Mortance: A Miscarriage of Hope

Prologue

It had been over a thousand years since they died, but he still remembered their screams like it was yesterday. We were safe, he remembered thinking. Nobody would invade the north in the dead of winter, much less succeed. He couldn't have been more wrong. There were no survivors but him. Of that, he was certain. Twelve hundred years would've been time enough to find any remnants, any scattered remains left over after the fall, any Mortances like himself who could've survived. After so long, he was certain of this. They were long gone, but their memories remained.

Justice. He remembered the hoards of vir that had descended upon them. A force that size was only ever sent to accomplish one thing. Vengeance. Every night. He saw the man who had killed her. The vir had shifted from a lion to a man, then he had raped his pregnant wife. It had been too long to remember his face, but the words he'd spoken after ripping out the unborn daughter and cutting her mother's throat still rang in his ears as clearly as their screams. I'll have a thousand of you before this day is done.

He had no honor. War... murder... rape... death... it was no sport, nor was it something to enjoy. The thrill of battle was one thing, when your opponent is a match for you, and the trial is one of skill. That would have been an honorable battle. Descending upon the homes of the innocent, raping, murdering, pillaging... there was no honor in that. Yet that is exactly what they did, he remembered. And not a finger was raised against it.

But now, the time to act was upon him. There had been an unstable peace since they had died, but now... armies were assembling once more to fulfill the dreams of men and women whose bodies had rotted ten times over by now. We were united once, he remembered. Under Richard. He had known the so-called savior of Ert up until the day he'd died. Richard's heroic sacrifice had set freedom upon Ert, but Ert hadn't been ready for freedom. And we've all paid the price, but never did we learn from it.

It was written in the night sky. He didn't need an astronomer to know that the two moons would finally be full on Ascenday once more. It was in the air. War was on its way. I must be ready. He knew what he had to do, but it could not be done alone. Long have I waited for this.

For the past millennium, he had been searching for a spell, a spell that could create life. The Mortances of old discovered it during one of the witch wars, most like. One could sacrifice their immortality, but in return they could create life from nothing. A small price for such a gift, a man who knew the value of life would call it. Too great a price, other fools would claim. After twelve hundred years in solitude, death would be a relief for him. The life he planned to bring forth would help him die in peace.

The daughter I never had. If he remembered what they had planned to name the girl, he would've named his new daughter the same. She will have a name befitting of the legacy she will carry. An even better name than mine. But nothing came to mind as he journeyed from his mountain hideaway in the south to the northern isles, where an ancient temple was said to be. They will have what I need for this ritual to work.

In the days before the rebellion, strongholds and temples of magic were plentiful. Most had been destroyed, but not all. Few knew of the temple in the northern isles, and even fewer could have found it twice. He had been there once, long ago, when there were still witches hiding away. A century later, he'd returned to find it empty, save for one old, dying woman. She had told him of the ritual, and he had vowed to be the keeper of magic until another who is worthy comes. There are none more worthy than me, he thought. But there will soon be one.

Winter's first snow fell as he began the long trek north. Most would have waited for such weather to pass, but the cold had never bothered him. He would be going through the forest for the better part of the journey, and snow rarely fell through the thick coverings of trees. For most, the forest would've been too unpredictable to manage such a journey. For him, it was no small task, but no difficult one either. After a thousand years, even an ever-changing labyrinth could be mapped out, and he was more suited than most. During the rebellion and the beginning of the war, he had commanded troops through the forest to get around enemy lines. This journey would be long and hard, he did not doubt that, but he would not lose his way.

The forest had changed since then, though, but not so much as it should have. Many exiles had come seeking haven, but none had stayed for long. Either they had died, or they had gone farther east than he cared to know, but they had made no impact. A few hundred years after the war, a settlement was established, a place where the racial divides created by the war had no value, and actions are all one is worth. Espar had grown at an underwhelming rate since its inception, and the city in the trees was still small for how long it had been around. Stronger cities have fallen in less time. Espar only still stood because most of the world believed it to be a myth. It survives for the same reason it fails to grow. Espar would be easy to avoid on this journey, as it had always been for him since its creation.

He didn't bring much with him for the journey. Food could be hunted, and he was a hunter. There were some books of magic he carried in a sack on his back, along with extra clothing, and armor, should he need it. He also brought Winter's Wrath, an ancient spearaxe forged of ryn and infused with the ancient power of his people. The weight of it was familiar in his hands, and it felt good to have a reason to use the spearaxe once again. It was one of the few remnants of his people, along with his armor, and he intended to use it to enact justice for them.

He would journey north through the forest, and turn east through the ruins of his home when the time came. Most men would never risk such a journey in the dead of winter, but he was not most men. He was a man of winter, and the last of his kind. He was Maldegith, a warrior of ice and snow, a mortance of unparalleled power, and the last of the jot.

Twelve hundred years ago, war had broken out, and his people had been massacred. Maldegith had been in hiding since then, but he would hide no longer. The battles were resuming, and the nations of Ert would soon decide who would truly rule them. It was up to him to steer that fight in the right direction, and with the help of his new daughter, he would do just that. Vengeance, he thought to himself as he took the first step towards his daughter. Justice. Maldegith adjusted the ancient spearaxe in his cold hands. Then... I will finally rest.