Saga of 5 Ages: The 12 Rings of the Emperor - Tales 1 & 2

Over a year had passed, and the Magistrate’s party had grown. Nine soldiers of the Imperial Guard had fallen in line – gratefully – behind the illustrious Captain Petronus. Several city officials, including an ambassador, sought the guidance and wisdom of the esteemed Magistrate, and thus came to follow him. Even Spiretta was able to recruit a few of her former contacts, though her, and their, identities were still a subject of debate. But it was a moot point, as she and they had proven themselves countless times already. One was even able to confirm the destruction of Tar Kezra by the Great Wyrm Terrodraxus, though the fate of Naleth’s family had yet to be determined.

But through it all, Quintus had become more aloof, delving more and more into the journal he had created, which bore as many of the signs and symbols of the tome that Skizz had been carrying as he could remember. The volume was quite expansive now, as Quintus added to it regularly, including not only the record of their daily encounters, but many of Quintus’ own theories and conjectures regarding the meaning behind the arcane drawings that held the secret behind the fall of his beloved empire of Diathilos.

It had become a painful and dangerous distraction, though, according to Quintus, it would be their salvation. There were numerous occasions upon which Spiretta nearly destroyed the tome, but she knew that doing so would kill the magistrate as surely as if she had thrust a dagger into his heart. His whole world, his whole life was wrapped up in that mystery of the past, and it kept him from having to see the devastation that was around him. Now that the party numbered fifteen, they could allow the venerable judge at least that much solace.

The party had explored nearly the entire western portion of the empire, sticking to the roads when possible, traveling through the underbrush when necessary. All that they saw gave them little hope. It had become apparent that the catastrophe that had befallen Diathilos had been neither singular nor localized. Theories of dark forces, conspiracy and magic were prevalent. Many times had Quintus promised the haggard band that they would leave for safer territory, but always, some new clue, either physical or mental, would present itself, driving the magistrate ever further down the path of his investigation.

He was truly a marvel to behold. As magistrate, he was a master of breaking down the evidence of his cases, and now was no different. Quintus was able to see things that, and as, no others could, and then extrapolate from there, with seemingly only a handful of information to work from. The party was convinced that he would solve this riddle before his time had passed.

And he would not allow otherwise.

For now, their focus was on the occupying force within the capital of ThirAdha: Bantrum’s Bandit Brigade. What began as a small group of undesirables, a loose confederation of vagabond highwaymen, had grown into a regimented army that now numbered in the thousands.

“I prosecuted a fair number of them in my day,” explained Quintus, as they rode southward towards Thir Adha. “But there were never this many, nor were they so organized. And from what I knew of them, they hadn’t the stomach for the kind of battle that took place at the gates of our great capital.”

“It is obvious that they had assistance,” commented Dorian.

“Beyond that,” Quintus replied, “at some point they seem to have found a charismatic leader that inspired them to greater heights of banditry, if there is such a thing.”

Dorian snorted at the remark. “Well, whoever it is, they must have some degree of military training. Perhaps the Kalisians sent in one of their more experienced officers. It wouldn’t be unheard of.”

“Yes,” agreed Quintus, “Ever have the Kalisians been jealous of our prosperity.”

“So do you think that he will speak with you?” asked Dorian.

“If it is still Bantrum or his kin who leads, I believe so,” answered the magistrate confidently. “If it is a Kalisian officer, or some other unknown, that may give us a bit of trouble.”

Quintus’ plan was bold, as usual: sneak into Thir Adha, disguised as peasants and rogues to do some first-hand investigation of the situation. If possible, Quintus wished to have a conversation with the current leader of this bandit brigade, not to threaten or overthrow, but simply to discover the means of his ascension and the methods of his success against the finest soldiers in all of Dreganos.

Dorian had long ago given up trying to argue against the magistrate’s schemes. Besides, the more he accompanied Quintus, the more he learned. His respect for the old man had grown in leaps and bounds, not simply because of the magistrate’s societal status, but for his incredible fortitude in this undertaking.

They had been traveling the northern road, which led into the kingdom of Gylanth. Before the fall, it had been bustling with traders and diplomats from both countries. Though it wound its way through a thick forest that made it a perfect place for an ambush, the road had been well guarded by the empire’s finest. Surprisingly, the road had become overgrown through lack of use, and what normally would have been an ideal spot for highwaymen to ply their trade, was now merely occupied by a few desperate stragglers, easily dispatched by Captain Petronus’ scouting patrols. It seemed complacency was not a vice reserved for D’losian nobility.

Through their exploits along the northern road, the magistrate’s party had been able to scavenge enough clothing, weapons and armor to adorn themselves in the style of the Bandit Brigade. They had also gleaned a good deal of tactical information about what lay ahead and how best to infiltrate the city.

“By Amitar’s blade!”

Emerging at last from the Aton Forest, Quintus was overcome with emotion. He pointed, but found that he could not utter the words for what he was feeling as he saw, far in the distance, the spires and towers that remained of beautiful Thir Adha, as the once gleaming city sat despondently on the shores of the now-polluted Coromis Lake. It was the first time he had seen the capital since he had been forced to flee its sanctuary more than seven years hence. He was unprepared for what he saw.

“That is our destination,” announced Dorian, as the rest of the party gathered around. He wanted to distract them from the heartsick Quintus, giving the magistrate a moment to compose himself. “We shall be within her crumbling walls for two days, after which we will meet back here. It has been decided, for discretion’s sake, that the party will be split into two groups. The first will be led by Magistrate Baelarico and myself; the second by Sergeant Orie.”

Naleth jumped at the mention of his new rank being used for the first time in an official capacity. Captain Petronus had given him a field commission, specifically for the purpose of acting as his second-in-command while leading the soldiers that had come into their party. This had irked a few of the veterans, but little could be said or done about the decision. Dorian had been impressed with the youth’s progress thus far. The captain had taught him the use of the spear and shield, and though Naleth had been very reluctant at first, wishing to eschew violence for his scholarly ways, Quintus had assured the boy that it would only help to round out his experience, giving him new insights into the world. Subsequently, Spiretta had instructed Naleth in archery and horsemanship, which he was also very adept at. Between his martial skills and judicial philosophy, Quintus, Dorian and Spiretta all saw great things ahead in Naleth’s future. He would become a warrior tempered with wisdom, just the right combination for a fair and just king.

“Once we don our garb, Spiretta’s scouts will ride ahead, distracting any picket riders so that we will be minimally observed as we enter the city.” Dorian nodded to Spiretta before continuing. He knew that she would have the bandits running in circles for the remainder of the day. “Once inside, we will each attend to our tasks, while trying to stay as close together as possible. If you become separated, we will meet you at the docks at midnight. Do your utmost to discover everything about what happened here, but be subtle. I want names, numbers, locations, guard shifts, dates and times. But above all, I want you to be safe. You are not to engage in combat with anyone on the inside. Defend yourself if necessary, but do not draw attention.” Seeing that the magistrate had recovered, Dorian stepped aside, knowing that Quintus would want to impart a few inspiring words to the party.

Quintus paused before he spoke, considering his words carefully. “A long time ago, this place was the heart of our empire. It was a place that belonged to you and I, and all its beauty and wonders were to be shared by every citizen of Diathilos. Now, it has become something else, something guided not by the edicts of law, but the randomness of chaos. It has become ugly. What was once our civilization has become uncivilized. But we have not come here to reclaim it. Ours is a mission of discovery, to find out what transpired, what intrigues were played out, what betrayals took place and what curses were brought down that could topple this pinnacle of society. Why do we do this? Why risk our lives if we cannot regain what has been lost? For the one word that symbolizes what our role in history will be characterized as: dignity. Remember, if you will, her architecture, her artwork, the abundance of her fields and the diversity of her cities. Such a place does not deserve an ignominious end, but one that better suits her advancements and achievements, if only in our memories. And Amitar shall lead us to that enlightened end, by the bright and straight blade of justice. You will no doubt see things that will anger you, but you must exercise restraint. For though we will appear as little more than rabble, on the inside we will carry ourselves with a dignity that puts us above those who would seek to bring us down. Thus, I implore you: be cautious, be observant and be safe. For we must show the world that Diathilos will not fade into obscurity. We will uncover the secrets of her destroyers, and we will not let her die in vain.”

There was a reflective pause before Captain Petronus sent Spiretta on her way, knowing each time he did so may be the last time. But she always rode out without fear, and she always came back. And her companions were just as silent about her former identity as she was. Yet that inherent trust between them was always there. Dorian had no doubt that by the time his group descended towards Thir Adha, the road and surrounding area would be free and clear of any bandit activity.

Naleth’s group was ready next. Dorian had grown quite fond of the boy, and it became harder and harder to send him out on his own. At the same time, he beamed with pride whenever Naleth returned from a successful outing. Dorian had never been much of teacher, but in this case, he enjoyed passing on what he had learned. Not only did it help the party to survive, but it gave the captain a sense of fatherhood, something he had never had before. Always had he dedicated his life to soldiery and to the empire, but now he knew that, once the magistrate’s mission was complete, he would be ready to settle down with a good woman and have a go at raising a family.

Dorian watched Naleth and his group head towards the city, doing their best to impersonate down-trodden refugees and road weary travelers. Close as it was to the truth, this was not difficult.

“Do you think it was wise to put Naleth in charge of your soldiers?” asked Quintus, obviously very in tune with the emotional state of those around him.

“I have full confidence in his abilities,” answered Dorian firmly.

“That is not what I meant. He is half the age of many we have recruited, and his military training is informal at best. Strong opinions and strong senses of pride may create an air of discontent.”

“The men can complain all they want,” said Dorian dismissively, “but at the end of the day, they will have to answer to me for their actions. Naleth is fresh in his disciplines, and more optimistic than most of our remaining soldiers. But more importantly, he knows more about what we are looking for, through you, than anyone else.”

Quintus smiled inwardly. He was eternally grateful for the aid of Captain Petronus, who had put aside his own interests and his own safety for the sake of one old man’s quest for answers.

“Thank you, Captain,” said Quintus, in all sincerity, “I truly hope to find what I am seeking within Thir Adha, so that you may finally feel that you have paid your debt to me. You are still young, and the world outside this place has moved on. You should be able to find many opportunities that are to your liking and station.”

“If you don’t mind, magistrate, I would like to consider that after we have completed this mission.”

“Of course.”

Quintus knew that Dorian was not a man to speak of future events until they were well within reach, and wisely so. The entire party had learned that life, and other things, could change drastically within a day when one was amongst the ruins.

Their trek to the gates of Thir Adha was unimpeded. The gates themselves, however, were another matter. Where there once stood a towering golden portcullis, now there was only a makeshift barricade of stone, wood, broken wagons and other detritus piled high.

Looters! was Quintus’ angry thought. He tried to put it out of his head, though, knowing this was only the first test of many. Shuffling through, they found no guards to speak of, just a collection of drunks, scavengers and beggars. Once inside the city proper, Dorian felt he had to mention some of his first impressions.

“The walls are broken in several places, the battlements are poorly manned and the gates are gone completely,” he said in hushed tones, not that anyone was paying attention to them. “A small force could easily retake this city in a matter of hours.”

“I feel your anger, and your enthusiasm, but that is not what we have come for,” Quintus corrected his comrade, trying to use a comforting tone. “Besides, as you can see, there are thousands of people within who are quite settled and are used to fighting in such close quarters. I daresay your military tactics would be a bit offset in such an urban setting.”

Dorian knew that the old man was right. Nevertheless, he spit upon the ground in disgust. “Bandits!”

The party casually wound its way through the streets of Thir Adha, taking in as much of the sights as they could bear to look at, especially noting gatherings of well-armed individuals, though they could hardly be considered guard posts. Several times they were pained to see the wealth and possessions of Diathilos’ noble and well-to-do families being worn by various ruffians who had no idea of the meaning and sentiment behind the baubles. Both Quintus and Dorian were glad for each other’s company and for having someone to lean on in these trying times. It was also good to have someone there to stay their hands from taking rash actions.

Then he saw it: the magistrate’s old courthouse. But it was barely recognizable; many of its columns and pillars were damaged or missing and the gleaming blade of Amitar, the very symbol of justice, once perched proudly atop the steeped roof, was gone altogether.

“Shall we go in?” asked Dorian.

“No, I have seen enough,” said a peeved Quintus. “Reminiscence is not on our agenda. And it wouldn’t be the same anyway. Let us away from this defilement.”

They hurried from the scene, each member of the party gawking at the once-impressive building as they passed by. But Quintus understood the resentment behind its vandalism. It, like he, was the instrument behind their imprisonment. It, like he, represented everything they – the poor, the downtrodden and free-willed – were spiteful of. And now it, like he, was little more than a symbol of faded glory, a testament to a golden age of the past.

Continuing on, they were made to suffer scenes of desecration everywhere. Fountains and stables reeked of putrescence. Gardens that once held rare and exotic plants had been uprooted or used for grazing. Theaters that used to cater to the nobility and the rich now only displayed scenes of iniquity. Mansions that housed the most distinguished families of Diathilos now housed only thieves and whores.

Quintus scarcely felt that he could press on, and Dorian, keeping an eye on the other party members, was not surprised to find their faces streaked with tears.

“How long must we endure this?” pleaded Ambassador Galaca.

“We are nearly there,” assured the magistrate, feeling every bit of the Ambassador’s anguish.

The rest of the way up the main road was traveled in silence. It was not until they reached the steps of the Imperial Palace that the silence was broken by gasps of awe. Many in the party had never seen the palace until now, and were shocked by the incredible architecture and artistic beauty that it radiated, even in its disheveled state.

“Imperium Theosum,” quipped the magistrate.

“Empire of the Divine,” translated Dorian from the first-tongue.

Some ingrained part of their upbringing, their training and their soul told them to bend on one knee and bow to this most awe-inspiring structure and the level of cultural achievement it represented. But they had to stop themselves, suddenly aware of their surroundings, lest their loyalties be discovered. For now, they were content to look past the scum who lounged upon the magnificent marble steps that were trimmed with gold, marveling that they still shone brilliant white in the sun and rose thirty feet above the city floor. They ignored the vulgar etchings that had been made on the colossal columns and arched their necks to see them rise to their full fifty foot height. The roof was lined with statues of gods and nobles, objects of perfection despite the nests and avian excrement that were intermingled between them. Above that, towers and spires shot up into the clouds, past the circling carrion birds, making it seem as if one could ascend into the divine realms merely by climbing those very structures.

The party stood for many minutes, admiring the dazzling building that once held the richest and most powerful men in the entire world of Dreganos. All stood in amazement and wonder.

All but Quintus. He was transfixed by the carving that was perfectly centered over the entrance, where the angled roofs met.

“Twelve,” he whispered, “Twelve!”

“Sir?” inquired Dorian, following the old judge’s gaze.

“That sign, that symbol!”

“You mean the Imperial Seal?”

“Yes! Of course! How weak my mind has become! Why didn’t I see it before?”

Dorian studied the seal as Quintus berated himself. It was a large circle whose inner ring was lined with eight smaller circles. At the center of the seal were three more circles that interlinked with a fourth central one. Dorian thought it rather odd and simplistic, but then again, Emperor Iandro had been but twelve years old when he had ascended the throne.

“Twelve is a number that figured prominently in the tome that we found in the forest.” Quintus was trembling with excitement. He felt as if he had come one step closer to solving this most complex of riddles.

“But what does it mean?” asked Dorian.

“I-I’m not sure,” replied Quintus, “Perhaps there was a curse placed upon the emperor that was invoked when he turned twelve. Or maybe each circle represents one month of the year, signifying his eternal reign. But whatever the meaning, I am certain that this is central to what happened here.”

“It would follow that as the emperor is central to the empire, his seal would be central to his rise and fall.”

Captain Petronus suddenly noticed that they had drawn a crowd. “Sir, we have lingered too long,” he warned. “We should seek lodging and return tomorrow.”

“Y-Yes, you are right,” Quintus agreed, “That would be best.”

The party retired from the scene as casually as possible, eyes watching their back as they left. Several times, the magistrate glanced over his shoulder at the Imperial Seal, pondering its meaning.

Meanwhile, Captain Petronus led the group away from the wealthier sections of the city and into the area designated for lower income families, which were still palatial estates by any commoner’s reckoning. Here, they found it less populated, and were able to acquire shelter without further disturbance. Dorian placed himself on watch outside the front door of the dwelling, which appeared to have belonged to a weaver of some sort. As the others settled in, finding ample cloth to make into bedding, Quintus sat down and anxiously began scribbling in his journal. He drew the seal and also added several variations, seeing if it struck him in any different ways. Some of his musings were mumbled out loud.

“ Let me see…there are nine gods, nine and twelve both divisible by three. There were three major cities in Diathilos…hmph. That makes no sense. Eight circles, then three, then one, but four are linked, the others are not. Eight, then three, then one. Four as one, surrounded by eight…too many numbers. It must be symbolic. Circles are eternal, no beginning, no end. Perhaps the emperor is still alive somewhere? In hiding until…twelve years pass? But why wait so long? What could be gained when so much is being lost? I cannot fathom it…”

The other soldiers in the party rolled their eyes at the magistrate’s rambling soliloquy. The ambassador merely shook his head. Outside, Captain Petronus kept a wary vigil on every passerby, but it seemed they wanted to be left alone as well. Perhaps this task would not be so difficult after all. Of course, the hard part would be when they went in front of Bantrum, or whoever was leading this rabble. And Dorian knew that Quintus would insist upon it.

With a resigned sigh, the captain hoped that Naleth was equally safe and faring as well – or better – than they.

Naleth took the seat closest to the door of the tavern and sat down with his men. “Go ahead and make your way around the room. Buy some drinks for them if you have to. Do some gambling. Anything to get them talking, just don’t make them mad.” The soldiers spread out and went about their task without complaint. Naleth knew that letting them do a bit of carousing would lighten their mood and hopefully raise their opinion of him.

Naleth sat for a bit, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of the once fine establishment. It was moderately busy, with most of the patrons enjoying their inebriation heartily. Plenty of belching, farting and laughing was going on, though few words were spoken with enough clarity to understand. Naleth tried to shield his nose a bit from the smells of bad ale, sweat and urine. He had to shift his chair to the other side of the table when he realized that the large brown spot in front of him was a cluster of mold.

After a while, it suddenly struck him that there was no serving wench and, if he wanted to blend in, he would have to get his own drink. Naleth walked over to the giant keg, placed unceremoniously on top of one of the tables, and grabbed a flagon. There was a roach crawling around inside, which churned Naleth’s stomach, but he hadn’t planned on actually drinking anything anyway. He leaned over and started to turn the tap when he heard a low growling behind him. Moving very slowly, he turned his head to look over his shoulder. A very large, very mangy dog was threatening to tear him apart if Naleth even took a sip of that ale. The boy was frozen and wasn’t sure what to do.

“Don’t mind Falanx,” came a reassurance over Naleth’s other shoulder, “He just wants you to hurry up so he can have a drink too.”

Naleth turned and looked at the speaker…who was beautiful. Underneath a coat of grease and dirt, her hair was a scintillating red that shimmered in the lantern light. No teeth were missing in her pleasant smile, and her hands rested upon fine hips. She was dressed as if she might be a dancer, and Naleth, for a brief moment imagined himself dancing with her. Then he felt a twinge of guilt, as his mind offered him another possible option for her chosen profession.

“Yes, well, I’ll just get out of his way then,” said Naleth, heading back to his table. He sat back down, but not alone.

“I’m Jiya,” said the woman, taking a seat next to him, still smiling.

“I’m not—“

Naleth quickly remembered his task and stopped himself abruptly from saying anything rude. “I’m not sure who to talk to.”

“About what?” she asked, seeming genuinely interested.

Naleth paused for a moment, unsure of how to proceed subtly. Neither Quintus or Dorian had instructed him on how to be sly in the art of conversing.

“Well, out with it!” she pressed, “You’re the first decent prospect I’ve had for a real conversation in a long time.”

“Um, maybe I should speak to who’s in charge.”

“In charge of what? You mean Bantrum?”

“He’s still alive?” Naleth asked, incredulously.

“Oh, sure,” Jiya said, “With a crowd like this, all you need to keep ’em happy is plenty of money, drink and women.” Her smile got bigger. “And someone to watch your back.”

“I see,” said Naleth, noticing that Falanx had gotten onto the table and figured out how to work the tap. He lapped at it joyously.

“Why? You planning on asking him for a job?”

“Um, no, not really.”

“Good,” Jiya said, “Bantrum likes to sit on his throne – ‘the Bandit King: ruler of all the filth he surveys’ – but he doesn’t like to be bothered, especially by strangers. He doesn’t trust them. Figures someone would actually want to take him down and usurp his crown of garbage.” Jiya reached out and pinched Naleth’s cheek, which he tried not to recoil from. “Besides, a cutie like you don’t wanna get involved in all that.”

“Heh, no, not me,” chuckled Naleth, trying to sound jovial.

“So what do you want to get involved in?” she asked coyly, raising her eyebrows in a playful manner.

“I, uh…,” stammered Naleth, “I like…history.”

“You do?” said Jiya, taken somewhat aback. “I thought most guys your age were more into the ‘here and now’. You know, whatever is going on right in front of you.” At the last comment, she pushed her chest out, ever so slightly, and Naleth couldn’t help but stare. After all, he was at that age.

“Well, I usually save that for later,” he lied, though not very well. “I find history…romantic.”

“Really? I guess some parts can be.”

Naleth hated lying to this girl, who seemed genuinely nice, but he knew that he would have to take advantage of her apparent interest in him, even if it was for money. “Maybe you could show me some of the historical parts of the city, from around the time of the Fall?”

“Sure, why not?”

They rose from the table and headed for the door. Naleth suddenly remembered his responsibility to those he had come in with. ’Oh, just let me inform my friends that—“

“Oh, don’t worry. They’ll be fine. And I promise to have you back before midnight.” This time her grin was accompanied by a wink.

“Oh, okay,” Naleth acquiesced, not sure if it was the right thing to do, but not wanting to look too suspicious in his dependence upon his companions.

As they exited the tavern, Jiya let out a shrill whistle. “Come on, Falanx!”

The burly dog stumbled off of the table and ran towards Jiya, only colliding with the door frame once before wobbling his way outside.

It was a whirlwind tour of the capital. Jiya seemed far less interested in the architecture and much more interested in her companion. Once in a while she would wave a hand absently at a building of note, such as the Temple of Vamesha or the Noble’s Forge, but usually she would just ask questions about Naleth. Meanwhile, Falanx busied himself by chasing cats, rats and people that got too close to his master. Naleth wasn’t exactly getting what he wanted out of this little sojourn. He would have to find someone else to fulfill his inquiries.

“Can we go back now?” he asked.

Jiya turned to him with a look that showed she was obviously offended. Naleth figured she probably didn’t get turned down much, if at all.

“You are a strange one, Naleth Orie,” she said. “How about one more place, then you can return to your friends?”

“Alright,” Naleth sighed.

To his amazement, Jiya took Naleth to one of his favorite places. “The Fountain of Ascension!” A huge smile came across Naleth’s face as he remembered all of the fun times he had at this monument. It was gargantuan in size, the base level being nearly one hundred feet across. The center was decorated with statues of gods, emperors and mystical beasts. The whole edifice rose three stories off the ground, each level more elaborate than the last. There was even a pathway that allowed one to walk to the center of the fountain and steps leading up to the top. The pumps had not worked in years, however, so some of its glory was lost. Now, only stagnant water, about ankle high, rested in the bottom of the fountain.

“It was built in 621 and ever since then, each familial dynasty that came to sit on the throne of Diathilos had added to it in their own unique way.”

Naleth was shocked and intrigued by her explanation. “You seem to know a lot about it,” he stated.

“I read the plaque,” was her cocky reply. “Wanna go up?”

“Yes, very much!”

Jiya yanked Naleth’s arm and dragged him up the path, both of them smiling and excited. Falanx took the cue and jumped into the rank water, splashing playfully. They giggled all the way to the top of the fountain, where there was a small enclosed parapet, with just enough room for two.

“The view is stunning!” exclaimed Naleth. The fountain was taller than most of the surrounding buildings, and the moon was nearly full tonight, so they could see quite far.

“I knew if I tried hard enough I could get your attention,” purred Jiya.

“I’m sorry, Jiya. You really have been quite nice. I’m just a bit overwhelmed by everything, that’s all.”

“What is it that’s weighing on you so heavily?” she asked.

“I…that is, we…several of us are looking for the cause of all this; what happened to the empire, how this city came to be overrun by…other factions.”

Jiya put a hand to Naleth’s face and gave him a gentle caress. “Does it matter? That’s all ancient history. You should be more concerned with what’s going on right now. What happened can’t be undone. And, yes, Thir Adha is in shambles, but look at what you and I can share, can find in what’s left.” She swept her arm out over the ruined city that actually was quite beautiful in the moonlight.

“That is true,” Naleth agreed, “but I don’t want to disappoint my mentor. He believes that if this can happen to an empire as powerful as Diathilos, it can happen to any nation.”

“Maybe. But you can’t stop corruption.”

“I know,” sighed Naleth. “It’s just so terrible that these kind of tragedies can occur and change people’s lives forever, uprooting them, dividing families, forcing people into…less reputable occupations just to survive.”

Jiya caught his sympathetic stare. “Who? You mean me?”

“You’re a very nice girl. You shouldn’t have to…” Naleth trailed off, unsure of how to word the rest of his sentiment politely.

“To what?” Jiya asked.

Naleth was silent for a moment. Then, “Hey, look. Falanx has found something else to chew on.”

Jiya wasn’t distracted by the subject change, but his sudden avoidance of the topic clued her in to his meaning. “You thought I was a street walker?” she said, slightly peeved.

“I – well – your dress…”

Jiya let him suffer a bit before letting him off the hook. “I just happen to like these clothes. This stuff would be worth a fortune. Trust me, no one bothers me with Falanx around.”

“I am so sorry, Jiya.”

“Naleth, I am just like any other girl,” she explained firmly, putting her arms around him. “When I find someone I like, I get to know them and, if it feels right, I give myself to them. And there is no money involved.”

“But don’t you want to get married?”

“Well, in a place like this, there aren’t that many candidates. And from what I’ve seen, marriage is a tale for the bards. I just like to be happy.”

Naleth was not used to this kind of ideology, but he didn’t have long to ponder it. Jiya’s lips were moving closer to his and his mind was racing. Naleth’s thoughts flew from duty to happiness to danger to beauty. In the end, he knew she was right. Even if she wasn’t, there was little Naleth could do to resist something that he wanted as well.

“I’ve never—“

“I know,” she whispered, silencing him with her lips.

Naleth saw no more of the city that night.

Magistrate Baelarico, Captain Petronus and their party ascended the steps of the Imperial Palace. It was a first for all of them. They proceeded with a reverence that was usually reserved for church, but they could not help themselves. The splendor of the place was beyond anything any of them had ever seen in their entire life. The masterful artistry of the incredible architecture was too sublime to be put into words. But even as they climbed, Dorian kept an eye on those who lined the walkways and hid in the shadows. None confronted the magistrate or his party, as if they knew that the man was here on official business. The captain could sense that these men were more alert than most others they had encountered within the city, but seriously doubted their capability to best an Imperial Guardsman. Still, their numbers were superior.

The group passed through the rows of columns and into the main courtyard, where, not surprisingly, the bandit-king had set up his own throne room. Despite the additions and modifications that had been made to it, the courtyard was as equally impressive as the exterior of the palace. Open to the sky and with columns surrounding, one could easily fit an army inside. However, it seemed only a chosen few were allowed to accompany the bandit-king within his usurped domicile. He sat confidently upon his seat of power, which was obviously not the true throne; Dorian figured that that fine piece of wealth had been looted long ago. His cohorts – men, women, dothiks, gnomlin – lounged around with him, eyeing the newcomers without a care. Dorian soon saw why: upon the high catwalk that linked the tall columns paced nearly a dozen archers armed with crossbows.

No wonder this scum is so relaxed, thought Dorian, bitterly.

Finally, the bandit-king deemed the party worthy of his attention. “Do you bring news or petitions of greed?”

The magistrate stepped forward tentatively. “I humbly submit myself to your majesty. I am Quintus.”

“And do you always speak so politely, Quintus?”

That drew a laugh from the gathered crowd. Quintus had forgotten that these people were not used to dealing with nobles or city officials. Their kind demanded a different type of etiquette.

“Of course not! Merely being respectful, I am,” replied Quintus sharply.

“Good,” answered the bandit-king, “for I am the only one here deserving of respect.”

Bantrum had never been caught and brought to justice, so Quintus was unsure if this was he, though the attitude sounded correct. He would have to proceed using the honorific title, which was probably preferred anyway.

“Bandit-King, I would request the honor of becoming your chronicler and recording the tale of how you came to power. It would be of great historical significance to future generations, and your name would be preserved in the annals of time for all to appreciate. Would you grant me this most-valued assignment?”

Captain Petronus regarded the magistrate out of the corner of his eye, with a bit of surprise and a furrowed brow. The plan had been to gain an audience, ask a few questions and leave, not become a full time associate of the bandit-king! But Dorian had to trust the old judge; he was as canny as ever, even at his advanced age.

The bandit-king jumped out of his seat and burst forward. Dorian stepped in front of the magistrate to block the charge, but the bandit-king drew up short and pointed at Quintus.

“That, my friend,” he cried boisterously, “is the best damned idea I have ever heard!”

“Thank you, majesty.”

The bandit-king turned to face his retinue. “What do you say, my fellows? Shall we become famous for all time?”

A raucous cheer broke out from his gang, showing their assent. Their leader, grinning broadly, turned back and approached Quintus. “You have won their approval, my friend. It will be quite a tale. In fact, I shall prepare several items for your perusal – documents, trophies and the like.”

“As you wish, majesty.”

Quintus was overjoyed, but forced to keep his jubilance to himself. This is just the opportunity we’ve been waiting for: a first-hand account of the events that occurred here!

“I shall leave you to your preparations, then,” added Quintus. “Until the morrow.” Quintus and the rest turned to leave, Dorian gazing sternly at the brigands as he covered the magistrate’s retreat.

A quick, sharp whistle pierced their ears and the party abruptly stopped. “Hey, aren’t you forgetting something?” called a voice from behind them.

Quintus looked back to see one of the bandit-king’s men – a gnomlin – approaching them. He passed by his leader, who now bore a smug look on his face. Dorian didn’t like this, and he made sure to keep himself between the magistrate and this tough-looking gnomlin.

“You have to bring a gift to the great Bantrum,” insisted the diminutive bandit, “as payment for your audience.”

Quintus looked to Bantrum, whose identity was now confirmed. The bandit-king merely stood there, crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Ah, yes, well…I, uh…” The magistrate glanced at Dorian, looking for support, but the soldier could offer none.

“Your staff,” said Bantrum, “It looks a bit worn and tarnished, but will still make a fine addition to my collection.”

Quintus felt his face flush with anger. All I have left in this world is my dedication to Amitar, the law, and the empire of Diathilos – and this staff represents all three!

“Find it over by the courthouse?” asked the gnomlin, but Quintus didn’t hear.

“Perhaps some other gift, majesty…” interjected Dorian, trying to save the situation and prevent an outburst from Quintus.

“You would deny me?” Bantrum inferred.

“No, majesty, but—“

“Hey!” cried the gnomlin. “I recognize you! You’re that judge that tried to put me in the dungeons for life.”

Quintus’ anger suddenly turned to anxiety. He wracked his brain but, at the moment, couldn’t remember a single criminal that he had passed judgement on. He didn’t know this fellow or what his crime had been, but he was about to ruin their entire scheme.

“Is this true?” inquired Bantrum.

“Magistrate was my profession for many years,” replied Quintus, sounding distant.

Captain Petronus tensed his body, waiting for the inevitable attack. Instead, his defensive posture was met with laughter.

“Not so much now, eh?” chuckled Bantrum. The rest of the bandit crew gave a few derisive snorts as well, waiting for their king to grant them permission to have some fun with the old judge.

“Law is in short supply around here, magistrate,” continued Bantrum, “In fact, there is only one law, and it is mine. And while I don’t demand strict doctrine be kept or lengthy trials to ensue, I do demand payment for my time. So if you don’t mind, I’ll have that staff now.”

Quintus was torn. Bantrum and his gang now knew his identity, but that, apparently, was not an issue for them. If he handed over his staff, all would be well, he could get the information he desired and all would, hopefully, go well.

“Give it to them, Quintus,” implored Ambassador Galaca, “For all our sakes.”

Quintus Magellis Baelarico was responsible for all of the men and women that traveled with him. Moreso, they had become his family, each new member a bit of hope and a taste of better days. They trusted him, they believed in him, for the most part, and had decided to help him see this through to the end – whatever end he sought to make of it. Refusing Bantrum now would put all of that – and all of them – at risk. But the bandit-king asked too much. Quintus could not give up the staff, a part of his very being, any more than he could give up an arm or leg. He would not give into chaos, not let the last vestiges of law, order and decency fall prey to anarchy and sin. As far as he was concerned, the magistrate – and the work he was doing – was the only thing keeping what was left of Diathilos from descending into oblivion.

Suddenly, Naleth’s face came clearly into view in Quintus’ mind. The boy who had become a man under his tutelage, so filled with innocence, with hope and with idealism. Quinuts could not let that die. He would rather fail in his service to the empire than fail that one, beautiful spirit that lived inside Naleth Orie.

“No,” mumbled Quintus, “You cannot have it.”

The gnomlin, still standing in front of the magistrate, grinned wickedly and turned to Bantrum. “Hey boss, he told you ‘no’!”

Bantrum was ambivalent. “Fine, old man. Instead of you writing of my deeds, I shall be writing your obituary.” He raised his arm, signaling the archers above, and casually strolled back to his throne.

Dorian’s reaction was quick and impressive. Reaching underneath his ragged robes, he grabbed the shield that was strapped, hidden, to his back, whipping it around and up to cover the magistrate. Several clicks were heard, as half of the archers fired their crossbows while the other half moved into position. The bolts flew straight and true, right for Quintus, but deflected harmlessly off Dorian’s shield. Below, the gnomlin had drawn his long knife and was lunging for Quintus’ gut. His face, however, ran smack into the blunt end of the magistrate’s staff. There was a sickening crunch as the bandit’s nose broke and he fell to the floor, stunned and in tears.

“Everyone leave now!” yelled Captain Petronus, doing his best to protect nine people with one D’losian shield. The party fell back as a group, heading for the exit and the stairs leading back to the city streets. Dorian had to physically grab Quintus and drag him backwards, as the magistrate, in his fury, was still focused on the gnomlin that was rolling in pain on the ground.

“Lout!” he barked at the little rogue, who was no doubt oblivious to the magistrate’s insult. “How dare you—“

Quintus stopped cold, so suddenly that it actually broke him free of Dorian’s grip. The gnomlin was rolling around on an inlaid marble floor. The bulk of it was typical white, but the insets were of a darker hue, almost mahogany colored. Quintus immediately recognized it and wondered why he hadn’t seen it before: eight circles within a circle, with four interlinked circles in the center. Just like the seal on the outside of the palace, only these circles bore inscriptions – two letters apiece – and an icon of some sort within each. Quintus stood there trying to decipher them and commit them to memory all at once. He was only vaguely aware that three of Bantrum’s men were charging towards him, weapons drawn.

Captain Petronus was forced to knock the magistrate to the ground to keep him from getting shot by the next wave of crossbow bolts. One of them impaled Dorian in the calf, eliciting a cry of pain. But he stood there strong, ready to defend against the incoming bandits.

“Get the magistrate!” he yelled over his shoulder, as he met the three rogues head on.

A quick bash with his shield bowled the first one over, while he parried a slash from the second. The third delayed his attack, having been prepared to fight an old man but not an ex-Imperial Guardsman. That gave Dorian enough time to dispatch his opponent, but when he turned to face the last bandit, he found that the cur had run back to hide behind Bantrum’s throne. Dorian kept his shield high, knowing that the crossbows above would be reloaded by now. Favoring his wounded calf, he began his retreat, helping to cover the soldiers that were carrying Quintus out of the courtyard.

When they reached the bottom of the massive steps, they found the rest of the party gathered, not having wanted to scatter into the city without the magistrate and Captain Petronus.

“Why, Quintus? Why?!” asked the ambassador.

“Dignity,” huffed Quintus, a bit winded from all the excitement.

But it wasn’t over yet. Bantrum appeared at the top of the steps, a bit peeved. He called out to all in the immediate area, as far as his voice would carry, “A thousand pieces of gold to the one who brings me that staff!” He pointed directly at Quintus, and all heads turned to regard the magistrate with predatory eyes.

“Let’s move!” ordered Captain Petronus. “Head for the main gate!”

The party took off at a slower pace than they would have liked, what with Dorian’s wound and Quintus’ age. The soldiers positioned themselves as rearguard, as they watched ruffians of every sort climbing and crawling out of every nook and cranny the city of Thir Adha had to offer. And they were gathering allies along the way, luring others in with the promise of splitting a king’s ransom.

The party was lacking speed, but they knew their way through the city at least as well as any bandit squatter. Some streets had been blocked off by rubble or other refuse, but they found their way easy enough. Their stalkers seemed to be taking their time, as if savoring the hunt so they could enjoy the kill. Or they were trying to come up with a foolproof plan that could defeat an Imperial captain and his well-trained men.

“There it is!” cried Ambassador Galaca, when they were within sight of the gate. “We must hurry!”

But their progress was immediately halted when they saw that the gate was being blockaded by twenty men, all ready to relieve Quintus of his staff and, most probably, his life.

“How did they know?” asked the ambassador.

“They most likely have some secret route,” reckoned Quintus, “or a means of communication that we are unaware of.”

Dorian looked behind them to find that the rest of the bandits had cut off any means of retreat.

“Damn,” swore the captain.

They were surrounded by close to forty men, with very little room to maneuver. Their leader was nearly faint from exhaustion, and Captain Petronus was still bleeding from his wounded calf.

“It looks grim,” Quintus said, resigned.

“We are doomed!” wailed the ambassador.

“You know,” presented Dorian, “If we throw the staff out there, they’ll probably kill each other over it.”

“Yes! Yes! Excellent idea!” pined Galaca.

“You know I can’t do that, Dorian,” admonished the magistrate.

“Well,” offered the captain, “I took down seven Imperial guardsmen. I guess that roughly translates to about twice as many of these scum. And my men can double that.”

“But that still leaves a dozen or so,” calculated Quintus. “No, my friend. I will not have you taken down by foes who are not worthy to polish your shield. I will simply offer myself to them and hope that—“

One of the bandits suddenly gave a blood-curdling scream, and before Quintus could whirl around, a second one did as well. Both lie unmoving on the ground, each with a single arrow protruding from their chests. Quintus saw the third arrow hit, taking another man down. Quintus and his party, along with the gathered ruffians, looked around for the source of the deadly missiles. A moment later, the source made itself known.

“Quintus! Dorian! Head for the gate!”

It was Spiretta’s voice. Dorian quickly located her, nestled nicely into the open loft of a dilapidated stable.

“She knew,” said an astounded Quintus. “How does she always know?”

Several more shots whizzed into the throng of bandits from above. Her men had taken up similar rooftop positions as well, and were making short work of the would-be assailants.

“Don’t talk, magistrate,” yelled Dorian, “just run!”

The party turned in unison and charged the gate, leaping over the three dead bodies. The gathered rogues were in such a state of shock that most of them were easily circumvented. But some would not let their prize go. Twelve desperate men closed in on the rear flank of the magistrate’s party and took down one of Dorian’s soldiers who valiantly tried to hold them off.

“Damn,” cursed the captain, hesitating for just a moment, wanting to go back for his comrade. But he knew he could not leave Quintus’ side. Once through the gate, the group made haste for the rendezvous point.

Behind them, Spiretta lined up a critical shot. There were still nine men in pursuit of the magistrate and she was determined to keep them from reaching him. She drew her most finely crafted arrow back in her exquisitely crafted bow. She focused her stare down its shaft, seeking the chunk of marble underneath a precariously balanced column that lay on top of the gate. She wanted more time to aim but didn’t have it. She loosed the arrow. It flew straight and true. The marble chunk was dislodged, and the column fell from the top of the gate, down twenty feet onto the heads of six of the bandits. The last three, seeing their companions crushed and having the gate blocked before them decided that there was easier prey to be had.

Spiretta exhaled and made her way down from the loft, signalling her men to do the same.

An hour later, she joined Quintus and Dorian, who had been patched up by one of his soldiers. Quintus offered no words of thanks to her, and begged no explanations of her uncanny ability to protect him. It had happened many times before, and he was always grateful. A mere hug and firm handshake was all that was needed.

The next day, Naleth rejoined the party. Only this time, in addition to the soldiers under his command, he had brought along a new friend.