Stories of the Alvish Dynasties
O Fortune, Like the moon
You are changeable,
ever waxing
and waning.
Hateful life,
first oppresses,
and then soothes
as fancy takes it;
poverty,
and power
it melts them like ice.1
Gozich, Capital of Alvia
Within the Arrowhead of the Alvish Imperium
511 years after the Chaos
Within the Arrowhead of the Alvish Imperium
511 years after the Chaos
It was just after sunset, the sky splattered with red to match the carnage on the ground, when King Gildomir shuffled into the Garden of Night. The rain was light, like dust, and the clouds breaking. Gildomir had shelved one arm inside his robes, to protect the precious parchment inside. Slowly, ever slowly, he trod his way to the final empty lawn chair, smiling around at the assembled men of power. He took his seat with a huff, and spent several minutes setting up his umbrella.
“Can we get on with things?” It was the lord of House Azach who spoke first. Vosmir was the youngest in the garden, barely older than the sticky purple Ausenauft flowers he sat beside. His voice was cold, impatient, arrogant. He was the last survivor of the Azach imperial line, the last direct link to Aldana I and the ancient history of his house.
“Well, it is quite necessary to protect my parchments, Vosmir.” The old Clovish king smiled. One-hundred was not an easy age.
“And why are we using parchment?”
“Oh, I find it charming. You must allow an old man his foibles.” Gildomir finished extending his umbrella, and straightened to eye his noble guests.
At this point the first screams emerged from the towering palace behind them. Fire and smoke had clouded the building for hours, as the mob ripped its way through the residence like a plague of locusts. But they had finally reached the imperial apartments, where the Zaeserin Lo’vala and her children slept.
“She did not escape?” Vosmir breathed, his voice shuttering.
“Oh, in my endless forgetfulness, I failed to warn her, unfortunately.” Gildomir shrugged. “Call it the Justice of the people, highness.”
It was another patch of screaming, this time higher-pitched, clearly that of a teenager, or a child. It simply did not stop.
Gildomir whistled. Fourteen heavily-armed palace guardsmen emerged from the periphery, taking positions around the assembled noblemen. A chorus of shouts arose immediately.
As always, Vosmir spoke up first. “What is the meaning of this, old man? We are not street criminals. There’s no need for your thugs.” He was still young, and he didn’t hide the quiver in his voice.
Gildomir cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, our wicked Therian Zaeserin shall be dead very soon. In fact, we shall be able to tell.” He grinned. “As soon as the screaming stops.”
The guardsmen placed their hands over their weapons.
Gildomir spoke. “When she inevitably falls, it will be our job to select her replacement. Now, as her beloved husband, I personally think I am best-placed to take her position, as I am already familiar with the practice of imperial governance, and have already laid plans for this very eventuality.” He withdrew the parchment from his robes. “Are there any other claimants?”
This time it was Struda, lady of House Olten-Schala, who spoke first. “Gildomir, this is a farce. I was told we would be discussing how best to reconstitute the Volthaug, not succession. That is for the Volthaug to decide.”
“Unfortunately our present political crisis demands immediate action. The chaos is so widespread, you can hear it! Listen!” Gildomir paused and closed his eyes.
For two minutes there was silence. The assembled princes contemplated the screams of the imperial family, the howls of the mob, audible even at this distance. Occasionally, a staccato burst of gunfire.
Vosmir broke the silence. “Well, if you demand it, then I will answer. House Azach clearly possesses the most legitimate claim to the throne.”
Gildomir diligently copied Vosmir’s words down on his parchment. “Ah, excellent. Well, let us have some discussion then, yes? The older I get, the more I appreciate a good discussion.”
At this the Clovish king whistled again. The guardsman behind Vosmir shot the prince in the back of the head. The body crumpled forward into the dirt.
“Well, that was enriching. Any other claimants?”
The roundtable was silent. The houses looked to each other for cues, and all shook with fear. Weeks and weeks of chaos, rioting, disorder, and it culminated in this? They could hardly believe the scene.
“Good!” Gildomir copied the events down on his parchment. “Well, I believe we can consecrate this gathering, then!” He handed the parchment to one of his guardsmen, who carried it over to Vosmir’s corpse.
“He was the last of his line,” breathed another prince, the lord of House Vortmundausel, Germald. “He was the last.”
“Oh yes. No more true Azachs, I suppose. Unfortunate, but necessary.” Gildomir was smiling wildly. “I suppose he should have found a wife to fuck a little earlier!”
There was another prolonged silence, in which the screams and howls intermingled with Gildomir’s crackly laughter.
“The Dadanoi and the Azachs will not forget this night, Gildomir,” whispered Struda. “There will be retribution.”
“Struda, you are an admirable lady,” Gildomir said, wiping his lips. “But you don’t understand. Princes are like wild dogs. When they forget their master, you beat them again, and they fall back in line.” He spit a globule of phlegm onto the dirt. “Now, since you people have spent the last seventy years picking fights with each other, House Kaisthurm has the largest fleet in Alvia. If I recall correctly, it’s a pretty significant margin as well, now that the Dadanoi are beaten.” He smiled. “I think we will be very good at beating dogs.”
Struda kept her gaze fixed on Vosmir’s body. “There will be retribution. And it will not be you, Gildomir. It will be your family that suffers.”
He leaned forward. “Did you not hear me? Violence does not bring retribution. Weakness does. House Kaisthurm shall never be weak again.”
Struda pursed her lips.
“In any case,” Gildomir said, returning to his slouched pose, “if you please, sergeant.”
The guardsman retrieved a bucket of liquid greenfire from behind a hedge, and dipped the parchment inside. He then set the paper alight and dropped it on Vosmir’s body, which immediately caught the flame.
“Parchment is worthless. The flame, however, is vastly more fascinating.” With much trouble and the aid of a guardsman, Gildomir stood. “You see, my friends, this is what happens to the enemies of House Kaisthurm.” He gestured grandly to the fiery corpse, which had by now begun to burn green. A repugnant organic slime started to ooze into the dirt.
Triumphantly Gildomir turned and departed as Zaesir of Alvia.
Seven Years Later
Seven years later he was dead, and Lo’vala needed to act quickly.
In her nightclothes she raced through the Azach apartments, nestled deep within the great tower of the Palace of Rhapsel. Unbeknownst to the dead Zaesir, the Dadanoi princess and her cousins had been staying with the Azachs for almost two weeks, the culmination of years of planning. Aristocratic privilege had protected their secrecy: now, she was hours from seizing the Empire.
She burst into the dressing room of Ingald kov’Zaltha, leader of the Blues in the Volthaug and Lord of House Azach. He was naked.
“Kreisel, Lo’vala! You can simply ring me, you know.”
“It must be in person,” she muttered, striding past him towards his contact lenses. “You Alvish are too squeamish anyway, a naked body is a fine thing.”
Ingald dressed himself slowly as she ran through his messages, replacing one of her lenses with his. “Lo’vala, I am eighty-four years old. My body is no fine thing.”
“Everything is according to plan?”
“Yes. I’ve already confirmed with our admirals.” He dressed in the traditional garb of a Volthir: a long, blue robe, high-collared and trailing on the floor as he slouched. The fabric was encrusted with gemstones across the shoulders and neckline, a mark of his status and wealth. He stepped over towards Lo’vala and held out his hand. “Those are my private devices, young lady.”
Reluctantly she returned them. “Alright, we must move quickly. I will inform our men that now is the time.”
Situated much higher in the Palace of Rhapsel were the imperial apartments, currently occupied by various members of the extended Kaisthurm clan, all gathered to watch their patriarch die.
Gildomir, now one-hundred and seven years old, had been comatose for weeks after a vein had burst in his head. His organs began failing soon afterwards, and there wasn’t enough time to grow replacements. He had been slowly falling towards Hades ever since.
The heir, Dalfindir, was situated in the apartments directly under Gildomir’s own, along with his direct family. His grandmother Svethela refused to live in the same building as her hated father even as he died, so she stayed in the city, along with most of the Kaisthurm elders. This left Dalfindir’s parents, uncles and aunts to stay in Rhapsel and look after the family’s affairs. Well, at least the family’s immediate affairs, such as the funeral.
The night of Gildomir’s death the heir in question was cross-legged on the floor of his and his brothers’ suite, agonizing over his plan of attack. The board was awash in Alvish armor, and the clackers were facing annihilation. About fourteen minutes and seven seconds after Gildomir’s death, he found his out.
“These two fleets attack E7,” he muttered, moving the bronze figurines into position.
His cousin snorted. “Why? You’re still fucked.”
“Hush, you’ll wake up Persi.” He looked up with a glint in his eye. “Well, we going to roll the battle or what?”
Dalfindir won easily.
“Well good job, you took one victory – ” he trailed off as he gazed at the board.
“You forgot about Thalag. Which means now you’re fucked,” Dalfi breathed, trying to contain laughter.
The two were playing The Last Empire, a rather complicated wargame based on the novel of the same name. In the book, Alvia faces a war with an insectoid alien race known only as the Clackers, ruled by a host of Queens in a hivemind. The Alvish are saved by a boy genius who is tricked by the Alvish military into wiping out the Clackers – or so the story goes. In the game, Dalfindir played as the Clackers, and his cousin Tassimir played as Alvia.
“You have to be cheating somehow,” Taz said, scanning the board. His largest fleets were too far away from Thalag to protect it, and Dalfi was poised to destroy its skeleton defenses.
“No, it’s just experience. I’m better.”
“Shut up.” Taz rolled back on his heels, letting out a sustained sigh. “Fuck me. I can’t kill your fleets in time, I don’t think.”
“Well, it’ll help even the odds a bit when they attack Thalag. But yes, you’re screwed.”
“Alright, let’s roll it then.”
The rolls were interrupted.
“Highnesses! Wha – ” Through the doorway was Gerwig, one of the former Zaesir’s most trusted butlers. “You’re supposed to be asleep!”
“We will be! Soon,” Dalfi said, moving towards his bed. “Uh, Taz is sleeping in here – ”
Gerwig shook his head. “Nevermind that, come with me. Your great-grandfather has passed.”
“What?” Taz sprung to his feet. “When?”
“Only in the last hour. Come with me, the family is gathered.”
The walk to the Zaesir’s bedchamber was oddly long and winding, and Gerwig was oddly nervous and sheened in sweat. Dalfi and Taz looked to each other, a sleepy Persi stumbling along behind them.
“Uh, where are we going?” Dalfi finally spoke up. They came to a back staircase, hidden behind innumerable peeling hallways.
Gerwig rounded on them. “Listen to me carefully. There is a coup underway. Therian soldiers are overtaking Rhapsel. Your family is currently held hostage in the imperial bedchamber.”
Dalfi felt his heart drop into his stomach. “What?”
“You must escape. They are going to use you as leverage. His Majesty built this staircase a few years ago as an escape route if his guards ever turned on him. There should be a hangar below the water, with an escape craft. One of you can pilot, right?”
Dalfi looked to Taz, who was shaking. “Uh, I’ve had lessons, but – ”
“Good! Go, now!” He threw open the door with his shoulder.
“Halt!” There came a booming voice down the corridor, accompanied by several warning shots. Gerwig shrieked and ducked into the stairway: Dalfi and Taz pulled Persi through with them.
“Alright, new plan, I will do the piloting. Follow me.” Gerwig rushed down the steps, with the three Kaisthurms rushing to keep up. Persi cried that he wanted his mother.
They only made it one level down before they encountered more Therians. They had anticipated the escape route.
“Halt!”
The imperial bedchamber was chaos. Therian mercenaries had already ransacked the place, tipping over fine furniture and ripping up the thick red carpets in search of treasures. Some of the bribed Guardsmen joined in, and they knew where to look: behind certain paintings, under the imperial dressers, and inside the pipes feeding the imperial baths.
Thirteen Kaisthurm princes were handcuffed in two rows, kneeling before raised rifles. Behind the mercenaries, Lo’vala paced the room and muttered to herself. Ingald calmly rested himself upon one of the imperial chairs, thickly cushioned in red and gold velvet.
“Lo’vala, quit your pacing.”
“Why haven’t they returned yet?” She rounded on Ingald. “You paid them off, didn’t you? You don’t want us to have the children, that would be too – ”
“Check your tongue, Lo’vala,” Ingald growled. “I have done no such thing. Rhapsel is a big place.”
All the while the former Zaesir, his face withered and gray, laid peacefully under the covers of his elephantine bed, his eyes closed to the violence around him.
Lo’vala returned to her pacing. “How is the battle?”
“Successful. The few remaining loyal Guardsmen have been trapped across a few different offices.”
“And the fleets?”
“They are still clueless. I have our demands prepared.”
Lo’vala stopped abruptly at Gildomir’s bedside. She laid her hands over his, taking a few deep, shuddering breaths. “So this is the monster that tortured my mother.”
“He was merely an effective politician, Lo’vala. Your mother was not.”
Her jaw clenched, but she kept her tongue. “He really trusted you?”
Ingald laughed. “He didn’t trust anyone. He had no choice but to rely on me. He was quite the dogged boss, I must say.” Ingald retrieved a smoking pipe from his robes. “However, he grew complacent in power. He never expected House Azach would ally Therians.”
Lo’vala spit on the corpse’s face. “Well, his mistake, our reward.”
Just as she spoke the doors burst open, and the captives were frog-marched into the room. Lo’vala loosed a sigh of relief.
“Excellent.” She strode over to the captives. “This one betrayed us?”
“Yes, Majesty.” She turned her gaze to Gerwig, who at last managed to straighten and cease his shivering.
“My loyalties are not for sale, Highness,” He whispered.
“Shame, that. You would’ve been rich.” She drew her sidearm and shot him in the forehead. Then she turned her attention to the Kaisthurms.
Dalfi was staring at the ground, his energies focused on keeping himself from collapsing in fear. Taz returned her gaze. Persi was sobbing into his nightshirt.
“Brave boy, this one.” She smiled at Taz, then turned back to her mercenaries. “These are the last ones?”
“Yes, Majesty.”
“Good. Take them upstairs, with the others.” She strode over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered the Zaesir a stunning view of the waters and islands scattered to the west of Rhapsel. Quickly she shot them all out, inviting in the terrified screams of the Kaisthurms held in the garden above.
“Alright! Ondivald, you were Nausir to Gildomir for the last years of his reign. Please step forward!”
Dalfi’s father was pulled forward by two mercenaries, his eyes red-rimmed and couched in bags. Lo’vala did not face him, but kept her eyes on the islands in the distance.
“You are a witch,” Ondivald muttered as he was brought to kneel behind her.
“Alaxir Dalfindir has not come of age, therefore you are still his legal caretaker. He is clearly unfit to rule the Imperium, and possesses no legitimate claim, as his predecessor, Gildomir, was a criminal usurper. You are therefore legally obliged to relinquish his claim.”
Ondivald laughed. “Why the pretensions, Lo’vala? The Therians are a stupid people, they’ll accept a bloody coup without them.”
For this insult he enjoyed a rifle butt to the side of his head. Lo’vala swiveled, thrust her face into his.
“You should remember that we have your children upstairs,” she hissed.
“Fine,” Ondivald grunted, looking away. Another scream echoed from upstairs, rattling the elders below. “It is relinquished.”
“Please look into the camera.” She took a small iris-reader from a soldier and held it in front of his face. A blue light flashed across his eyes, and then the machine beeped happily.
“The paperwork is completed!” She grinned wildly. “Now, you must excuse me, as I have a session of the Volthaug that I must attend. I expect it will be quite exciting.”
“What about the children?” Ondivald could not hide the fear in his eyes.
“Ah, them. Well, my soldiers have prepared a show for you. Although, it is mostly an auditory show. They are the stars.” She whistled into her wrist, and moments later, a blood-curdling shriek rang out from the upstairs garden. One of the kneeling parents began to scream.
“No! Not Arosie! Please!” The woman leapt to her feet, but was quickly beaten back down by her captors.
Ondivald was shaking. “Look, we’ve given you – ”
Lo’vala smiled. “You see, House Dadanos owes you a favor. It has owed this favor for seven long years, ever since the crowning of that cretinous old man on the bed. We’re making our payment now.” She pushed him aside and began striding towards the door. “We’d like to restart our rule with a clean sheet, you see.”
“Lo’vala!” Ingald bellowed, stood, and blocked her way out. “This is unnecessary. Order your soldiers to cease.”
She had not stopped smiling. “I told you, I’m repaying a debt.”
Ingald sneered. “This childish quest for revenge is not becoming of you.”
“You know nothing of me,” she growled.
“He killed Vosmir that night too. Yet am I consumed by juvenile vengeance?” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Discipline yourself, Lo’vala. If the Houses, or the Alvish people, hear of torture, you will not keep your throne.”
“The Alvish people tortured and raped my mother.” She thrust him aside, and the fragile old man suddenly realized that he was surrounded mostly by Therian mercenaries. “They are brutal creatures. I don’t think they’ll mind a bit of extra bloodshed.”
The third generation of Kaisthurms after Gildomir were often called “the children,” despite the fact that the oldest among them was approaching his 30s. On this rather calm night they had all been gathered in the open-air gardens above the Zaesir’s apartment.
Well, gathered is perhaps not the correct word. Really they were dispersed in a massive crowd of mercenaries and guardsmen, laughing, drinking, and firing into the air in celebration. They had been ordered to ‘have fun’ by the new Zaeserin herself, Lo’vala III.
Dalfi, Taz and Persi were dragged through the manic crowds to the very edge of the gardens, where only a railing of reinforced glass stood between the visitor and the long drop to the sea below. The three Kaisthurms were made to kneel behind a rather stout Therian figure hunched over a table, which had been brought up from the apartments below. Beside him crouched some unfamiliar beast, six-legged with thick fur and long fangs. It did not acknowledge the new visitors.
“So! I have heard tell you are trained as a psion, young Dalfi. Moreover, as your family follows the Schismatist doctrine, you have taken implants, no?” The Therian did not turn around as he spoke.
Dalfi’s teeth were clattering. Persi was sobbing. Taz was ashen and silent. Roughly half of the Kaisthurm children had been found, and even now the soldiers had begun their entertainments. To one side Dalfi caught a glimpse of his cousin Arosie, who had already been stripped half-naked.
“Y-yes.” He mumbled. The next moment his chains finally broke open. He had been working on them since his capture, utilizing the flamethrower implants in his fingertips, slowly burning them away.
“Good! I’ve been wanting to – ” He cut off as lightning leapt from Dalfi’s wrists and electrocuted the two mercenaries holding his shoulders. With a panicked scream he leapt to his feet and dashed for the stairs, rubbing his wrists together to prepare another discharge.
Before he’d made it ten yards the Therian beast launched itself at him. A hot, snarling sixty-pound weight dropped on his shoulders, digging its claws into his chest, back, and face. He was thrown forwards onto the dirt, screaming as his body erupted in pain, and the creature closed its mouth around his neck, but did not bite.
Three long gashes had appeared across the left side of his head, and many more across his body, consuming his mind so much he hardly noticed his arms being pulled apart and pinned down by startled soldiers.
“I told you imbeciles, you have to separate his arms! I told you twice! Move out of my way!” Through the pain Dalfi felt someone clasp a steel band around his left hand. “This will block his large gill, just avoid his fingertips and you’ll be fine.”
The voice belonged to the Therian man from the table. The beast remained impossibly still, its teeth brushing Dalfi’s throat. He twisted his head to the right and opened the eye that was not smothered in blood. “W-what – ”
The man crouched in his face. “Hush, young one. You will need your throat tonight.” He disappeared, and Dalfi caught Taz’s worried yells from behind him before they abruptly cut off. “You may be wondering who I am.”
Dalfi did not respond, trying to calm his breathing. His heart hammered the dirt through his shirt, and every small movement set his wounds alight.
“You see, Therians have been struggling to replicate your species’ natural psionic gifts for many years.” He appeared in Dalfi’s view again, crouching near his right hand, partially blocked by the soldier that sat on his arm. “We have come far. Already we have created synthetic versions of the glands you are born with, allowing us to replicate your pheromonal control over lesser animals.” He raised his head and smiled. “Like you, we have begun modifying our pets as well, to respond more perfectly to these secretions. The adorable creature on your back is a testament to our progress.”
Roughly he twisted Dalfi’s right hand upwards, and clamped a brace over his wrist, which he drilled into the ground. “G-g-get off!”
“Don’t burn me, or Ozzi will tear your throat out,” he growled. Dalfi shut his eyes.
“W-what are you doing?”
He dug through a pouch attached to his belt and retrieved a few small metal instruments. “Well, as I said, we have created synthetic versions of your pheromonal glands. However, the technology behind your electromagnetic and thermal implants remain closely-guarded church secrets.” His face returned to an excited smile. “So, I am here to conduct research. Be forewarned, however, that your implants are very sensitive, so there may be some discomfort.”
Each of Dalfi’s hands and arms had been encrusted with organic implants: one in both wrists, and two in both hands. The electromagnetic ones rested in his wrists, just below his veins and arteries, protected by layers of skin and muscle. However, his thermal implants, due to the nature of fire, were near the surface of his hands. His fingertips held millions of microscopic pinpricks, which together could emit small but potent fires. Secondly, running vertically down the middle of his palms were long gills, through which he could emit far greater quantities of flame. These were the so-called “flamethrower” implants. And these were the targets of the Therian’s research.
Without another word he plunged a small needle through the delicate membranes, piercing one of the roiling glands underneath. Dalfi did not stop screaming for two hours thereafter.
1. Taken from the poem "O Fortuna," part of the Carmina Burana manuscript.
