Among
the many wonders that lie scattered over the length of the realm
today, there is none so great as the mysterious lone tree which grows
out from the middle of the Rik'yin desert. Gnarled roots and an
ancient trunk that twists and twines, it reaches up from the midst of
the lifeless plain towards the heavens, a towering beacon over the
flat sands. There is a name for it, 'The Guardian,' an anomaly on the
face of the world from a time that has passed.
Once,
so the tales tell, the land was reigned over by a great empire which
stretched down from the northern Cekom mountains, past the eastern
forest of Phangrul, and to sea of Cha'kyye. The emperors ruled in a
golden age of unimaginable wealth and power, knowledge and culture.
Generations passed in peace, son succeeding father, but those years
lie forgotten in lieu of the one who broke the chain.
They
called her the Warrior Daughter, the greatest glory and terror that
the empire had ever known. She fought her way along the borders
against the barbarian tribes that lived beyond, crimson hair tucked
under the silver helmet that did not conceal her hard grey eyes. As
the emperor's only child she lived as she was birthed, as known for
her strength as she was for her viciousness for her blood ran hot and
her sword was deadly, driven by the wild fires of youth and untamed
freedom. Her place was in the midst of the chaos, keeping peace, but
through blood. She stood as an iron fist over the land, never cruel
or unjust in the interests of her people, but also never hesitating
to crush any that stood against them.
On
the western edge of the empire there lay a glorious golden city by
the name of Lx'qan-Eir, bordered on one side by a long series of
rocky hills. And it was there that the Warrior found herself one
campaign against a savage band that lived among the caves and preyed
on the unfortunate citizens. Training in her camp on the foothills
one day, the Warrior became aware of a great commotion. A woman was
being held, tearing viciously at her captors while she shouted for
their commander.
"She
came herself," one of the men informed, "we caught her in
the camp."
"Is
that so?" the Warrior replied, a wave of her hand signalling the
men to unhand the captive. "What is it you seek, then?
Information? Assassination?"
"I
am no enemy," the woman said, "I am merely one of the free
nomads, we are people of honour."
"Then
why have you come?"
"Because
the tribe that you fought has dishonoured. They have brought death,
blood, disruption, while I only wish to live on the land."
"And
so what? You want to help us? Are you a fighter?"
"I
am a healer," the woman replied, "but there are things
worth fighting for."
The
Warrior only scoffed. "Leave," she said. "Do not
bother us again, and we will not bother you." And at another
signal the healer was dragged away.
The
second attack came a few days later. The clash of iron rang in the
Warrior's ears, the metallic taste of the kill on the back of her
tongue, but as her blade grew heavy with spilt blood her battle-honed
senses saw what wasn't right. There was another, not dressed in the
amour of the empire, but against the barbarians nonetheless. She
didn't need to see the face to recognise the spirit.
"Have
I proved myself?" the healer said at the close of the fight.
"Are you satisfied?"
Perhaps
it was the way the nomad stood so straight and proud without even a
hint of supplication, or perhaps it was the boldness in her words,
but whatever it was it gave the Warrior pause. Something stirred
within her, mixing with the indignation, a recognition of an equal
match.
"If
I said no, would you listen?"
The
only reply was the smirk that curled the healer's lips.
The
clashes dragged out, the tribe knowing every inch of the terrain even
as the defenders had the upper hand in skill. Men killed, men died,
and the uninvited guest remained. Aneiex, it turned out she was
called, not a follower, but a confederate. Though still the merciless
wielder of the sword, the Warrior found herself for the first time
not a lone leader, forever above those around her. Underneath the
contention there slowly grew a grudging respect, but even deeper
there was more. Something changed in those days, each seeing their
own freedom in the other, unrestrained by the binds of society's men.
It was more than just loyalty and fellowship--it was
understanding.
"Stay,"
was the command as the campaign finally came to an end. "The
city will need a permanent defence."
"Indeed,"
the healer replied. "But why me?"
"Because
I am satisfied," came the response. "You have proved
yourself."
"If
that is so, then you will take me with you."
And
so it was spoken, and so it was true. For in then and now and all
ages past, there is no bond as strong as one forged in the heat and
dust of life and death.
"We
may kill each other someday," the Warrior said as they set off
toward their future.
The
healer only smiled from her place beside her liege. "Perhaps,
but not today."
"No,
not today."
It
was the beginning.
What
was born in the throes of battle cemented itself in a life that was
no longer just lived always with a heart in your throat and the
ultimate price on your head, but now faced with a comrade beside you.
Still first and foremost a healer, Aneiex saved as many on the fields
of conflict as did her leader, for even as she swore her sword and
her allegiance, followed command and seceded judgement, it was never
as a subject but as a peer. She became the guard, the keeper, never
losing sight of her Warrior's back. Years passed, and the two came to
be called Khoyre
Qudw Ek-Chir,
an ancient phrase whose exact meaning can no longer be translated,
speaking with the layers of history of an eternal partnership joined
forever in all things. It was one of the mystical names of old, one
that seemed to come alive when spoken, drifting with the breezes and
folding itself down through the contours of the land. And it was in
her shield-mate that the Warrior Daughter confided her true
name--Siirlana, which in the old tongue means 'the bright one.'
But
no age lasts forever, for in time the emperor's reign came to its
natural end as he fell to illness and passed from this life. To the
people the apparent heir was obvious, but the Council of Elders had
grown self-satisfied in the years and feared the strength of the
emperor's child. Long they debated before one stood and made his
declaration.
"I
have served long for this empire, and I believe that I am fit to
continue to do so. I shall marry the heir, and take the
throne."
"The
empire would be lost before I submit myself like that," was the
Warrior's reply to the usurper's proposal, for she knew how the
Council had grown power-hungry, and how their complacency scorned the
idea of a free woman on the throne. Even with her battle-lust
somewhat tamed by her time by the healer's side she was still a wild
thing, the forces of nature in her blood, never to be bound in the
chains of wedlock in such a way.
Rage
swept through the Council at the refusal, at first stunning them into
inaction, but never could it have lasted. In was at a camp up north
in the middle of the night that the response came.
"There
is an army," was the only greeting Aneiex gave to the just
awakened Warrior. "The emperor has sent the Imperial Guard to
take you to the capital."
"How
long away?" the Warrior asked as she began to ready
herself.
"Not
long. We turn then, fight against your own people?"
"It
is not me that is fighting, it is them."
There
was a moment of quiet in the small sallow tent before the next words
came.
"You
would never make a queen, would you? Even if you ruled, it could not
be from a palace. You would never leave you place before your
men."
The
Warrior ducked her head in the dim light. "Why are you here?"
she asked. "I know why you joined us that first day, but why
follow all these years? You are a healer, Aneiex, not a
fighter."
"As
I said," the healer-turned-guard replied simply, "there are
some things worth fighting for."
The
weight of the exchange hung heavy in the air, but then the sound of
the alarm rang out over the camp, breaking the silence and calling
the Warrior to rise.
"Go,
prepare. I will see you outside."
"No,
you must leave, now, hide yourself. Tactic is not cowardice."
"Then
you come too."
Aneiex
shook her head. "Someone must lead the men. Escape while you
can, Siirlana, I will meet you after it is done."
But
that was to be the only promise to her liege that she ever broke. For
while the men were fierce and loyal, they were caught by surprise and
hopelessly outnumbered. They were slain as they stood on the
red-stained ground, and their commander taken back before the Council
where a decision was made to draw the Warrior Daughter out the only
way they could envision. In that, at least, they were successful.
Three days after the battle saw Siirlana at the capital, falling to
her knees before the palace, but not for the reason they had
predicted.
The
healer's pale form had been left, rigid and lifeless on the steps,
throat slit and blood spilt onto the cobbled stones for all to see.
With one single act, the peace and justice that had been held within
the empire for generations had been broken. And kneeling there,
Siirlana vowed upon her shield-mate's body that she would make it
right again.
Her
fury was so great that not even the Council dared to stop her as she
bore the body out of the city and into the adjacent Rik'yin desert.
In that desolate landscape she buried Aneiex in the sand where,
against all the logic of the inhospitable landscape, a seedling would
one day sprout, growing into a majestic old tree with the healer's
body as it's life-giver--part of the land, as she had always
wanted.
A
storm was brewing, one that the whole world had come to expect, but
when it broke it was not from the Warrior Daughter. For even as the
word spread, an army was rising around the edges of the empire.
Always people of honour, those who had wandered apart and nomadic for
so long were banding together in rage at the injustice of their
fellow's death, larger in number than had ever been imagined. They
stood the length of the border, preparing for what would be the
greatest and most terrible war that the people had ever seen,
ravaging the length of the land until an end was forced not with
victory but with such a high casualty that gave both sides no choice
but to yield.
In
the chaos that followed, no one noticed a shadowy figure slip into
the palace one night, and no one was there as the ambitious elder was
awoken by a hand clapped over his mouth to silence his scream.
"You
have failed in your duty, emperor,"
the hissing voice spat. "You have brought destruction on your
own people, and you shall die knowing that it was you and not I that
ended the peace of my fathers."
In
the depth of the darkest hour, the sky was split by a churning
inferno of orange. The people gathered in the courtyard as
magnificent palace was engulfed in flame, cracking in its foundations
before crumbling to the ground, taking with it every last remnant of
its once-great inhabitants. There were a few among those that watched
that claimed to remember a black-swathed form standing off to the
side, standing witness to the fiery execution of that centre of power
before melting away into the darkness. The night the empire fell, was
the last that anyone would ever see of Siirlana.
And
here is where the stories differ. Some say that the Warrior Daughter
lost herself in the outlands, that the spirits recognised her for
what she was and raised to her name, lifting her to the sky where she
could forever watch over her land and her people.
But
there are others that recall a mad storyteller who walked the hills
of Lx'qan-Eir. She was grey-eyed, so they tell, with a mane of blood
red hair and an oddly regal look about her stature. She told of
strange things, wonderful things, crazy things, of golden cities and
bonds sealed in blood--and of an ancient name that seemed to come
alive when spoken, drifting with the breezes and folding itself down
through the contours of the land, sifting through the histories and
setting itself forever in the sands of time.
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