An Axe in the Flames

Embers in the Flame

Rikart's rise to Battle Master, and right hand to the High King had been swift. News traveled quickly after he had killed his father in training, making him the youngest to sit next to the throne in Flame Sect history. Being so young, he was tested by the older Long Swords but his mettle had been proven time and time again. Even the King had questioned the ways with which Battle Masters were chosen but Rikart had made it clear from day one, he was the best man for the position. He had chosen a Shield Sister, only two years his elder and the pair had been feared among the Sect. Their tenacity unrivaled and their communication on the battle field stood above all others. Their leadership and prowess as a team had led to changes in training and formations.

Lucan had learned to trust him, and though the three towns had united for a battle when the Flame Sect were marching on their way back home, his battlefield strategy had led to saving the lives of so many of his soldiers and given the pitiful farmers and traders a facade to think they had defeated the mighty army. It bought them time to study on the former scholar, Eldon's research and better understand the magics they now possessed. It had bought time for Lucan to become one of, if not the most powerful War mage in the Emerald Kingdom.

Rikart, himself, did not possess the magic and had refused when offered. Though he didn't outwardly say, he could not bring himself to slaughter a child to gain magic. He had a family of his own, with two twin boys and a daughter. It was his wife, daughter and sons that he always thought of when he had to bring a child prisoner to the Halls of Magic within the fortress they had erected in the Salt Deserts. He did all he could to not watch the child writhe in pain when the masked practitioners cut off the top of their skull, or when the chosen soldiers would begin feasting on their still working brain. He had to tune out the blood curdling screams of dispair, the desperate cries for mercy, and the incoherent words they screamed each time a utensil scooped out a portion from their skull. Holding down his stomach and tasting the bile in his throat each time. He had never desensitized to the grotesque act and had promised himself he never would. When the ritual was done, he would always take the body and bury it behind the fortress and burn a prayer to the Gods of death, written on small scrolls of parchment.

Yalina knew the toll it took on him, because his nightmares were always at their worst on those dreadful days. She would make him his favorite meal of bramble rabbit and salt fruit, but it was always a struggle to eat. He knew he could trust her and in the confines of their home, at the latest hour of night, he would weep. Weep for the lost life, the tortured soul and for guidance from the Gods. He hadn't asked to become a part of this, but he knew he had a part to play. If he showed his disdain, he would be hanged for treason. If he partook in the horrible act, he would go against everything he fought for in this world. Humanity and the right for freedom to live how you chose. She would stroke his long red hair and trace his fire glyph tattoos and not say a word. She would let him pour his soul out into the open flames of their fireplace and disappear into the night like the embers that popped from each log.

It had been just over a year since Lucan had lost the better part of his hearing from the attack in the prisoner cells, and he was no closer to finding the assailant. Of course, it did not help that the High King could only describe the prisoner as a young girl. Rikart had assumed she fled to the North West part of the Kingdom looking for protection inside the Emerald Castle. A place he wouldn't dare send his scouts just yet, as the army hadn't yet fully prepared to storm the castle and overthrow the Emerald King. Lucan was patient, if only because he was still healing, but he knew the days were getting shorter on pulling the trigger on the assault.

"And Rikart, how many men are now with the magics in the Long Swords division?"

The question directed at him, had snapped him from his trance. Inquisitor Olave, a grunt of a man built like a boulder and a face to match with short red stubble for hair and a beard, was staring at him with his one good eye. A faintly glowing red iris, seated next to a milky red one. He was the man tasked with finding criminals for the front line assault in the army. His red and white robes barely able to contain the body underneath. Yalina elbowed Rikart discreetly.