Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One Read online

  Rogen watched this human man, who was not much more than a boy in the Rokairn’s eyes, as the shifting emotions rolled across Cite’s face. A silvery shimmer surrounded the boy. Most would pass it off as a trick of the candlelight and moist eyes, but because of years of training and experience, Rogen knew it was more.

  “Your dreams, and more,” Rogen said, watching the young man. “You did things right after you arrived here, in the testing arena. Do you know to what I am referring?”

  Cite’s face gave away a lot as he dredged his infallible memory, which had never failed him in his twenty-three years of life. Until now. He looked down at his hands, they fidgeted and twitched in his lap, and Rogen knew the truth. The Rokairn had witnessed something the boy did not even know about himself.

  “No, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cite ran his hand through his blonde hair, shrugged and sighed. “Before I set out, I had dreamt of horrible things. I had nightmares that came every night for three nights; each one was filled with different horrors. I had gone to the village elders to tell them about the dreams. You see, I am known for my prophetic dreams as well as having a perfect memory. I never forget anything I see. It is seldom a useful gift, but it had brought me some small respect in my village, but alienation also.

  “These dreams, I had never seen anything like this in my dreams before. The village elders didn’t seem surprised by my dreams, though they were concerned. Then people began to die, just as my dreams predicted. Mutilated in horrible ways. They told me to travel to the Northwood Community and tell the elders there. They also told me if I did not make it to that destination, I should tell whoever was at the end of the journey about my dreams. I found it odd and suspected that the Elders knew more than they told me, as usual, but I didn’t say anything. I shut down my small shop where I made and sold musical instruments, and then I set out upon my journey.

  “Go on, boy,” Rogen said, still at parade rest, “tell me all about it. It will be better once you get this off your chest. And tell you what, I will tell you about me as we go. How about that?”

  “How about you tell me a bit more about what this place is, and why I should cooperate?”

  “Fair enough, let me get a glass of water and I will begin.”

  The Rokairn turned to the sideboard and poured water into clay mug. He drank it down, his back to Cite the whole time. The boy watched, wondering what a Rokairn was doing in the desert instead of being holed up in a mountain somewhere making baubles and trinkets.

  “The Great Desert spans more than four hundred thousand square kilometers and is the dwelling of very few things,” Rogen began as he turned back to his prisoner, making Cite jump. “However, in the past decade some beings have come to call it home. Temples have risen from the sand, and the dark magics within has found ways to escape centuries, if not millennia, of imprisonment.

  “The Desert Empire had already made its home here for centuries. Few are sure how long. Records were kept, but they are not for the public. The first Rogen the Plague was a human that had been a slave gladiator in the arena of Everyway. He rose in the ranks of the warriors and won his freedom centuries ago. When he left the grand city he had called home, both he and the city were changed. You see, he led a revolt of slaves after he won his freedom and became a legend that has been retold for generations. They even erected a statue of him in Everyway, in spite of him shaking the foundations of the greatest city on the continent, possibly even the known world.

  “He left and headed east, crossed the Rolling Mountains, and made his way south to the Rock Crags, just north of the Great Desert. There, he waged war on the slavers. The very men who took him from his family, freedom, and life to make him what he was. He slew them, and freed their slaves. He learned something about people during that time. Humans are not born to be free. Well, not the majority of them. They choose slavery by their very nature. Perhaps not the obvious form that he had been subjected to, but people draw purpose and a reason to live by serving others.

  “So, Rogen the Plague, a gladiator and hero who fought long years to gain his freedom, gathered his men and explained the plan. He would help give men their purpose, but still defeat what he hated most, the lack of individual choice. Gathering the slaves who were wandering the desert, lost, he enslaved them again. He took them deep into this very desert, and that was where a legend was born. It is said that he cruelly set them to task. Beating at the sands with their bare hand, they pounded loose sand into rock, their hands becoming raw and bloody, changing the color of the sand to a deep red with their own lifeblood. They formed stones, and set those stones to begin the great fortress that would become the seat of power for the Great Desert Empire.

  “Rogen the Plague trained the slaves. He trained some for combat in the arena as well as guarding. He trained others in pleasure. He trained still others in service. He created the ultimate slaves, ones who loved what they did because they were doing what they were born to do, and began his own slave trade. The contracts that went with his slaves were like no other anyone had ever seen. They detailed the slave’s duties, rights, and the right of retribution. If a slave were ever found to be abused, Rogen the Plague would return and take vengeance on any who broke the contract. And he did. I have added certain clauses to the contracts that allow any slave to buy their way out of the contract, guarantee medical attention when warranted, and so on.

  “That was centuries ago. A man much shorter than the statue that once stood in Everyway is now called Rogen the Plague.” Rogen smiled and poured himself another mug of water. “I am the sixth to carry the name and the first that is not human. I had reigned for over seventy years but many say I do not look any older than a human of forty years.”

  “Why would you ever want to do this? Why would anyone want to be a slaver?” Cite asked.

  “To make the world a better place.” Rogen answered.

  “How does making people your slave make the world better?”

  “I don’t make them my slave, as much as train them to do something they are good at, and allow them to be comfortable with giving responsibility for their day to day life to someone else. It is not any different than a serf farming for a lord, or a soldier serving in an army. It is what people do anyway. Just make sure they have a decent place to do it by placing them with people who will treat them fairly and appreciate what they have. See, people tend to value things more if they pay for it. If someone does it for free, the master will almost always take it for granted and abuse the relationship. And of course there is the part in the contract of me showing up if they mistreat any of my people.”

  “What’s your real name? What about your old family and friends?”

  “My real name?” Rogen snorted a laugh. “Rogen is now my real name. Any other name was so long ago, and the man that is not the man I am now. The same for family, I guess. I think about them, and have even assigned slaves to merchants who sell to them – my people would never buy or sell another person - and check up on them that way.”

  “How did you get to be Rogen though? And don’t you miss your old life?”

  “Oh, I think about my previous life sometimes, but I don’t miss it. This is a life with a greater purpose,” Rogen’s eyes took on a faraway look, “and I get to organize on a massive scale. Not to mention the people I place are still loyal to me, thus giving me constant information from kingdoms across the continent, and contacts and resources in every corner of the land.

  “As for how I got this job, I met my predecessor in my business. I made weapons for his training arena. He eventually brought me here under the guise of a weapons master to train his troops. I spent a bit of time fighting myself, and am better at using a sword or axe than making them. Once he began to age, and wanted to retire he took me aside and offered me the job. We sold off our current stock, got new advisors, and he stayed on as an advisor, all the time calling me Rogen the Plague. It is not as uncommon as you may think, and I have even heard of feared pirates doing somet
hing similar.”

  The next few hours were filled with tales on both sides. Rogen decided the boy was open and honest, albeit a bit socially inept, but he felt Cite had a good heart. Cite decided the Gods must have directed him here and this man must have power to help in the coming events. They watched and measured each other as they spoke, and when Rogen left, he knew this human boy, well really a man, was the one that he had been told about years ago. Not a great savior, but one who could help stop something horrible from happening. Something the boy had glimpsed in his dreams would help them.

  As Cite sat alone, eating, after Rogen left, he reviewed the past few hours in his head. He was stunned to learn about new abilities that had been witnessed by others but remained unremembered by him. Cite did not bother to refute or deny what the stout man had told him about the arena. Rogen detailed what he had seen, how Cite stopped himself from falling, produced three daggers that didn’t exist and could not be seen by others. He knew it was possible for him to develop more abilities, that of a mind mage, but never expected them to be offensive in nature. Cite’s primary ability has always been passive and subtle, now to see possibly telekinetic and a psionic attack that manifested physically stunned him. He also felt that Rogen was much more than he appeared to be, but something else bothered Cite. Had he read the man’s thoughts? The mage had much to meditate upon if sleep did not claim him soon.

  Chapter 2: Secrets in the Shadows

  “Angst is for crybabies; revenge is for the motivated.”

  Unknown

  5854 – Thon – Jordar – Midā

  She watched from the roof of the three-story tenement across the alley from ‘The Saucy Wench’, a dive bar that served greasy meat in more ways than one. She watched as the crabs below picked at the dying dog, who struggled to drag its mutilated body from the scavengers. This wasn’t normal behavior. Crabs didn’t attack perfectly healthy predators; it just wasn’t done. Also, the crabs were a sickly green and had a short stalk-like tail jutting out from their rounded carapaces. Things just weren’t normal anymore. But then again, neither was she.

  She guessed she wasn’t much different than those weird crabs. She was an anomaly also, something others had never seen, and when they did they thought she wasn’t normal either. In fact, what she was about to do would go against the grain of every cutpurse, back alley thug, and second story man’s professional code. She was about to take down the man who taught her how to be a thief.

  Krendal preached honor among thieves, but he sure didn’t practice it. He proved that when he turned her over to a rival gang for ‘whatever purpose they saw fit to use her for’, as well as dropping the bag to the authorities and now wanted posters with her face were popping up all over town. The worst part was that he got away with the score and no exposure. She was nothing more than a patsy. After three years…

  She saw the door open in the alley. Most of the crabs ignored it and continued to devour their living meal, tearing chunks from its mangy hide as the dog whimpered. But a dozen crabs rose up on their legs, a hissing noise and steam issuing from rents in their shells. The three men coming out of the bar’s back door kicked at the aberrations, scattering them. One man screamed as three crabs swarmed his leg, pinching and hissing as they did. He pulled a long dirk from a sheath, and while yelling obscenities as his two friends watched and laughed, slashed the crustaceans from his leg.

  She knew them all very well. Dylak – the one rubbing his wet crotch where a pincer had been moments before - and Smudge were the flunkies, and her old boss was the third. They were right on time. Criminals should never have such predictable schedules, it was stupid. She also knew where they would be going and had prepared her way to make it easier.

  It was raining again, and the temperatures were warmer than they should be for this time of year. She let her coat flare open as she leapt the alley to the bar’s second story rooftop, slipping as she landed. On the rooftops she couldn’t smell the usual aroma of human waste in the street, but the smell of fish was everywhere in Edgewater. She moved faster than her quarry, who stumbled from the drink and other things they had imbibed at The Saucy Wench. She had paid extra to make sure they weren’t at their best. She worked her way across the rooftops, knowing they would be along soon enough. Sliding down a line she had prepared earlier, she landed on the porch of the Oyster’s Pearl, an upscale dive compared to most places in the area.

  Entering, she looked around for her contact. The man spotted her, and she wiped her nose on her sleeve, the sign that the men who robbed the man’s employer was coming. He stood, buckling on his sword, and his four companions did the same. She slipped back out the door, knowing they would follow her in a moment. Sauntering to the street, she leaned against a post on the porch of the establishment and waited for her old gang to pass by. The men came out behind her and slipped into the shadows, waiting to spring the trap.

  The job they had done went down without a hitch. It was simple once they had found out where the rich fops hid their goods, stolen from the nobles that were their parents and peers. The information was the hard part to get, but she had got it. Men talked a lot when they didn’t have their pants on, and the dandy had been no different. They all had a thing for the youth of the lower class and she had been the bait. She still had the bruises from that information gathering session, but they would heal. It wasn’t the worst she had gotten from a man.

  She had learned to deal with certain facts of life since she left the orphanage of Promethene. The priestesses of the goddess of sound and light were kind, but strict, they had taken her in after her family was killed in a fire when she was young, too young to remember. She was safe with them and well fed, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She wanted to love life, not scrub floors and cook for dozens of people. She was not destined to be a scullery maid, or some waitress avoiding the greedy hands of men while giving them their ale with a smile, and that was all she would be if she continued to work in the kitchens. She worked with the chirurgeon and apothecary also, she enjoyed that. The secrets of herbs and powders that could heal or hurt, even make things explode. She devoured the knowledge she gained there, learning all she could every chance she had.

  She left the orphanage right about the same time she had the first signs that she was blossoming into a woman. She lived on the street for a while, begging. Merchants would offer her a bed and a meal, but too often they would take more from her than those things were worth. She decided that wouldn’t happen anymore. She dressed as a boy for a while, learning to fight in street gangs. But in time she tired of hiding who she really was, sneaking off to pee alone so no one would find out. She went out on her own.

  That was when she met Krendal. He accepted her and offered her protection and training. Anytime she traded her skills, she was compensated in one form or another. She learned stealth and to love the shadows. And secrets. That was her true love, the secrets. She didn’t want to lord them over someone, or trade them for coin, she only wanted to know things that others didn’t. She liked having friends too. Well, they were sort of like friends. You could trust them, but only to a point. Everything was business with Krendal, and his word was a contract. But contracts had loopholes, and she didn’t pay attention on this last job. She didn’t listen when he told her that she would get full credit for the job. It was her own fault for not seeing it coming when he turned on her, and left her to be outcast from the gang, and wanted by the law. One day though, she would have a gang of her own that she could trust. Or, barring that, a gang that she was in charge of and she would write the contracts.

  Krendal, Smudge, and Dylak came around the corner, pulling her from her reverie. She smiled and stepped into the street.

  “Hello boys,” she said with a smirk. “I’m here to get my cut. Whatever you have on you should be enough.”

  The three men stopped. Krendal smiled, the oily smile that she once found so admirable because it meant someone was about to get what they deserved. But now it would be his tu
rn. She looked at his face, the line of the scar running down his cheek showing in the dim light. Smudge looked to his boss, running his hand through his dirty cropped hair, his other hand settling on the dagger on his hip. Dylak brayed a laugh, and drew his wicked dirk, shaking his greasy long hair from his eyes.

  “Can I have her after we cut her a bit, Krendal?” Dylak asked, shivering in anticipation.

  “Just wait, Dylak. We will see.” Krendal said, his cheek twitching the way it did when he was suspicious. “What are you doing here, girl? You should be running, or hiding in a rat hole somewhere.”

  “Running has never been my strong suit,” she answered, “you know that. And as I said, I have come for my cut.”

  “You are about to get cut, alright.” Dylak said, stepping towards her.

  “Wait!” Krendal ordered.

  It was too late. Crossbow quarrels sprouted from Smudge’s chest and Dylak’s throat, and they fell face first into the mud and shit of the street. Krendal crouched and spun, his short sword appearing in his hand. Five forms appeared in the warm mist of a rain, the sellswords, crossbows at the ready as they closed the distance between them and Krendal. Her old boss weighed the odds, looked for an escape, and seeing none, began to talk.

  “We can work out a deal here, gentleman,” he said.

  “We already have a deal,” the leader of the mercenaries said, “and I think it pays better than anything you can offer.”

  “But I can get more for you than…” Krendal went down as one man fired a quarrel into Krendal’s thigh. Another stepped up behind the rogue and hit him in the head with the butt of his crossbow. Krendal fell face first into the mud. The men surrounded him, kicked the thief’s dropped sword away, and tied his hands behind his back. They let the girl through as she approached.

  She grabbed her old boss’s hair in a fist and pulled him to his knees. Staring into his eyes, she spoke. “You will remember the name Gruedo until your dying day, which comes to us all sooner or later.”