Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"Not exactly the way I would have gone about it."

"Well, I didn't exactly have ideal circumstances. Slaves never lead joyful lives."

"But making the walls glow? Couldn't you have done something a little less ostentatious?"

"It was the best way to help Cheenr at the time. That taskmaster had to be stopped."

"But if it was going to happen anyway..."

"I don't think Valya could have withstood it again."

"I liked his plan to get to Morstasia."

"It would have taken too long, Tersia. Trust me, this was the best way. At least, that's what Etuni tells me."

************************************************

Traso flinched as more sand whipped against his face. Why did Plowsi Desert have to be between Morstasia and Ahtli's Teeth? Every time he had sorcerers to bring to Ahtli's Teeth, he had to make the five-day trek across Plowsi Desert to the mountains beyond, in Rellibast. Five days of gusts of sand and wind, of swirling columns of wind traveling across the land, and blistering heat.

   Traso sighed, wiping his forever-sweaty forehead. At least he didn't have to wear his armor. The pack horses were carrying it so Traso didn't have to cook in a metal container while trudging through a desert. He often wondered how any place could be so hot. Yes, Morstasia was near the middle of the globe, where everything was hottest, but this was ridiculous. On three borders, mountains could be seen; the Great Encompassing Sea was to the east, and this peculiar landscape made the coast of Plowsi lush and fertile, and only a few miles away was the rest of it: a barren desert. Perhaps this was a lesson from Iltha, goddess of the world itself. You may live in a prosperous area or have a good life, but a barren metaphorical desert was always close. If you weren't careful, you would stumble into it. That sounded like something the Ilthaists would teach; Iltha made the land, it is a metaphor for life, be good and safe and you will be prosperous. All of those were doctrines of the Ilthaists, not that Traso paid much attention to that; Ilthaism wasn't very prominent in Rellibast. Their King, Thornug, reasoned that anything that didn't directly assist the war effort wasn't necessary, so Bastions ceased to listen to the admonishments of the Ilthaist priests. They were still approached when citizens needed their magic, but other than that the basilicas were normally ignored. Traso tried to visit the basilicas as often as he could while on Bastion land, and he wore a capsule of blessed ground around his neck, but he didn't pay attention to most doctrine, and most of the other officers were much less devout. Some of them had given up Ilthaism altogether. Traso didn't approve of that.

He also didn't approve of the consequences of Ilthaism's decreasing influence. When the church had power, its vocal priests had been able to keep the people from evil, mostly, and Rellibast had flourished. Now, with the dwindling power due to the war, men were turning to different versions of religion. Like Ahtliism.

Traso shuddered. Ahtliists had first emerged here, in Plowsi Desert. The nomads who lived where underground lakes and wells popped up had wanted to worship Ahtli, the dark goddess of night, rather than the earth goddess, Iltha. It was more like a cult, really; the Ahtliists apparently had dark sorcerers, whom most people believed to be extinct, that would take a sacrificial person and separate their mind from the body. The body would be killed to appease Ahtli and the mind would be trapped in "Ahtli's Embrace", a magical shard of obsidian that kept the mind alive and active in eternal torture. Ahtliists were rumored to only have women priests, although Traso believed this to be fictitious, simply a way to attract more men to the cult. Still, the numbers were astonishing. He had trusted messengers who acted as spies to check how many of his five hundred or so troops were Ahtliists, and he had been startled to find out that half of them had investigated the cult. A smaller fraction actually joined and participated in rituals. Thankfully, they hadn't escalated to human sacrifice, but Traso worried. Anything that had to do with the Ahtliists or human sacrifice put him on edge. A few years ago he was told that Ahtliists had nearly succeeded in placing his mind in Ahtli's Embrace, and only a team of soldiers who had stumbled upon the ritual while looking for a place to relieve themselves had saved him from it. He didn't remember any of this; Ahtliist mind rituals were forgotten entirely by the participants once they concluded or were disrupted. The soldiers had snuck up on the dancing priests and scared them away before they could finish extracting Traso’s mind. Even then, they feared the worst, but after a few terrifying seconds, Traso woke up. Traso remembered that part; he had been highly confused as to why he had woken up naked in the middle of the desert, tied to an altar. The soldiers had quickly brought him back to camp without being noticed by the soldiers, who would have found it very amusing to find out that Traso was walking through the camp entirely unclad. His rescuers brought him some clothes from his tent and swore to never tell anyone about the truth of this night; they let the higher captains and majors believe that Traso had stopped the Ahtliists before their ritual began. Traso had suffered amnesia for a few days, but quickly recovered his memories with the help of Bastion sorcerers specializing in telepathy and mind magic.

All of this culminated in Traso’s resolve to stamp out Ahtliism from his troops. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. He couldn’t argue that Ahtliism directly contradicted the church of the state because there was none; when one religion crosses the entire world, governments don’t really see the point in officially naming it the church of their country, because it already was. Ahtliism was so small compared to Ilthaism that no one ever saw it as a threat. Traso could do nothing to stop the Ahtliist soldiers from their rituals, so he did something else: he guarded the prisoners. Sorcerers were highly prized by Ahtliist fanatics because of their belief that only Ahtli could know all; sorcerers knew too much for their own good. Any sorcerer unlucky enough to be caught by an Ahtliist in search of sacrificial victims would immediately be brought to an altar. The opal that they drew their power from would be crushed, their minds would become trapped in Ahtli’s Embrace, and their skin used as clothing for the High Priests, who lived deep in Plowsi Desert and never showed themselves except at night. Some of the soldiers felt that the Morstasian sorcerer prisoners would be of more use as sacrifices than as prisoners. Therefore, Traso tried to protect the prisoners in the camp. While they were moving, he had six guards walk with the prisoner lines with strict orders to not let anyone except Traso and themselves handle the prisoners’ living conditions, or even be anywhere near them. When they stopped for camp, Traso personally guarded them with a few others so that no one was stolen to be laid over an altar.

Traso watched the sun set, preparing himself to the insomnia of another night guarding the prisoners. He wouldn’t let anyone relieve him of that duty, so he stood guard all night, sleeping while riding his horse during the day. He didn’t want to look weak or tired while in front of the soldiers, but it was more important to make sure none of the Morstasian prisoners were locked in a piece of obsidian. That would be a cruel fate, even for Morstasians.

And especially that boy, Traso thought to himself. While he was only a few years younger than Traso, the Morstasian boy they had captured two days ago had displayed magical power beyond anything Traso had ever seen. He remembered the raid on Su Barcha vividly, especially the boy's part in it. A group of Traso's men had cut off from the main force to try and have some "fun" capturing Morstasian women. They had surrounded what Traso supposed was the boy's house and trapped his mother inside. Traso had heard the laughing and jeering from the men and went to investigate. He'd been infuriated at what he saw. Bastion soldiers from other platoons always laughed and made fun of his "softness" for the Morstasians, but Traso didn't care; he didn't believe that anyone should be allowed to do something so cruel, even in war. Traso had run into the group, drawing his sword and preparing to fight his own men, when the boy ran into the group from the other end of the street. He stopped, staring at the burning house with his mother inside, clenching his fist around the hilt of a bloodstained sword. He looked more angry than anyone Traso had ever seen. The boy screamed, and a shimmering dome of blue energy erupted outward from his body, engulfing the house, the men, and Traso. When the energy hit the men, they died. When it hit the house, the fire was immediately smothered. When it hit Traso, however, it had little effect; he was knocked to the ground, dazed. After getting over his shock at such a display of power, Traso ran away from the house to retrieve a few members of his sorcerer brigade. Whatever trick he had done to show such power, the boy hadn’t been able to replicate it, and the sorcerers made short work of him. Traso knocked the youth out, and the sorcerers searched him and shackled him, dragging him back to the main group when they were ready to leave to bring the sorcerous prisoners to Ahtli’s Teeth.

Traso shook his head as he stared out at the barren desert landscape from atop a nearby dune. How had a mere boy been able to muster enough power to kill an entire group of Bastion soldiers? Even Traso’s most powerful sorcerer could kill only a few men with pure energy before the dampening set in. It was the curse of all magic; to summon power, one had to use immense levels of concentration. The amount needed varied slightly, depending on the person, but it was always more than the average brain could handle; to compensate, it slowed control of the body’s muscles and the mind’s thought processes. Using too much magic paralyzed your body and stole your capacity for conscious thought. To use that much magic and not have your brain shut down entirely, which would kill you, required an enormous mental capacity, far too large for a single teenage Morstasian. Traso couldn’t believe that such an event had occurred, not to mention that he couldn’t fathom why he was unaffected. All of his men were killed, but he wasn’t even knocked unconscious? Why was that?

You wouldn’t enjoy the answer.

Traso jumped about two feet in the air, spinning around to see who had said that. There was no one; he was alone on top of the sand dune.

Well, not completely. As he looked about, frantically, Traso saw one of his officers approaching. He scrambled to regain his composure and hoped the man hadn’t seen.

“Sir,” the officer said as he approached, “It’s about time.”

Traso nodded. “Anything to report, Thunre?”

“The Ahtliists seem more restless than usual, sir. We may need an extra guard to keep them from getting to the prisoners.”
Traso shuddered again. The last time he had led his troops through Plowsi five months ago, one of the Ahtliist men had tried to rape a Morstasian woman; Traso’s guards had only barely stopped him, and he was hanged the next day. That was when the murmurs denouncing Traso as a Morstasian sympathiser had began.

“We can’t let that happen again,” Traso responded, “Make it two extras for safety.”

The officer hesitated. “With all due respect, sir,” he said tentatively, “Why do you do this? I’ve gone along with you ever since you were promoted six months ago, but I’ve never really understood your reasons. They’re Morstasians, for Iltha’s sake! Why do we care what happens to the enemy?”

Traso was silent. “When Suo the Founder set out on his quest to unify the Rellian tribes, he ran into some problems.”

Thunre rolled his eyes. “Sir, do you have to tell this story again?”

“He found that his soldiers were not as disciplined or civil as his generals had led him to believe,” Traso went on, ignoring Thunre’s comment, “Whenever Suo attacked an army or robber bands of the tribes and subdued them, the men would celebrate by taking the captive women or even, sometimes, children into the woods and violating them. Needless to say, Suo was infuriated beyond anything his soldiers had ever seen. He took his closest confidantes and laid out a plan to stop it, once and for all. In the weeks before his armies attacked a tribe, he and his generals, in the dead of night, took the female prisoners and taught them to fight. When the battle began, he purposefully took all of the men who committed the abominations and put them in a poor position in front of the enemy. Most of them died, and the tribe saw a way to victory. But then Suo called for the women’s battalion to charge forth. He had been afraid that they would not have the courage to attack, but the leader of the women told him, ‘These men are no better than yours.’ Suo understood; they suffered the same hardships at the hands of their own kinsmen and had therefore gained strength and willpower beyond most women. Their charge turned the battle in favor of Suo, and he swiftly gained another victory. Before they celebrated, he gathered the entire force together and presented the women’s battalion to them. ‘These women,’ he proclaimed, ‘Were once prisoners whom you took as mere playthings. Now they have allowed you to win and are soldiers in my army.

‘Would any man dare lay a hand on one of his bunkmates? Or perhaps try to rape his fellow soldier? I tell you that these women are people and soldiers like yourselves, and should not be treated as lower than dogs.’

You wonder why I protect the Morstasians? This is why. I am astounded that most of these men have heard the story at their mother’s knee, and yet they don’t learn from it. They simply treat it as childish fantasy and go on having their way with whatever prisoners they can find. I know better, and if I am in a position to keep such abominations from occurring, why do you question my will to act?”

Thunre stared at his shoes, ashamed. He probably also viewed the story of Suo as mere fiction as well. “I guess that I’m not as enlightened as you, sir,” he said meekly.

“Don’t worry,” Traso said, slapping Thunre on the back, “You’ll learn. Come on, let’s go.” They trudged back down the sand to their camp below.

Three more Bastion guards approached them when they entered the edge of camp. They nodded in respect, then one of them said, “Sir, you’d better hurry. The scouts have spotted a group of Ahtliist nomads coming in this direction.”

Traso cursed. “Do the soldiers know?”

“Not yet. They’re still in the dining tents with their rations, except for the aforementioned scouts. Should we tell them?”

“Absolutely not. Knowing their brethren are near would cause them to practice more, or even worse, they’d desert. We have to isolate them and make sure that those Ahtliists stay far away from this camp.” Traso thought for a moment. “Tell them that they can save their after-supper duties for the morning; I’ll sacrifice cleanliness for safety anyday. They can go to bed early and get much more sleep.”

The men nodded. “We’ll go make the announcement.” They ran off, cutting corners as they weaved through the various tents and pavilions.

Traso growled softly. Blasted Ahtliists, he thought, Will you never give me peace? These zealots had cost him more time crossing the desert than epidemics and short supplies ever had. He hated them; Traso wished that he could take an army and wipe out every last one of them. Only then would they be gone permanently.

You know you can’t do that. Focus on protecting Farron.

Traso spun around again. Where was that voice coming from!? He definitely hadn’t hallucinated; once might have been a delusion, but twice left him with two options: either he was insane or a ghost was talking to him.

Oh please, ghosts aren’t real. At least, they can’t talk to you.

A ghost that could read minds, then.

“Sir? Traso? Is everything alright?” Thunre was looking at him with concern and confusion.

Traso, sighed, trying to regain his composure again. “I think the heat is finally getting to me,” he said, “I’m hallucinating a bit.”

“Do you need me to get someone else for guard duty?”

Traso shook his head quickly. “No; I think it’s just dehydration. I’ll grab another waterskin from my tent.”

Thunre nodded. “I’ll meet you at the cage wagons.” He walked off, and Traso went in the other direction, toward his tent.

He’d always noticed that war camps, even lieutenant camps where there were only about four to five hundred soldiers. The tents were all a uniform gray color from the wool of wild goats, as the military didn’t enjoy the thought of spending money simply to make the cloth more colorful or aesthetically pleasing. Each tent was three feet away from each of its neighbors in neat rows with a pathway running in between each row. The pathway wasn’t very wide; the army wanted to save as much space as possible. As he walked by each one, Traso saw a few men shaving or looking at sketches of their loved ones, but not very many; most men were at the various dining tents getting their supper rations. What he was surprised to see were a few Ilthaist priests walking around the camp. Bastion Ilthaism allowed priests to fight if the cause was righteous, but he didn’t know that there were some in his battalion. He bowed to them; Ilthaist priests were not nobility, but they were holy, and one was required to show them respect. Iltha would send a curse to those who disrespected her holy ones. One of them nodded to Traso and said, “Lieutenant, I trust you are well?”

“Less so than normal, Ilthan,” he said, using the honorific name for a priest, “I am having trouble with the Ahtliist dissenters.”

The man sighed. “The apostates are troubling, and you will wish them harm, but try to learn from this. ‘You must first climb the mountain to get a view of the green valley beyond,’ to quote the Ilthar. Focus on your own safety and salvation, and Iltha shall take care of the rest.”

“I shall, Ilthan. Thank you.” The priests left, and Traso continued  towards his tent. He didn't even think really about where he was going; Bastion war camps were designed to be set up in the same configuration no matter where they went. He could probably have navigated his way back to his tent blindfolded. As it was, he spotted his tent a good twenty feet before he reached it. Since he was the lieutenant in charge of this camp, his tent was larger than the others and was set up in its own little courtyard. The grey cloth had two strips of yellow and red on the borders to indicate the rank of the occupant after the traditional Bastion system. Morstasians ranked lieutenants as only two ranks above private, but the Bastions had switched the titles of major and lieutenant; a Bastion major held the rank of a Morstasian lieutenant, and vice versa. Traso laughed softly to himself; his promotion had nearly sent his rivals into collective apoplexy. A nineteen year-old boy being given power over an entire camp? It was almost unheard of; no boy had ever received that much responsibility or military rank since Suo the Founder began his crusade at twenty-two, and even then he had come of age a year before. Traso hadn’t even undergone his Thryla yet. He had to wait another two years to go through the right of passage for a military man. His tent reflected that; every soldier who underwent the Thryla was given the right to forge their own sword to use when necessary; when they weren’t preparing for battle, the men hung it sheathed from the roof of their tent. It was a wonder that every one of them didn’t collapse into a pile of tangled canvas. Traso’s tent, specially reinforced with thin metal wires to support such a sword, had no such weapon. He had dreamed since he was a boy of what he would make the sword look like when he passed the Thryla; he had studied sword-making techniques of Rellibast, Sulvasta, far-away Contavla, and even some of the hooked blades of the Sibalians in Quasibal. And yet, two years separated him from the fulfillment of his dream. As it was, he had been given a sword from the Bastion Quartermasters’ Guild, which was in charge of distributing equipment to the underage conscripts in the Bastion army. It never felt right in his hand.

It certainly didn’t help as it slapped against his thigh when he walked. Despite his protests, the quartermasters gave him a sword longer than he could use, and though it didn’t drag behind him, it was hard to keep it steady. He slipped through the gap between the two flaps of canvas that constituted a door and unbelted his sword, setting it gently on his cot. He slid his trousers down a bit to massage his bruised leg.

Stupid sword, he thought, Between the heat and the bumping my leg is sweating twice as much as the rest of my body! That thought brought to his attention just how thirsty he was. He reached under his cot and grabbed one of the canteens he carried there. As a lieutenant, he received a larger water ration than most, but Traso knew he still needed to be stingy with it while in a desert. Therefore, he took only a small swig of the cool liquid kept away from the blistering sun. It felt wonderful sliding down his throat, and his body immediately shouted for more, but his mind overpowered the desire. He understood that he had to keep it for the long night on guard duty.

Speaking of which… Traso thought, buckling the over-sized sword back on his waist. Thunre was waiting for him over at the cage wagons. He ducked under the flaps of his tent and dashed along the pathway, stopping for no one. He passed the dining tent, but he paid it no heed; the chef knew about Traso’s nightly vigil and would bring him food later. Some of the men greeted him as he ran past their tents, but most of them ignored him; they knew where he was going and didn't approve of him defending "Morstasian tyrants". Traso paid their disapproval no heed; they were only privates and had no authority over him. The only questioning or disapproval he paid attention to was Thunre's, and only then to give his reasoning to at least one person. Thunre had been his friend since Traso was first conscripted, and had stayed with Traso even when Traso had embarked on his reckless quest to save the colonel's daughter from Morstasian sorcerers. That had propelled Traso to becoming a lieutenant, and Thunre had supported him all the way, even when other officers portested his promotion. Traso couldn’t ask for a better friend.

Actually, you could.

Traso nearly tripped and fell on his face when he heard the voice again. He skidded to a halt, sand billowing out in a curtain in front of his feet, and growled under his breath, “Will you stop that?”

What, talking to you? Not a chance.

Traso huffed in frustration. “Could you at least stop making me jump at the most inconvenient times? I nearly face-planted in the sand right then.”

Please, a few scrapes won’t kill you.

“And another thing: your comments don’t make any sense! Why waste time talking to me if I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me?”

You’ll see.

Traso rolled his eyes. The voice, whether it was real or a hallucination, seemed bent on pestering him to no end. Traso ignored the comment; he could see the cage wagons from here and sprinted the rest of the way. Thunre, once he saw Traso, saluted and said, “Lieutenant.” Thunre was formal that way; even though Traso was his friend, he would still treat Traso as an officer should be treated. It was kind, but Traso wished his friend would act as he had when they were both privates. Traso saluted back, and Thunre made his report. He nodded at the horizon, where the sun was in the midst of a bright orange sunset, and said, “The prisoners are being given their rations right now. Once the sun sets in about five minutes, they’ll go back in their cages.” He then cleared his throat. “Traso,” he said, tentatively, “I’ve been thinking about what you said, with Suo the Founder and the women’s battalion, and I wanted you to know that I get it. And that I’ll protect those prisoners as diligently as you do.”

Traso smiled and slapped Thunre’s back affectionately. The action displaced a cloud of dust off his tan uniform. “Thank you, Thunre,” Traso replied, “I’m glad someone understands.”

Thunre smiled slyly. “Plus, I can’t wait to see the looks on the Ahtliists’ faces when we keep them back!”

Traso laughed. “They’ll be stupefied for sure.”

The sun set soon after, and Thunre went to retrieve the prisoners. As the various sorcerers, stripped of their opals that gave them power, trudged back to the cages, Traso examined their faces. Where was…

There, said the voice, and Traso felt his gaze shift. Yes, there was the boy. He was shivering, even though the desert was still hot from the sun’s rays. It was probably from either grief or shock at his situation. The boy had woken up yesterday and hadn’t said a word. His clothing was caked with sand and sweat, but under it Traso could still make out the uniform of a Morstasian military student. Traso wasn’t sure what to do with him; the other sorcerers were powerless without their opals, but this boy hadn’t needed one, which worried Traso. The youth hadn’t done any magic yet, but there was no indication that he couldn’t.

The boy looked up, and Traso could see that there was still emotion in those eyes. His eyes were afire with hatred and rage, and despite himself, Traso stepped back in fear. He had never seen anyone filled with that much anger before. Then, suddenly, the boy looked confused, almost like he was… listening to something…

The boy shook his head, like he was coming out of a daze, and shuffled into the wagon and sat down on a seat made from a bloatfruit tree stump. Traso shook his head as well, but out of disbelief. What was that? The boy had looked like he wanted to kill Traso for what he had gone through, and then all that rage had dissipated. But Traso couldn’t afford to think on it; it was dark now, and the Ahtliists in the army or the nomadic variety would be wandering, looking for a sacrifice. Whether he hated Traso or not, that boy would not be given to Ahtli’s Embrace; Traso had sworn this. He drew his too-long sword and tried to balance it in his hand the best he could. Thunre, who was two years older than Traso and had undergone his Thryla a year earlier, drew his sword designed after the blades of the people of Trost on Klafon. The Trosians favored thin, one-sided swords that were much more flexible than a one-handed sword or a broadsword. It seemed much more… elegant than the large, ungainly swords of Rellibast. Traso had to admit that he felt just a slight tinge of envy whenever he saw the sword.

Enough, Traso told himself, Stop focusing on greed and envy. General Crotus always told you to stay true to your morals, to be loyal. Don’t go ruining it by coveting.

So Traso and Thunre stood there, sometimes grabbing small stools to sit on, late into the night.

***************************************

He was in a room with a blazing fireplace. Traso looked around, dazed and confused. His eyes wouldn’t focus for a moment. He recognized the color of the fire and could feel the heat, but nothing else registered with clarity.

Here, let me help.

Suddenly, he could see clearly. He was sitting in a wooden chair, not like the rough stools of the Bastion military, but elegant and hand-carved by someone highly skilled. The walls were polished wood as well, and there were rugs on the floor. No, this was not Traso’s home, where his family only had a few chairs, a table, and three bedrooms. He could see, in front of him, two- no, three people. One was a man, sitting in another chair much like Traso’s. He wasn’t young, but he wasn’t an old man either, probably thirty or thirty-five years old. He was smiling at the woman across from him, who was in a rocking chair. She was singing softly to a baby in her arms. The baby was looking at his mother, but then his eyes locked on Traso. They were angry and accusing, and his face contorted in rage. Traso felt a tapping on his shoulder.

Traso’s eyes flew open and he gasped heavily. He had somehow fallen asleep on the watch. Traso looked around, wondering what had woken him up.

It was the boy. His face was tired, but somewhat determined. “Excuse me,” he said, so softly that Traso almost couldn’t hear, “But there’s someone there. Sleeping might not be the best plan.”

Traso stared at him, confused. This boy was talking? His first words spoken as a prisoner were a reprimand for Traso sleeping on the job. He was about to tell off the boy-

No, don’t. He’s right. Traso couldn’t tell whether it was the voice talking or his own conscience. Or maybe, it dawned on him, they were the same thing. The voice was his conscience.

He heard someone laugh. Don’t count on it.

So much for that theory.

Traso yawned, then said to the boy, “You’re right.”

The boy cocked his head, also looking confused. He obviously had thought Traso would be angry. But apparently he had done it anyway. A boy who expects punishment, but follows his conscience anyway. Interesting, Traso thought.

“I’m what?” The boy asked.

“You’re right,” Traso continued, “Sleeping on guard duty will get you reprimanded. Thank you. Now, what was this about someone near?” Traso expected the boy to be talking about Thunre returning from his nightly trip to the privy. It was about the same time.

But the boy pointed in the other direction of the privies. “Over there,” he said, “He isn’t wearing a Bastion uniform.”

Traso turned and gasped.

It wasn’t a soldier. It wasn’t even an Ahtliist nomad.

There was a man about twenty feet away, crouched in the sand. He was whispering something to someone behind him, because his head was turned away from Traso and the cage wagons. Traso couldn’t tell how old he was, or even what his hair color was, but he could see one thing. The man was dressed in jet-black robes, and when he looked up, his eyes were glowing.

And they were different colors.

Oh, Iltha, Lady  of the World, Traso cursed, though he hardly ever did so, A doppelgänger. Traso revised his earlier thoughts; this was an Ahtliist. One of the High Priests, whom no one had ever seen. There were numerous rumours saying that they were all doppelgängers who followed the leader of Ahtliism, called the Seneschal. Apparently the rumors were true.

This is going to be a large problem, Traso thought.

Doppelgängers were some of the least identified people in the whole of Ilthalia. They were inherently magical beings because of the way they were created. Doppelgängers were created through two different ways. Dark sorcerers who used obsidian instead of opal, like some Ahtliist priests, could use the extracted minds in Ahtli’s Embrace and meld them with another body. This created someone who could inherently use dark magic but had no idea that there was a separate mind within his own. This separate consciousness would take over, shutting down the other mind and controlling the body until, somehow, the other mind woke up. This mind would have no memory of what his body had been doing while under the control of the infused consciousness.

The man Traso was looking at, however, was not an artificial doppelgänger, as that creature was called. No, this was someone far more dangerous: a natural doppelgänger. Natural doppelgängers were created like any normal human baby, except it was conceived while under magical influence. Many sorcerers liked to use their magic to make their "experience" more… exciting, as they put it, but the presence of magic during conception created these monstrosities. They could be identified easily, however, by their dichromatic irises, and were usually killed within the first few weeks after birth.

How did this one survive? Traso thought with horror. A natural doppelgänger was someone whose good and evil sides of the mind were separated, each a separate consciousness. One would gain dominance over the other; unfortunately, most of the time the evil side would be dominant. The body would be controlled by the evil side and had immense dark magic, again for reasons that could not be explained. They were usually not allowed to live and the only doppelgängers ever defeated once they were fully grown required five different sorcerers to beat.

And now I’m looking at one, Traso thought.

The boy didn’t seem to share Traso’s dread. “Who is that?” he asked with curiosity, “And what’s with his eyes?”

Traso shot a look at the boy, incredulous. “Do you not know what that is?”

“Probably one of your sorcerers,” the boy answered.

Traso shook his head in disbelief. “You have no idea what a doppelgänger is-”

His words were stopped when the voice in his head screamed. Traso was suddenly shoved to one side, although there was nothing that could cause that much force.

A ball of shadowy energy shot past and slammed into the sand exactly where Traso had been standing. It hit the sand and exploded, spraying grains of it everywhere. Traso sat up, dazed, and looked at the sand that covered him. Except it wasn’t sand anymore; it was chunks of pure obsidian.

The doppelgänger walked forward, his eyes glowing, one blue, the other green. “Naughty, naughty boy,” he said with a sneer, “How dare you dodge Ahtli’s verdict? She wants you, Bastion, and I will not have my goddess disappointed. So sayeth Ahtli and her Seneschal.” He pointed a figure, and a beam of dark energy erupted, weaving its way like a snake towards Traso. Somehow, Traso couldn’t move.

But Thunre could. He came from nowhere, slashing his saber through the energy, dissipating it.  And he wasn’t alone; Thunre had brought company.

General Crotus? Traso thought, disbelieving. The man was supposed to be in Rellibast, directing the entire Bastion military. Why was he here, in a single camp, protecting Traso? Traso had met him once back in Rellibast when he had received his promotion, but he had never imagined the general showing this level of protective instincts to one officer.

“Stay down, Lieutenant!” Crotus yelled at Traso, “Let us handle this!”

“NO!” shouted the boy from the cage, “Let me help!”

The general looked at the boy with confusion. “Who are you?” he asked, skeptical.

“My name is Farron,” the boy said, standing straight despite the low roof of the cage wagon, “And I think I can help you. I don’t know how, but I used magic back in Su Barcha. Maybe I can do it again.”

Open the cage, said the voice in Traso’s mind.

Crotus nodded. “Traso,” he said, “Give him your sword.”

Traso took a key from his trouser pocket, unlocked the cage, and let Farron out. The rest of the sorcerers were petrified and hurriedly closed the door behind him. Traso held out his sword to Farron, and he took it. Farron held it expertly; he had obviously been trained with this kind of sword.

The doppelgänger laughed. “So, you make a meaningless gesture of loyaly, general," He said this word like he didn’t believe Crotus’ rank for a second, "I understand that it’s what you do, but it will help you with nothing.” He snapped his fingers, and something shadowy rose up from the ground in front of him. “Nirlu!” the doppelgänger shouted, “Attack them! Bring the loyalist and the captain to me!”

Traso had never seen anything like it before. He could only describe it as a living shadow. The thing looked like a human on the top half, with a torso, head, and arms, but the bottom half was simply wisps of shadow. It was almost like his bottom half was a ragged cloak, each wisp like a torn piece connected to the whole. It bore no resemblance to the doppelgänger; it had no clothing, but Traso supposed that a shadow didn't need trousers. It was just… a living shadow. Really, there was no other way to describe it. The shadow had glowing white eyes, and it spoke.

“As my master commands.” It swooped forward, showing no regard for the laws of gravity.

The doppelgänger had ordered it to take the captain. What did he want with Thunre? And who was the loyalist? Traso had he feeling that the doppelgänger wouldn't be interested in answering that.

Thunre raised his saber and slashed it through the torso of the shadow. It did absolutely nothing. Thunre's eyes widened with fear as he realized that his weapons couldn't harm the thing.

But the shadow wasn't coming for him. It reached its arms out and grabbed Farron. Despite its shadowy, insubstantial body, it lifted Farron off the ground. Fortunately, it didn't seem like it could carry away something so heavy easily. It dodged attacks from Crotus as it made its way back to the doppelgänger.

“Farron!” Traso yelled, but he still couldn’t move. He struggled, but somehow the doppelgänger had immobilized him. That beam of dark energy a moment ago would have taken him had Thunre not rushed in. Traso watched helplessly as Thunre and Crotus fought futilely for Farron’s safety.

Farron had stopped struggling. Instead, he looked as if he was listening to something. His head was tilted ever so slightly to the side, and his face was questioning. His face morphed into one of determination, he slapped a hand against the shadow’s head.

A flash of blue light exploded from Farron’s hand, and the shadow was launched away, dropping Farron. The shadow passed straight through the canvas wall of the dining tent, which was now empty, and Farron landed maladroitly on the ground. He didn’t move very fast, which was a problem as the doppelgänger himself ran forward to sieze the boy. His concentration was divided, however, which allowed Traso to wrench himself out of immobilization. He stood up quickly, drawing his sword. Unfortunately, it still wasn't balanced in his hand, and he almost dropped it.

Throw it to Farron.

There was no time to argue. Traso remembered that his sword was roughly the same size as the one Farron had been holding back in Su Barcha, so he called "Farron!" and tossed the sword to the boy. Farron deftly caught it and brought it sweeping up to hit the doppelgänger.

Somehow, the doppelgänger dodged the attack. He growled in frustration and held a hand up. He lowered it, as if he were pulling something out of thin air.

He did; a pure black sword appeared, a shard of obsidian pulsing with darkness on the pommel. The doppelgänger lashed out, trying to stab Farron in the gut.

General Crotus defended, parrying with his Thryla sword, which was designed with a small emerald in the pommel for decoration. He twisted the blade, attempting to disarm the doppelgänger, but it didn’t work; the doppelgänger was too strong for that. It pulled the blade back and stabbed again, but Crotus dodged with a speed that Traso had never seen in a middle-aged man. The shadow-the doppelgänger called it Nirlu- swooped down, trying to distract Crotus. Thunre threw a backhand at the shadow because his sword wouldn’t do anything. His hand sank into Nirlu’s torso, most of its force dissipating.

Help him, the voice said.

Traso had no idea what it was talking about. How was he supposed to help Thunre!? He had nothing, not even a sword, and there was no way a sword would help against a doppelgänger anyway.

It does not matter. HELP HIM.

Not really knowing what he was doing, Traso lunged forward and punched the shadow in the face. Right before it connected, something strange happened. He felt like there was someone else next to him, thinking in the same way that he did, but he saw no one.

NOW IT’S MY TURN, the voice said, his voice louder than ever in Traso’s mind.

His hand crackled with green sparks, and when his fist hit the shadow, it hit it. The force wasn’t dissipated, and the shadow began to burn with green fire, when Traso backed up. Both the shadow and the doppelgänger howled in pain. The shadow shrank, its mass turning to smoke, until there was nothing left but the smoke dissipating in the wind. The doppelgänger looked at the rest of them with unrestrained hatred.

“This isn’t over,” he said, “I will be back, with the rest of my brethren. You have made an enemy of us today.” He sank into the ground, becoming a living shadow that ran off into the night.

Crotus breathed heavily. “I’m getting too old for this,” he whispered, trying not to be hear, but Traso had a knack for eavesdropping.

Thunre looked as tired as if he had walked through the entire Plowsi desert in a single day. “With your leave,” he said, panting, “I’ll go get some rest.” He didn’t even wait for a response.

“As will I,” Crotus said. He looked at Farron, then walked away as well.

That left just Farron and Traso. Farron glanced at Traso and said, “So, can I have a bed to sleep in as well?”

Traso thought for a moment, but not long. He knew that, though it pained him to do so, Farron was still a Bastion prisoner, someone who took out an entire squadron of soldiers, so he could not be allowed any leniency or comfort. “You think I’d let you go that easily? You will get back in that cage and not come out until we reach Ahtli’s Teeth.”

Farron looked like he was about to cry. “What!? After all I did?”

“I do not have the authority to release you, even if I wanted to. Crotus and my superiors do, and since he did not see fit to release you, neither do I. I trust my general. Now get BACK INSIDE.” Farron jumped at the intensity of Traso’s voice, and Traso had to shove him back into the cage, locking it swiftly.

“Your loyalty will get you into a lot of trouble someday,” Farron whispered as Traso walked away, back to his tent. It had been a long night, and he needed sleep.

Author's Note

I'm not sure if these chapters seem more detailed or thought-out than the rest. If it is, it's probably because Traso is my favorite character, so my subconscious gives him more of the limelight. I'd also just like to reiterate that this is supposed to be a realistic portrayal of a medieval society that just so happens to have supernatural, magical things in it.