Dark Legacy Series: Vol I: The Bearer of Secrets

The fire crackled noisily, its flames dancing to an inaudible tune. Dinner, boiling in twelve small kettles, simmered, and the aromas made stomachs yearn. Thick, brown liquid bubbled. Thin coils of steam rose lazily into the night. Each Krey and A’uri carried their personal kettles and were responsible for cooking their food for the journey. It was far easier to manage a small pot for each person than an enormous one for all twelve. The logistics of carrying such encumbering equipment made it improbable, trading squad mentality for uniqueness, distance, and speed.

The Krey, bred for war, honed and defined by their skills, had never force-marched over great distances. This attempt tested future possibilities. While the Krey’s athletic physique was perfected from hours spent farming or enhancing their talents, an unfamiliar soreness burrowed deep in their muscles from the leagues covered every day.

Raven, the do-don of Void-Walker squad, looked over his members with a critical eye. Two members claimed veteran status from the Wizard’s War, Patch and Two-Tons, both of which were older than him by at least an age. His replacement, should he fall, Xenomene; and the rest of his virgin squad—those bloodless in battle—Drumstick, Keg, Bitcher, Mauler, Tiny, and Wrath. Three A’uri accompanied them: the Hand, Heart, and Mind. He didn’t know their names, but the acquainted title of Hand, Heart, and Mind, defined their job descriptions, and every squad boasted their own A’uri.

Raven stepped closer to the fire, extending his hands out for warmth while the Krey lounged about leisurely. He couldn’t blame them for unburdening themselves, being as tired as he felt. His eyes roamed over those under his command, questions in their eyes.

“Oi! Are you going to tell us what we’re doing now?” Two-Tons called.

“He ain’t ever going to tell us, Double-T,” Bitcher responded. “That’s not the way politics work. You bust your ass for him, and he gives you a promising smile, but says nothing.”

“For once,” Tiny, the largest of all Krey men, spoke up, “try not to live up to your name, Bitcher.”

“Do they call you Tiny because you got a small dick,” Bitcher sneered, “or a small brain?”

“We bring any ale?” Keg called out. “I haven’t had a drink since we left!”

“You don’t need any ale, you fucking drunk!” Wrath interjected harshly.

“Hey Drumstick, are you hoarding all the food over there with Double-T?” Mauler taunted. Raven glanced in her direction. One rumor that garnered support implied that Mauler was a descendant of the Toshii, a nomadic tribe from the other side of the Golden Sea. Circulating stories claimed they ate their enemies alive. Her near-obsidian skin gave credence to the gossip, but Raven had never been brave enough to inquire himself. Many Krey hailed from around the world, bringing their cultures and customs with them, but he was pretty sure she was several generations removed from the cannibal tribe. Either way, he didn’t lose sleep over it. Citizens of the Hive became a caldron of cultural diversity, wiping away one civilization and instilling a new way of life with each entering their community. Raven was pretty sure Mauler hadn’t eaten anyone in her life; she was extremely young when the bloodlust manifested in her, but the thought was unnerving regardless.

“I can’t help it if I love my food, and you’re not fast enough to get it from me,” Drumstick countered, continuing the banter.

“Enough!” Raven barked. Laughs and further comments stifled, and he continued. “There isn’t any ale until we get to where we are going. Drumstick, you’re on rations just like everyone else. We’ll try to resupply when we can. Bitcher, for once in your life, don’t live up to your fucking name as Tiny said. As far as Tiny’s pecker, from what I’ve heard, it rivals a garden spade, and I sympathize for Xenomene if she finds herself under him.”

The men cackled and hooted at the jest. Xenomene, hearing her name, glanced in their direction with a blank expression, disinclined to comment. She sat off by herself as she usually did, gracing the edges of firelight, a good half dozen paces away. Her aversion to intermingling with her comrades was a well-known trait she employed during their trip. Raven hoped to change this during their journey. Returning her attention to her hands, she continued sharpening her dagger, dragging it slowly across the grating whetstone.

“Would you care to join us, Miss Brooder?”

“Not really,” she countered, her voice soft.

“What’s her problem?” Two-Tons complained.

“Her tit-strap is cinched too tight!” Bitcher chortled.

“Do it, anyways.” Raven ordered Xenomene, ignoring the other two.

With a dramatic and sarcastic sigh, she took two steps forward and dumped herself unceremoniously on the ground. Instead of pressing the matter, Raven let it drop and brought his attention back to everyone. Even the A’uri hovered at the edges of the fire, listening.

“To answer your question earlier, Two-Tons, yes, I’m going to tell you what we’re doing, where we’re going, and why. I was under orders not to tell you until well away from the Hive. If word got out of what we planned, it’d be bad for everyone.”

“Bad? Bad as in we have to march all the way back, or bad as in you’ve got diarrhea while marching back?” Bitcher queried. A few sniggers rose around the fire. The do-don rolled his eyes.

“As in a declaration of war,” Raven said, scowling. “We’re to proceed to Cape Gythmel with all haste, traveling by foot across the countryside and avoiding towns, people, or establishments at all costs unless to resupply. Contingent upon resupply, two of the A’uri are to go into town and replenish our provisions. Questions thus far?”

“Oi! I got one,” Bitcher said. “Why in the hell are we going to a cesspit like Cape Gythmel? I mean, there ain’t nothing there besides pig shit, horse shit, whore’s shit, and farmer’s shit. It’s a lot of shit!”

“Thank you for articulating the various reasons why that locale isn’t anyone’s preferred haven, Bitcher. If asked, we’re there to assess the town and its lack of defenses, gather needed supplies, and commence to affecting fortifications to the best of our abilities. Probably a trial and error method.”

“Defense?” Mauler interrupted. “Fuck that! We’re offense.”

“Aye, we take the war to the enemy, not sit on our asses like the Grand Royal Army,” Tiny concurred.

“What the hell do any of you know about war?” Raven countered. “The only veterans here besides myself are Patch and Two-Tons. None of you have seen war, and most of you have never taken a life.”

A poignant silence fell over the Krey, but he could see the unrest in their eyes. They’d grown accustomed to life in Outpost Dire, training, drinking, eating, fighting, and fucking. Angst and malaise rippled through those under his command, balking at the simplistic yet mind numbing task of marching. Raven didn’t know how long it’d last, or if it would get better or worse. How many more days until it turned from vexation and dissatisfaction to open sedition?

“Since that’s our official story, then what are we really doing there?” Xenomene asked, breaking the silence.

“Nice of you to join us, Xeno; our real campaign will be making defenses due to an imminent threat of Xilor and an army he’llassemble.”

The camp burst into pandemonium as conversations erupted, most negative. Shouted interjections and raised voices carried their incoherent words to the ears of Raven, noting the reactions of his subordinates. The virgins were up on their feet, gesturing and posturing with aggressive body language. His veterans sat upon the ground watching the young members, but their composed faces held scorn as they entered the debate from the ground. Xeno, the next in line for do-don, still sharpened her dagger, unaffected by the upheaval around her.

At least one person will keep their cool when the battle is upon us.

Xeno rose to her feet, the movement fluid, sheathing her blade. Her sudden motion caught the attention of everyone quicker than if she yelled. Contemptuous glares not intended for her shifted, conversations ceased for a brief moment, forgotten by the new disturbance.

“It doesn’t matter why we are building defenses,” she began. “Xilor could bring an army. Dragons could come back in greater numbers. A flock of geese with fiery shit could swoop in to attack; it doesn’t change the fact that defenses are needed. We’ve been tasked by the Heir—against standing law, I remind you—and he has mobilized us. The Heir’s willing to risk all-out war and retaliation from Ralloc, so it must be important. That’s good enough for me, and it should be for you, too.” She gathered her sleeping roll. “I’m getting some sleep, so keep the noise level down. And I suggest you do the same; we’re marching tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that for the next two moon turns.”

With reluctance, the Krey dispersed from their zones of engagement, with arguments abandoned, retreating to their bedding areas or to the fire to claim their respective pots. Some finished their food while others picked at armor and gear. Raven watched them reverting to their devices and spied Xenomene from a distance, grateful for her interjection. In one stroke, she’d turned them away from fighting each other over points of view and told them what they needed to know, not what they wanted to hear.

We must work on your people skills, Xeno, Raven thought. You have a commanding presence, but you need to show more of your compassion if people are to follow you into death’s embrace.

Raven picked his way to his area, freeing his sleeping roll from the lashes of his pack. He sensed a presence hovering and glanced up to see a graying Patch. The do-don spoke as he unrolled his blankets. “Something on your mind?”

“Oh, aye, you could say that.”

“Feel free to speak and save me the breath of asking questions.”

“It’s about when you die,” Patch said, his voice grave. Raven suppressed a tightlipped smile. Patch said when and not if; the Krey knew their lot in life, born to die, first into battles they habitually failed to return from.

“You want to know if you are taking over?” Raven surmised. The other nodded. Finished unrolling his blankets, Raven sat down, leaning against his pack and motioned for the other to do the same. With an audible sigh, Patch sat down. “You won’t be taking over,” Raven said gently. “Orders from the heir.”

“What the hell’s Daniel thinking?” Patch said, sullen.

“The heir is thinking of resuming the old ways; the strongest will lead.”

Patch grunted. “You think she’s strong?” he asked, nodding his head in the direction of Xenomene.

The other shrugged. “She’s done nothing to make me think otherwise. The only reason she isn’t leading now is that she’s a virgin. The heir believes a war will break out, and if it does, that will be remedied rather quickly, don’t you think?”

“She has no experience leading.”

“True, but point out one man that wouldn’t be willing to follow her, and I’m not talking about the repercussions of disobedience.”

“What do you mean?” the older Krey inquired.

Raven smiled, fingernails digging deep into his black hair, scratching his scalp. “Look at them. Furtive glances, their ability to shut up when she talks. They all want to bed her and give her no cause to disregard them. For that hope alone, they’ll follow her.”

“Wanting to fuck the bitch doesn’t inspire loyalty or faith. Besides, she’s not the only female with us. There’s Mauler and the Heart.”

“Yes, but A’uri are mysterious, and they’re probably too worried that Mauler would eat them.” Raven chuckled. “You’re right, wanting to bed her doesn’t inspire loyalty or faith but instills hope, and with that false hope, it’ll buy her time for the other two. Given the chance, she’ll do well.”

“If you say so,” Patch grunted, his fingers rubbing his chin.

“Trust me,” Raven smiled. “A little grooming, and she’ll make a fine leader, and her skill with the sword will only help her rise through the ranks. Who knows, maybe one day, we’ll have our first female heir.”

Patch scoffed as he got to his feet. “Yeah, that’s about as likely as dragons attacking Outpost Dire or the Forgotten Isles joining Ralloc’s domain. Shit, Apor and Praema are more likely to rise in the south and set in the north. It just ain’t gonna happen.”

The older man moved away, and the do-don called to him. “Patch? The suns do rise in the south on the other side of Ermaeyth.”

Patch rolled his eyes and sauntered off to his pallet. Raven watched him go. He empathized with his old colleague. Times enforced change, an inevitable eventuality. The Wizard’s War, both his and Patch’s glory days became a figment of the past, glimpsed, discarded, and passed off as tall tales. The Krey had changed, too. In many ways, advancing more than Ralloc’s pretentious, tradition-riveted society, and in other manners they returned to their old ways. Raven smiled, admiring the perfect blend.

Giving his squad one last look as they clambered into their sleeping rolls, he nestled into his blankets, too. His eyes tracked over to Xenomene, her diminutive form suffused in her blankets. A small tress of dark red hair escaped beneath the opening.

Sighing, he closed his eyes and tried not to think of the long march that lay ahead and hoped he wasn’t on the twisted trail of folly.