herbert yawned. Can we go prospecting one day, Pa? Find us some moonstone?

The farmer smiled at his only son. Prospecting was a dangerous business, and though planting and sowing had not made him rich, he was rich in more than coin. Maybe. When you are older. Gregor stood up from the bed, flexed his aching back and walked to the entryway, before taking a last look back at his Herbert.

Pa. How big do you think that sixth dog would have grown to be?

It is late son. Best you go to sleep. Gregor closed the door.

Chapter 1

The winter winds carried the scent of the pine forest. Corlith drew a deep breath, savouring the fresh smell of the firs before blowing out his cheeks. It was a welcome change from the stink of the unwashed soldiers in his company. Their twelve man patrol had been travelling the Old North Road, walking in a line for two days on the slippery path, in ice, snow and mud. They were all looking forward to a warm bed back in the capital this evening, after the freezing night they had endured on the road.

They had found no trouble, and were only an hour from the safety of the Capital’s high stone walls. Not all the men were soldiers, but all were armed with sword, and armoured in the district’s ring mail. Five of the men were district soldiery, a dour bunch, well trained and reliable in a scrape. Six of the men were citizens of the city, paid volunteers used to bolster the numbers when the soldiery was light on men, as it presently was. Although Corlith Greenleaf made his living as a blacksmith, he felt it his civic duty to don sword and armour for two days a week in these times of need, as had many of the city’s able men. The dark days of the Long War had claimed hundreds of thousands of lives, and though the conflict had been over for years, danger still lurked, and many good men had died recently at the hands of black cultists, bandits, or beasts alike. After the leader of the Cult of Drudu had been killed, many of his brethren had survived and spread far and wide to avoid capture and the chancellor’s justice, which was always swift for those who worshipped the cursed black god. It was not just cultists and bandits who posed a threat though. Mother Grewd, green goddess of nature, also produced sixth born creatures to be wary of in the wilds.

Corlith’s father had fought and died during the Long War, and though Corlith was only a young lad when he had been slain, memories of him were vivid, and he would think often of him while on a long march. Corlith had a strong sense of duty, and felt he was paying respect to his late father by helping protect those who could not do it for themselves, and although it was only two days in a week, it felt good to be following in his father’s footsteps.

This was unlike his friend, Mikael the Hand, who was simply doing it for the silver coins at the end of their journey, as well as the banter he enjoyed during the trip. Mikael was the polar opposite of Corlith. He was a thin, gangly looking fellow with a red rash of hair, prone to finding things that did not belong to him. Corlith was tall and broad of shoulder, thick of chest with arms grown strong like the iron he worked upon at his forge. Despite their differences, they had been best of friends since childhood, tending to swap brains for brawn when the need had arisen as they grew from children into men. Something they still did to the day.

The sun was a grey circle of light behind a blanket of clouds, and it was low in the sky as Mikael the Hand tapped Corlith on the shoulder. You heading for the tavern tonight, Cor? he whispered, so as not to attract the ire of their commander, who was in a particularly prickly mood after the long march. Their leader, who led the column of men on horse-back, had already berated them for an earlier indiscretion, something that did not warrant a repeat performance.

You will curse us all, Mikael, replied Corlith in a similarly hushed tone. You know it is bad luck to talk of home when on the road. We could be docked half our silver if we give him cause to gripe at us again.

Settle down, Cor. He can’t hear us from all the way up front, the fricking thin-lipped goat. We’re only an hour from the gate, so what about a horn of ale then? And a feed of stew? I’ve had about a gutful of this ‘ere bread. Clogs me guts up for days. And that wench—

I have a wife, remember? whispered Corlith with a smile and a wink. I must get home to my two sons. They will be running her ragged after two days alone. Corlith turned and shot his friend a look. But don’t let me prevent you from thoroughly debauching yourself.

Ye never ‘ave, Cor. Though your company will be missed. Mikael wiped a line of snot from beneath his nose. It’s good I enjoy these freezing marches with you, kinda romantic don’t you think? Mikael cooed like a girl in his ear, before nimbly avoiding the swatting gauntlet of his friend.

The company of men came to a halt, and in the diminishing light Corlith could see the commander dismount at the front of the rank.

Together, called their leader. The soldiers assembled together in a circle, shoulder to shoulder as they were trained so the commander could speak to them without need of raising his voice. The commander continued, pointing past the tree line, where a line of smoke rose into the air. A camp an hour out of town does not seem right to me, men. Why sleep in the wilds when a few miles march will see you in a warm tavern. He pointed to one of his veteran soldiers. You. Cotter Five Fingers. He then pointed to Corlith. You. Corlith the Strong. You will be our scouts."

Mikael’s hand shot up like a polite schoolboy waiting his turn to be called upon. Milord, if I could be so bold as to suggest I might go instead of Corlith ‘ere? Aye, he is strong and able, I’ll give him that, but he couldn’t sneak up on a man ten days dead. Mikael pointed to Cotter. And Five Fingers, well he’s only got five frickin’ fingers!

The commander looked at him incredulously. Citizen Mikael. The only thing I want to hear out of you for the rest of this march, is the sound of your boots moving in the direction of that camp. Cotter, go with him. Corlith, you stay.

Mikael decided to push his luck. But Commander, I’m quiet as a mouse when I move, that’s why I am the one going! He then moved silently into the woods, as the commander’s face went such a bright red it could be seen in the waning light. Five Fingers followed close behind, his district issue sword in his good hand and a wooden buckler strapped to his maimed appendage.

Though the light was dimming and the bushes were thick and thorny, it took the two guards only a minute to reach the camp,. The brush became a little thinner as they neared the source of the smoke, and Mikael made out a campfire, over which meat was cooking on a crudely made spit. There were three men in total. Two wore leather armour and furs, and the third in piece-meal plate, which shone golden in the firelight.

Careful, warned Mikael, his voice a faint whisper to Five Fingers, Murder hole. Mikael pointed a few feet to their left, where his keen eyes spied a covered pit trap. Probably spiked too, he added, making a pointy motion with his fingers and raising his eyebrows. Let’s go back to the— A throwing knife whizzed through the brush, stopping with a thud as it pierced Mikael’s eye. He screamed in agony, and instinctively pulled at the blade, his eye socket squirting blood and gore.

Five Fingers shouted, Melee! and charged into the camp, while Mikael staggered and fell onto his face, driving the knife further into his brain, his body twitching and shaking.

Five Fingers used his buckler to bat away a throwing axe meant for his head, though it was more luck than skill in the dim light, and entered the area of the camp to face his foes. He screamed again, Melee! as he summed up his situation. Two of the men wore un-kept beards and had the look of fighters, one with hammer, the other axe, both with wooden shield and an eye for killing district men. The third foe was a full two feet taller than the rest, with grey mottled skin and an unnaturally large jaw jutting out from under his shiny horned helm. He was as broad at the shoulder as two men, and his mailed hands were the size of plates. Those same hands grasped a great sword, six feet in length, sharp and heavy. A sword that bore the look of a weapon that had taken many lives. Five Fingers held up his buckler and waited for one of them to make a move, looking fierce through his fear. He hoped for the aid of his companions soon.

The ten remaining town’s men followed the scream that had awoken the forest, and they charged, swords drawn into the brush toward the smoke, with the sounds of battle to guide them. The scream filled Corlith with dread, and though he held no ill will for Cotter Five Fingers, he hoped it was not his friend Mikael that had made such a terrible noise.

With cries of battle on their tongues, three of the city’s men plunged headlong into the hidden pit trap, which was indeed spiked as the now deceased Mikael had feared. Corlith strode over the body of his fallen comrade without even noticing, allowing his concern for his friend to spur him past his company and into the brigands’ camp.

Five Fingers lay unmoving to the side of the fire, blood pooling in the dust around him from an unseen wound, his helm and skull caved in from a blow from the fighter’s hammer. There was a brief stand-off as the rest of the district’s men rushed into the camp. The fire kept the darkness at bay and separated the two groups, and it hissed as Five Finger’s blood flowed into the hot coals at its base, acrid steam rising into the cool night air.

Lay down your arms and be brought to justice! yelled the commander, his confidence bolstered by the weight of numbers in his favour. The white moonstone in the hilt of his long sword flashed in the firelight.

A great voice spoke out from beneath the horned helm of the grey mottled warrior, rumbling like thunder. Ktharksis the Cruel thinks not! The soldiers’ ring mail vibrated as he began to laugh.

Corlith called out, Where are our men, fiend? Where are they?

The fighter armed with the war hammer answered. Well, must be some in that pit we dug, I heard ‘em screamin’. The other one’s putting out our fire, and another is over there in the bushes wearin’ my knife for a hat. The hammer wielding brigand smiled, showing teeth brown and crooked.

Corlith bellowed with rage and leapt the fire, dropping his shield to the dirt and wielding his sword with both hands. With all of his strength he brought his blade down upon the man who had uttered the jape. The bandit raised his hammer to take the blow on the handle, thinking to parry then strike, but district steel and Corlith’s might won the day, sundering the wood in a shower of splinters before doing the same to the skull of the bandit. Corlith yanked his bloodied blade from the ruined skull of Hammer, the action sending teeth flying from where it had settled in the brigand’s jaw. Again grasping his sword with both hands, he moved quickly to join two of the men fighting the lone axeman, while the commander and three more fought the grey-skinned warrior, who looked more beast than man.

The axeman was a veteran, using his hard won skills to keep the district men at bay. He took a blow to his shield and buried his axe in the neck of the man who dealt it, blood spraying from the wound and into the night air. Corlith cut down, severing the brigand’s arm at the elbow, cutting through the boiled leather like butter. The axeman went to his knees, dropping his weapon and clutching at his erupting stump in horror, until another soldier put a knife in his neck.

The wounded district soldier lay on the ground, trying to staunch the flow of blood with his hands from the axeman’s blow. He tried to speak, but only made wet, gargling sounds as dark blood spurted from his mouth. He began to panic and cough, sending a red salty mist into the air. Corlith looked up at his companion. A death blow. They left their comrade to die and joined the fray.

Ktharksis the Cruel used his freakish strength and reach to good advantage. By the time Corlith joined the fracas, only the commander and his aid fought the sixth born nightmare. The commander sported a long, weeping cut on his forehead, and the nose piece of his helmet was missing, indicating it was his lucky day. The remaining four surrounded the creature, taking turns at attacking and defending. Corlith and another had Ktharksis’s back, and both swung their swords into his flanks as the commander and the soldier fended off crushing blows with their shields to the front. Several strikes glanced off the grey warrior’s plate armour, but as Corlith withdrew his weapon to strike again, a little blood on the blade confirmed he had found flesh between the gleaming metal plates. One such blow earned Ktharksis’s attention, and the grey warrior whirled around, two handed sword cutting a waist high swathe of doom before him. Corlith jumped back, falling to the dust and narrowly avoiding the strike, which would have opened his belly. His companion chose a different defence, seeking to parry with his sword. The minitril blade of Ktharksis destroyed the weapon, and continued in an arc three-sixty degrees through the soldier’s torso, until again Ktharksis faced the commander. Corlith watched in horror as the guard divided into two halves, his entrails spilling like sausage links to the ground. Aaaaaak! croaked the soldier, trying to hold his guts together with his bloodied hands.

Ktharksis raised his enormous weapon overhead and brought it down upon the commander’s aide, once, twice and a third time. The soldier’s shield was made strong by a skilled artisan, but the wood was no match for the sheer force of the blows. Corlith leant on his sword and rose up from the ground, watching as his commander attracted the creature’s attention. This was his moment. He lifted his sword high and drove the point of his blade deep between breast and back plate. Ktharksis bellowed and spun around, tearing the sword from Corlith’s grip. His terrible sword also spun, this time in a low arc, striking the blacksmith at knee height and shortening both his legs by as much with the blow.

Corlith dropped to the ground, grunting in pain and shock, his hands grasping at the bloody stumps where his legs had been. He gritted his teeth as severed arteries squirted his life’s blood through his fingers and into the soil of the brigand’s camp. He lay back on the cold earth as he felt his life fading away.

Ktharksis bellowed again, spun around, before lurching back, almost finishing Corlith off with a huge leather boot that slammed into the sand inches from his face. The creature took one knee, squatting over Corlith’s prone body, and reached around for the blade wedged in his back, now up to the hilt. The commander was breathing hard and held his sword out in front defensively. He was exhausted. His eyes were open wide, unbelieving the creature was still alive after he had driven Corlith’s sword even further into its torso.

You think I feel pain? gurgled Ktharksis, reaching around and pulling the long sword from between his shoulder blades. The weapon dripped with dark blood and the creature ran a vile pink tongue down half its length before dropping it to the ground beside the stricken Corlith. Ktharksis began to slowly rise.

Corlith, though laying on his back and mortally wounded, picked up his weapon from the dirt and grasped the hilt with both hands. He had made this sword himself, hoping to one day give it to his eldest boy when he no longer had a need for it. From his prone position, he drove the point of the blade into the unarmoured groin of Ktharksis, and twisted hard, showering himself in blood and piss and worse. The grey face of the sixth born contorted in agony. Now the commander knew the creature felt pain.

Corlith the Strong seemed not to care. His last thoughts were of his wife, and his two young boys.

Chapter 2

20 Years Later.

The last snows of winter swirled in the air outside the annex where Briamon Greenleaf went about his labour. He enjoyed the cooler months, which in the Midlands of Eriath were over half the year. There was a comfortable warmth to be had by the forge, and he was thankful for having an occupation that kept him out of the weather.

The hammer felt good in his huge gloved hand. It rose and fell again and again, as he turned the hot steel on the anvil. With each hefty blow, golden sparks flew, while his foot pumped the bellows to keep the coals red as ripe berries. Though he was well ahead on his work, he would keep this pace until his younger brother returned from hunting outside the city walls. Briamon liked to work until Gabriel arrived home, so to boast to their mother as to who was the most zealous at their chosen craft. Over the years, it had become a running joke between the two siblings. If he tired early, he would keep watch for Gabriel from the doorway, before quickly swapping his drinking horn for a hammer, pretending to have been at his forge all the while. Sometimes though, his younger, wily brother would sneak in the back to find Briamon keeping watch for him out front, his afternoon ale already in hand. Say one thing about the brothers Greenleaf, they were competitive.

Briamon Greenleaf! called his mother from inside the cottage. Will you cease this foolish game already and come inside? You will catch the fever!

Mother, I’ll come in when Gabe returns. I still have the chancellor’s sword to finish up. Come and enjoy the warmth of the forge with your favourite son.

The door squeaked and Briamon’s mother peeked out from behind it. She was a slight woman with long brown hair streaked with grey, and the same dark serious eyes as her eldest. I’ll never understand why your father built his forge outside, Golias rest his soul.

Briamon wrapped a huge arm lovingly about her thin shoulders. Well, it has a roof and three solid walls, and I like being able to see onto the street. Helps me keep an eye on things. Briamon patted the rocking chair, which faced the opening in the annex, motioning his mother toward it with a smile as broad as his shoulders.

Frances eased herself into the seat, her slender frame creaking as much as the chair as she sat down. She pulled her fur cloak up to cover her neck. It was soft and warm. Gabriel had given it to her after his first hunt, when he was in his fourteenth year. Briamon looked back at his mother, and by the look of the lines around her eyes, he could tell her thoughts were beyond the walls. He gave her a wink. "Worry not. There is no one better with a bow than Gabe. Besides, he is a clever lad, he can outsmart most animals." Briamon smiled reassuringly before disappearing through the door to the cottage proper and returning with a vial of blue sparkling powder. It was near empty, indicating it was time for another visit to the alchemist.

Frances Greenleaf sighed, and craned her neck to get a better look down the street before looking back at her oldest son. Briamon was a large lad, almost seven feet tall and broad of shoulder. He reminded her so much of her late husband, Corlith. He would be so proud. Of them both. Though he was the older of the two by only a year, Briamon was the wise one, the cautious one, the frugal one. Young Gabriel was the risk taker of the family. He was born a small child, and was often sickly, requiring her constant care during his early years. Still, he was born under the yellow moon of Lewcas the Lucky, and with his blessing, had grown into a healthy young man. Her boys should be married by now, both had turned twenty, not to mention handsome. She sat silent for a while, then suddenly blurted, Why haven’t you found a girl yet, Briamon? I grow tired of waiting for my grandchildren.

How do you know I haven’t? purred Briamon with a raised eyebrow and cheeky grin. His mother’s mouth opened wide in shock. Briamon looked out into the snowing night. Ah, here comes your second son now. Briamon scrunched up his eyes, squinting. He looks a little encumbered. Must have caught something big. His brother’s arrival was well timed, saving him, for now, from his mother’s next question, or questions most likely.

Gabriel shook the snow from his shoulders. Briamon and my beloved mother both waiting in the cold, said Gabriel, grunting as he dropped two large leather sacks to the stones. What have I done to deserve this warm welcome on such a brisk evening? He slipped a hornwood hunting bow from his shoulder and hugged his mother, then slapped his brother warmly on the back. It’s warmer in here than out there, of that I am certain, he said, removing the hood of his winter coat and ruffling his flattened hair.

Frances Greenleaf smiled from the comfort of her chair. When they stood together they could be twins, had Gabriel been a foot taller. They were both very handsome, square of jaw with curly brown hair that drove the girls wild, well hopefully the good girls at least.

And what of the hunt, Gabe? Any meat? inquired Briamon, smacking his lips and rubbing his huge hands together. I could do with a slab of venison for dinner.

No, replied Gabriel. And stop making that sound with your lips. It gives me shivers worse than the fricking cold.

Frances Greenleaf folded her arms. What’s in the pot will do you fine, she warned, feigning annoyance from a lifetime of practice. Finish up and come inside. Let us eat and talk where it’s warmer. She opened the door to their simple cottage and headed inside, closing the door swiftly to keep in the heat from the stove.

Gabe waited until his mother had closed the door before pulling up the right sleeve on his winter coat, revealing the shining metal that protected his forearm underneath. He whispered, Bri, look at my bracer.

Briamon gripped his brother’s arm and noted the many indentations in the steel plate. The metal had almost been crushed. By the gods, what did this? A bear? This is my steel.

Gabriel winced. Easy big man, the arm is still a little tender. He gave the flesh a brisk rub before continuing. A hoar fox. She came from nowhere, bit hard and almost shook my arm from the socket. The biggest one I’ve ever seen, almost as big as a calf. And such a coat. Silver and soft as down. His eyes were wide. Gabe opened the first bag to reveal a large pelt, silver and shimmering pink in the glow of the forge. It was a mother, Gabe revealed sadly. I was lucky to have raised my arm when it attacked, otherwise it was my throat. I didn’t see it coming. And I found her den nearby, with four cubs. I killed ‘em quick and clean. They would have died badly without their mother. He produced four smaller, silver pelts from the second sack. It must have been a sixth.

Briamon examined the first pelt, knowing Gabe was prone to a little exaggeration, though usually his stories were of men bested or beautiful women and strong drink. A hoar fox grew no larger than a house cat. He held the shimmering fur out at arm’s length. It was as big as a calf, bigger maybe. You are lucky I make such good armour, or you might be less an arm.

There is more, Bri. It was wearing this around its neck. Gabe pulled a glittering silver chain from his pocket and held it out for his brother to see.

It was a collar.

Chapter 3

Briamon found sleep difficult that night. He went to bed knowing he would be meeting with the capital’s chancellor tomorrow, a man he had never personally met, though he had seen him many times in the town square, overseeing the sometime brutal but necessary duties of a man of his station.

The chancellors in each of Eriath’s districts were appointed the responsibility of keeping of the peace in their appointed lands, through strict application of the law. They controlled, amongst other more mundane things, the soldiery, collection of taxes, and the running of various district assets and enterprises, along with the help of appointed clerks of various ranks according to their skill sets. The title of chancellor was not easily won. It often took decades of civil service, as well as time in the military and a spotless record, not to mention being chosen by a panel of the Righteous, a group of priests who were veterans of the Long War. The last part was by far the most difficult. It was easier for the other district chancellors outside the capital. They were elected by their peers, and did not have to pass the scrutiny of the Righteous.

Though Briamon had done nothing to earn the man’s ire, he sweated ice water at the thought of facing him. He had toiled for three months on the chancellor’s sword and it was his finest work. He had infused the blade with white moonstone and hoped it would impress. He planned to deliver it to him in the morn. As well as the far more daunting task of asking for his daughter’s hand. Still, it would be worth it if he were successful.

From the moment they first met, every morsel of his being was infatuated with her.

He and Gabriel were returning from the Merchants’ Quarter along the city’s busy streets, their bags filled with salt, foodstuffs and the precious moonstone that Briamon used in his forge. The different coloured moonstone could be mixed with metal to give his arms and armour special properties, and among the blacksmiths in town, Briamon was the finest at this craft. The stone was rare, and costly. It was usually found only deep in the earth, and there were several mines in Eriath dedicated to bringing it to the surface. There were two forms of the moonstone. The rock, which could be crushed to a powder and used in metal work, and the crystalline form, which was exceptionally rare, and usually found hanging around the necks of only the very wealthy. It had given him the competitive advantage he needed in this time of relative peace. The bureaucrats and noble folk had a penchant for their extravagant weapons, though most could barely fight off an angry chicken in a pinch. Still, their coin was as good as any veteran swordsman.

Gabriel squinted as they neared the shop they called home. Don’t look now, Bri, but we have ourselves a customer, and a comely one at that! His eyesight had always been good when it came to hunting game and women. I hope she is here for a fur, and not a sword. I’ll go see.

Briamon caught his arm as he moved to greet the maiden. Whoa, Gabe. This calls for a flip of your coin. After all, fair is fair, brother. Let Lewcas decide our fate.

Gabe groaned and rolled his eyes, at the same time fishing through his pockets and producing a large copper disc. It couldn’t buy much, but it was precious to him. Call it, Bri, and be quick about it. Crown or moon?

"Moon, blurted Briamon without thought, but the coin betrayed him as it settled on the dusty road, crown face up for all to see. You have it, Gabe, continue as you were," offered Briamon, motioning regally with his hand and bowing low, sanctioning safe passage for his brother.

Grinning, Gabe took off, but his smug expression quickly turned to a look of surprise as his cape was pulled from behind and his legs tangled by his brother’s oversized leather boot. By the time he cleared the road dirt from his face, all he could see was Briamon’s back as he raced to the annex in front of the cottage they called home.

"Greetings from Briamon, the capital’s finest blacksmith, he decreed, puffing his chest out as far as the buttons on his shirt would allow. Briamon took a breath as the maiden turned to face him. Her hair was long spun silver and her eyes sparkled like cut emeralds. He had never seen such a beauty, and immediately felt foolish for his boast. Uhh...hello! I am, um, Briamon Greenleaf, how may I be of service?" he stuttered, as he fumbled with the lock of the annex gate. She smiled, and Briamon felt a thousand butterflies fluttering to life in his stomach, and half as many again in his heart.

"Hello, Briamon. My father believes you are our capital’s finest smith. Oh forgive me, my name is Myalea, I am pleased to meet you. She extended her delicate hand to the flustered smith. He tossed the heavy metal gate on the ground inside the annex as though it were a piece of pinewood. Gently he took the hand she offered, knowing not what he should do next. Her hand was small and her skin soft, her perfect fingernails were painted with white flowers. He smiled like a schoolboy, bowed his head and reluctantly released the girl’s hand. She, being the smarter of the two, sensed his awkwardness and put him out of his misery. My father would like you to design a sword to fit this. She handed Briamon the hilt of a sword, its workmanship overshadowed only by the beauty of the woman who held it. Father would like a blade to match the hilt. Notice the white moonstone inlay." Her slender finger pointed out the veins of pure white that flowed like tiny rivers of light through the handle.

Briamon’s reply was interrupted by a deep, guttural voice from behind. The chancellor is no fool, blacksmith. You will be spending the district’s money on that piece. The voice came from one of the town’s agents, a man Briamon was familiar with. He was almost as tall as Bri, with ebony skin and a scar running from temple to chin. His eyes were a piercing blue and his hair was kept in the long matted plaits traditional to the people of his homeland in the west. You would be a smart man to keep the cost down and the workmanship up, Greenleaf. If you earn the chancellor’s ire, you’ll get mine in the bargain. The dark warrior looked a fearsome sight, his confident smile shining as bright as the yellow steel in the dual scimitars at his back.

Briamon did his best to ignore Agent Zoa, and gently took the hilt from the lovely Myalea. He looked into her brilliant green eyes as he felt his passion spur his purpose. I will indeed make your father a blade. It will be one worthy of his station, my lady, you have my word. He delivered his pledge with a steady tone and a gaze fixed with devotion beyond even the most loyal of servants. He smiled at her, and as she returned the favour, it sealed a silent covenant from her heart to his.

Gabriel dusted himself off, unimpressed with his older brother’s antics, but watched the scene with interest. It was not every day that the prime chancellor’s daughter walked into your shop.

As the unusual customers turned from the front of the store, Myalea flicked her mane of silver hair to the side, revealing to Briamon and Gabe a pattern of six blue circles marking her neck. The circles seemed to glow and sparkle in the sunlight. The mark of a moon child, a sixth born. Only those that held the city’s highest offices could father a sixth, or a fifth for that matter, of that the law was crystal clear. It had been that way since the end of the Long War. And only the elite could afford the glittering moonstone tattoo over the usual branding or drab ink. Briamon stood still, his mouth slightly ajar, watching until they faded from sight.

Gabe got up on his toes to whisper in his brothers ear. Chancellor’s daughter, eh? You’re going to need a bigger forge.

Briamon awoke from a fitful sleep as warm shards of morning’s first light streamed through his window. He had lain awake most of the night, tossing and turning and slapping his pillow, unable to quiet his mind. His thoughts were still scattered, but one stood out head and shoulders above the others. What could he, a simple blacksmith, offer a woman such as Myalea? The poets could go on about love and destiny and faith, but this was the capital, not some fairy tale.

This was as good as anything to worry about, so worry he did. He had his own trade, and some coin saved, that was a start. He was a master of his craft at a young age, that should count for something. He may not be able to provide the life of a commander in the soldiery, or that of an up and coming councillor, but he could provide a comfortable existence for his girl, nonetheless. He hoped that would be enough to convince the chancellor to grant him the hand of his daughter. That, and the sword. For three months he had toiled over the forge shaping the blade. The same three months had seen him meet discretely with Myalea, for love had sprung just as spring after the winter. He intended to make a gift of the blade to the man who held his hopes, in a final grand gesture of generosity to garner his favour.

Briamon rose from his bed and washed in the basin, trimming his hair and beard, before donning his favourite tunic, one he wore only on occasions where first impressions matter. He strode into the living area of the cottage, following his nose to where his mother was preparing a meal of eggs and pork. She looked him up and down.

And where are you off to looking so dapper ? She moved her hands to her cheeks when she saw his attire. Ooh, your best tunic? Anyone would think you are off to see a girl.

Briamon detected something in her voice. Gabe you bastard! You have a mouth loose as a jester’s pockets. Damn you!

Language! warned their mother.

Gabe popped his head out from around the corner, his mouth filled with warm bread. Briamon, she is your mother. She asked, I told. I cannot lie to her, he said, combining mirth and outrage well.

Briamon held his temper and considered his words. Golias’s grace, I am nervous enough. What if I should not be successful? My own mother will think me a fool.

We are all fools for love, said Frances. If your father had not been a fool, you two wouldn’t be here arguing. And I don’t think you a fool. She is a rare beauty, and you deserve a nice girl to keep you honest and away from the drink. She smiled innocently.

A brother’s bond breaks this day, you blabbermouth, accused Briamon, once again outraged.

Speak no more of breaking bonds, lectured Gabriel. Keeping secrets from your own mother is more the crime.

Hmph. Briamon flopped into his seat and contemplated his eggs.

Gabe pulled up the seat beside him. He winked at his mother and put a comforting arm around Briamon’s enormous shoulders. Bri, you have been so happy the last few weeks, mother knew something was up. You haven’t smiled this much since you fashioned your first blade. Besides, think on your future bride, not of my treason.

Soon enough everyone was smiling, and Briamon had even settled some of his nerves. Just as he sank his teeth into a large chunk of bread, the clang of the city’s bells began echoing through the streets.

The slow, low chime meant justice. Gabe and Briamon jostled through the crowd of onlookers and gawkers. Thousands of townsfolk gathered in the cavernous town square to await the chancellor’s announcement, and the probable bloody dismemberment that normally followed a verdict of guilty.

There was a raised dais of white polished stone in the centre, on which sat a headsman’s block, a gallows, and some men of the town. The chancellor stood hands behind his back, glaring out into the crowd as though it were they on trial. Beside him stood a priest dressed in the white robes of the Righteous. On his other side was Agent Zoa, along with several soldiers of the district. A riotous cheer went up as a wagon pulled by two horses rolled up the ramp to the rear of the platform. The wagon had been modified to transport prisoners, effectively a wooden cage on wheels. Gabe and Briamon sighed as one when they looked upon the wagon’s occupants. Two men, a woman and a child. The woman and one of the men had the look of simple folk, perhaps a farmer and his wife. The woman held a sobbing child in her arms, a boy of no more than three summers, and she was trying in vain to comfort him.

The other looked to be a Grynn, probably from the deep woods to the east. The Grynn were a race of forest people, known for not being known, such was their liking to shun the cities of men. Who could blame them? Briamon had only ever seen them on the dais, and never elsewhere. They were looked down upon by most, having been perceived as cowards after they had not fought against the Black Cultists in Eriath’s time of need during the Long War. This specimen was pale-skinned and long of limb, lean but muscular and covered in tattoos with the distinctive tribal patterns of his people. Dressed only in hide pants and a vest of fur, he sat hunched over and slack jawed in the cage, the chill in the air not seeming to bother the forest dweller. You don’t see a Grynn every day, Bri, said Gabe, Poor bastard doesn’t look too happy to be here.

Briamon looked at his brother and smirked. I’m not too happy to be here, and I’m not on the dais.

After a few minutes, the chancellor commanded silence with a wave of his hand. He was dressed in a fur lined cloak of crimson with a hood that was pulled back to reveal his shiny bald head. He cleared his throat, politely holding a hand to his mouth as he did. Good people of the capital, he began. Let the fates of these prisoners serve as a warning to all, of the price of breaking Eriath’s laws.

Zoa yanked the Grynn roughly out of the cage with the help of two likewise heavy handed guards. They shoved him to the front of the dais and held him there, presenting him to the crowd as if he were a prize cow. The forest dweller gave no resistance. He looked exhausted and his forehead and leg were caked in dried blood.

Zoa addressed the chancellor and the priest, loud enough for the assembled to hear. This Grynn filth attacked a patrol on the edge of the forest. He killed two of my men before he was captured. He is a murderer, plain and simple, my lord. He awaits your justice.

The Righteous priest seemed to consider the agent’s words carefully before moving to the Grynn. Green man, what is your name? asked the Righteous kindly.

The Grynn looked up with large red rimmed eyes and said nothing. The forest dwellers were known to speak in the common tongue of Eriath, but for his own reasons he remained silent. Did you murder a soldier, green man? asked the priest in a gentle tone. The Grynn nodded once, looking the priest in the eyes. The Righteous nodded, and motioned with his hands that he was done.

The Grynn’s shoulders slumped, then in the next instant, he whirled and broke free of the guard’s hold. The city’s men went for their swords only to find one already in the hands of the prisoner who had taken a defensive stance. Agent Zoa pulled his two golden scimitars from his back and engaged him, putting himself between the prisoner and the others on the dais. Though he moved with lightning speed, the sword proved unwieldy for the Grynn, unable to parry the flurry of blows from Zoa and his swishing curved blades. It was over quickly. The crowd gasped as one, as the Grynn’s hand then head were severed. His broken body fell from the dais, scattering those who dared stand close. Mothers covered their children’s eyes at the bloody spectacle, and several women fainted. The man’s head rolled ten feet, spraying those nearby with crimson blood.

The chancellor had barely moved during the fracas. He seemed to possess a confidence in his man to get the job done in such a situation. And rightly so. Zoa’s scimitars had made short work of the Grynn. Chancellor O’Connor hushed the agitated crowd with another wave of his hand. Once again there was quiet, though this time a few mumbles could be heard, as well as the wailing of the toddler on the dais. The next prisoners were brought forward as a family. The chancellor broke the silence. I am pleased to see there are many young people here this day. He gave a smile that looked as though his face may shatter at any moment. So, let me relate to you how our laws pertaining to family came about. There are some of you who have heard this many times before, but still, whilst I am sorry to bore you, I will repeat myself because I feel it important. He turned momentarily to face the terrified family awaiting their fate upon the dais. And obviously, some of you have forgotten our history. The family looked very distressed. Briamon wished this over for them, though not in the same grisly way of the Grynn.

O’Connor cleared his throat. Since Eriath’s moons first appeared in our sky eons ago, the birth of a sixth child was something sacred, something special. Often a sixth would bring his family prosperity, whether through strength of arm, sharpness of wit, or whatever gift the gods chose to bestow upon that child. Chancellor O’Connor extended his arm and regarded the priest. Father Faith of the Righteous, is indeed a sixth, blessed to hear an untruth, a power granted him by his birth under the purity of our white moon Golias. However, not all Eriath’s people are so pure of heart and clean of soul as he. There were those lunar children born under the black moon of Drudu. Still, that did not make them devils or servants of darkness. But, three hundred years ago, the Black Conclave rose up, led by a beast called Latiste D’Rothe. This black scourge was born the sixth son of a sixth son, a hexar we called someone so affected by our Eriath’s sacred moons. His strength and cunning started the Long War and began our peoples suffering.

The crowd whispered their holy affirmation as one. Never again. Briamon and Gabe did the same. When the Long War was mentioned, the words were always said.

The chancellor waited again for silence. The Black Conclave were pure evil. They kidnapped and bred our women to produce more hexars, more black moon devils, and soon they had an army that terrorized and laid waste for almost three hundred years. It was only fifty years ago Latiste was at last defeated, and his followers scattered across Eriath. O’Connor allowed his words to sink in, only continuing after a dramatic pause. "Our ancestors were naive. They were unprepared. And they paid for three hundred years with the lives of their sons and daughters, and their sons and daughters after them. Our laws, however harsh they may seem, are necessary. The marks each and every one of us wear, are necessary."

Without thinking, Briamon touched the brand on his neck. He felt the circular raised flesh which indicated he was the first born in his family. He was thankful he was too young to remember its incendiary touch.

It seemed Chancellor O’Connor had finished. He stood calmly upon the raised platform, surveying the crowd through squinted eyes. There was utter silence, before the square echoed with his voice. And still this family ignores the law that keep us safe! Spittle flew as he screamed the words, a look of rage bordering on madness upon his face. He held up a single finger. Remember, citizens, it takes only one to start us down a dark path again. It takes only one! The chancellor closed his eyes for a moment. Father Faith shifted uncomfortably, his long white beard moving in the breeze. The family looked as though in shock. The toddler sobbed and buried his face in his mother’s arms.

After almost a minute, O’Connor spoke again. This family has been blessed with four strong, healthy children, yet they are still not satisfied. They break the law with this fifth child. A law which has stood for fifty years. A law made to protect us all. The chancellor turned to the accused. Have you anything to say? The family looked terrified and remained silent. The farmer held his wife, and she the child, as tight as her arms would allow. The child will become an orphan under the care of the district. He will grow up knowing the laws of our land. He will grow to be a fine citizen of Eriath. O’Connor pointed his bony finger at the man. You! Fool! You will spend a week in the dungeons, while your wife is treated. You will also pay a tithe to the district, for your fifth son’s care. He will be returned to you in his thirteenth year. O’Connor gave the assembled a half smile. The law has been served.

The woman wailed as the child was wrested from her grasp. Her husband almost slipped in the blood of the fallen Grynn, and looked on helplessly as his loved ones were taken from him. It would have been worse had the family had a sixth child, thought Briamon. It had happened before, the last time only a year past.

Briamon grabbed Gabe’s arm and pulled him in the direction of their home. I’ll speak to the bloody chancellor tomorrow, Gabe. His mood does not bode well for a union of noble woman and common man.

Good idea. I’ll come with.

No you won’t, I don’t need my hand held by my broth—

Gabe interrupted him. No, not for that. I still have the silver collar from the fox. It may serve as a good reason if we want to get an audience with the chancellor in the first place. I am sure that Agent Zoa would just take the sword from you and give it to O’Connor himself. Besides, I am the fast talker, and way smarter than you. You need me. Gabe smiled at his older brother.

Very well, but leave me be when I to speak to him. I don’t want to appear weak.

Of course. Now let’s get an ale and talk strategy.

Chapter 4

The following day was the Godsday, a welcome respite for the city’s tradesmen, builders and artisans, who enjoyed a day of rest without the worry of work. Still, the streets remained busy with people enjoying the fair weather and also those plying their trade in the square for market day. The town centre was filled with stalls of all shapes and sizes, temporarily erected by the various folk selling their wares. As Briamon headed for the gardens, he walked past everything from fish mongers to fortune tellers, only stopping at a stall selling flowers to purchase a bunch for his woman. He even allowed the young lad within to keep the change from his copper star, something he usually would not do. He figured an act of kindness may garner the gods’ favour. Goodness knows he may need it. The young lad beamed, And a good day to you, fine sir! as he pocketed the coin.

Looking at the boy’s smiling face took Briamon back to when he was a child. He was very young when his father passed, and though his memory of him started out vague, his mother had spoken oft enough of him to paint an accurate picture. His father, Corlith the Strong as he was known, had kept them fed by hammering out weapons for the district, though at slim margins given the times. He bolstered the family’s income with a part-time soldier’s wage until the time of his death. After his passing, the district had given their mother some coin to help them out, and their mother also sold her clay pots and drinking urns. Times were hard, but they survived. When Briamon and Gabe came of age, life became easier, as Briamon had his father’s talent on the forge, and Gabe had his bow and knack with animals. Times had changed, and for that, Briamon was thankful. Men were no longer conscripted to join the district soldiery, and the Long War, never again, was a distant memory only to be read about in books.

The gardens were located in the Nobles Quarter at the north end of town. It was home to those who could afford it, namely high ranking soldiers and bureaucrats alike. It also housed the chancellor’s offices and the barracks, not to mention the Citadel of the Righteous; three levels of white limestone with six