Umbral Coil Chapter 1: Dead Men Walking

This is the result of getting carried away with something to point of it needing to be cut into chapters to manage. That's fine though, it's a premise I've had in mind for a while and like the organic growth. It's not cutting into time I'd use on Dhampir though, nor will it mean either thing will be left unfinished or forgotten. This was initially just a one-shot project, and should go to around four chapters in full, with actual smut in future.

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Umbral Coil Chapter 1: Dead Men Walking

An arid sun hung low in a cloudless sky across the endless expanse of the Zo’qeth desert, illuminating the land in its baking heat. That blazing light crossed the sands and filled into the isolated city of Calisdan.

Today was a special day, for on the outskirts, beyond the walls of the city, the commoners had gathered to witness Mir’et’s will be done. Stood beyond a gigantic groove in the sand as though a river had dried up, the crowds stared up at the raised docking platform that spanned the length of the Palace behind its walls. A number of containers rested on that dock, but that was not what took their interest.

Prisoners – men shackled at the wrist, wearing tattered grey cloaks and sacs over their heads – stood on that dock, accompanied by a much taller, heavy-set figure hidden in robes of purest white. Only an emotionless block of a face, seemingly chiselled from obsidian was visible within the hood.

The way he held his posture before the crowd – hand rested seemingly lazily upon the hilt of his blade as his eyes skimmed the horizon – spoke volumes to those who could read it. Despite the distance between the dock and people gathered beyond the groove, there was nothing peaceful about him.

Beneath the robes that almost glowed in the sun, he stood coiled to point of pressure. If anything were to happen during this procession, be it a rescue, riot or attempt on Her Highness’ life, he would move in an instance of brutal force and reckoning.

The Itu’zah were a testament to power, hands taller than what the people were used to, taller even than their Queen, yet unfalteringly loyal. Rumour held that they were mythical creations born of stone and given life by the same touch of divinity that had given them Her Highness. None truly knew, and to question them was punishable sacrilege. Most did not dare to try garnering their attention for any reason.

With the prisoners and people alike gathered, the stage was set. Waiting for the crowd to simmer and quiet under the watchful gaze of the Itu’zah flanking the prisoners, she finally made her appearance. Slow, deliberate footfalls crunched the sand leading up to her platform akin to breaking glass as she approached. Flanked by the robed honour guard onto her platform above the prisoners, the sound of cracking clay followed her, yet left no debris in her barefooted wake.

Bandages covered her ankles, and seemed to coil up her legs before disappearing into the confines of her shimmering white leggings. Reamed with gold at both ankle, waist and overlaid with a transparent film of red, they billowed and shone with a brilliance that the dry wind only accentuated for all grandeur.

To complement the leggings and stature of their owner, an elegant cinch representing a golden sun fixed with a brilliant orange crystal rested below her bared navel. Boasting a rich tone of dark vanilla, her skin stood as a stark contrast to the brighter slashes of silk that covered it.

A fine, loose petticoat and undershirt covered more bandages. Her chest stood full and proud in those garments, adorned with several jewelled necklaces of blues and reds. Behind them all, a fine golden mantle covered from her collar to the jawline in solid gold, all but forcing her head to remain stoically upright, and stare down on the people below.

Stood upon a stage above where the prisoners were held, the picture of divinity was out of the reach of all but her personal guard, but visible to all, who murmured and talked amongst themselves on the sands beneath her. Striking rubies for eyes scanned the crowd approvingly as her jewellery glittered in the harsh sunlight. Had her very presence not touched them, intricately contorted gold rested carefully on her long, dusk-black hair would have. Emblazoned with beautiful white feathers and a luminous centrepiece that seemed to glow as the sun, there was no mistaking the Crown of Heavens. They stood before divinity given flesh, Kassopeia, the Pharaoh of Mir’et, the Goddess of Truth, Order and Justice.

“You are gathered here today to bear witness to the fate of those who would question your peace, your very way of life! They who would threaten the foundation of our fair world share the one fate – judgement under Mir’et under the sands in exile!” Her voice carried with a strength and power that reverberated across the gathered crowd and beyond easily from her perch. Murmurs of placid agreement and disdain for the criminals rippled through the gathering.

“As to that which will deliver them, behold! The backbone of our civilisation, that which binds all across the sands!” Kassopeia called out, raising a sceptre emblazoned with a golden snake to the sky before her. What had been all but a faint rumble grew in intensity as a gigantic creature slithered up from the sands, occupying the river-like valley that separated the people from the dock.

The crowd were as awed as ever, talking and pointing excitedly amongst themselves. The thing was truly huge, but simple in design, earning it one name amongst many as a sandworm. Thick scales, near as big as any of the people in the crowd lined its shell, its body extending far beyond the dock.

With it in place, sturdy planks lowered onto its pack, the crates grating over them and onto it. The beast did not seem to notice or care for the additional weight pressing into it, nor the chains hooping under its scales to hold them in place. To one of those crates, larger than the rest and comprised only of bars, were the prisoners guided across and into the holding cell.

“Though Behemoth, your tributes to Mir’et are carried on to Al’vara, that our dreams of progression in a new dawn may be realised!” The Pharaoh declared, her sceptre held high in a clenched fist as the people roused and cheered to her words. With the handful of prisoners secured, the metal cage slammed shut as the boards pulled away.

The brief event was as much to bolster the morale of the people and improve the Pharaoh’s presence as make an example of exiled prisoners. To invoke the Behemoth was no easy feat either, and so it was an event capitalized upon for effect. Itu’zah walked across the monolithic creature’s back, checking all the clasps and moving ahead to where the beast was controlled and driven from to push the monstrous train into motion.

Behemoth shook and slithered through the sands, effortlessly carrying its cargo out into the seemingly endless ocean of sand that made the Zo’qeth desert as the crowd watched in amazement. From her pavilion above the dock, the Pharaoh watched with her own sense of satisfaction as the gigantic worm beast shifted into the heat-haze of the distance. Lingering upon her stage acted as a show of presence, but was all Kassopeia could do to steady and steel herself. It was as well that none could see her close enough to know how tense her body was, and how much she rested upon the serpentine sceptre. Waiting until the clouds of sand had all but settled in Behemoth’s wake, the Pharaoh silently took her leave under shadow of the Itu’zah, leaving the crowds to calm and dissipate in high spirits, full of gossip and mirth amongst themselves.

Just as Kassopeia wished it.

Hours passed as the grand beast worked its way through the desert, so far as to see the sun dip from overhead into the afternoon skies. Nikolas squinted and raised his shackled hands to cover his eyes, wobbling uneasily as the cage he sat in shook and rattled above the sands. The sun glared across the horizon, causing the distant salt flats to shine with blazing heat.

It was an unusually hard glare as he had seen but once before, and cared not to see again. It had been in the dawn from whence they came that it had seared so harshly. The dawn that rained bolts of fire and judgement from the sky unto the city that raised arms, refusing to bow in fealty to some distant kingdom.

The cage rattled again, a monstrous growl coming from the beast under it. There was shouting from up ahead, but Nikolas paid it no mind. His time had come, sent out in exile to die by judgement of that supposed divinity, just as all who had stood for the belief in the simpler, honest life, unclaimed by Gods and Kings. The troubles of the sand-worm train did not concern him, and nothing within the desert would halt the gigantic beast whose back bore the prisoners cage between carriages of stock and tribute to the distant capital city of Al’vara, whence from the dawn rose, so it was said.

Beyond the bounds of the cage, the sands shifted and churned, pushed aside by the chitinous plates of the monolith that swam as if water. It had come with the Pharaoh and her army of conquest, and did more damage to morale with shock and awe than any siege damage to buildings, for all it was entirely capable. Those who took up arms had never stood a chance against it, like trying to fight the sun itself. The great ball in the sky did not care, and would rise over the walls regardless.

Nikolas spat through a gap in the hood. Conquest of the city had gone almost bloodless, if only for how the slain left no trace. It was not natural at all, and yet left an ill feeling within him. If a man should die on his feet in defence of his land, it should be in combat with those would stand against him, not against sorceries from afar. There was no honour, or even man to stand against. Only flame and destruction met those men, with the Pharaoh’s forces rounding up the survivors like cattle as they took the city with offers of sanctuary to all who pledged to serve.

Her rule was to be one of order and peace, and all who refused to vow their immortal heart in acceptance earned baptism in fire. Those whom had stood in defence, yet came to repent were branded as slaves in judgement, put to work in service of the Pharaoh’s rule. It was all a farce, a show of piety and compassion to the conquered people – whom did not feel at all conquered, but led to imagine themselves freed from squalor and uplifted by divine benevolence.

That piety and servitude had proven to be all but lies. After a time, those slaves disappeared from the city, from the fields, mines and any post. At first, none thought anything of it, for all kept their heads down, but before long, it became all too clear to those whom remained. Those marked were being systematically removed, replaced with criminals found and brought to justice after what had been called Dawn Conquest.

The monolithic sandworm shook again as it traversed the sands. Exiled, banished to the judgement of Mir’et under the guise of criminals brought to justice. Looking at the others who shared his fate, perhaps some were. Those who had stood against the Dawn were to be forgotten, swept away into the sands of time with no name, lest people remember a time when men fought for their lives. It was an honourable enough death for the defeated – quiet and without parade or shaming – but death nonetheless.

The great train stopped with a sudden lurch, the massive creature practically buried under the sands, leaving the cage level with the harsh world beyond its bars. The others around him – hooded and chained in kind – made no expression of interest for the sudden halt. They knew their fate, and solemnly awaited it with heads bowed.

“Out, move.” The voice to bark command was deep and strong, belonging to a hulking square of man robed in white to contrast and shroud the sheer black of his body. He would have died faster than any under the harsh sun without that cowl, yet was one closest to the Pharaoh, whom embodied Mir’et’s light.

“Single file, hold.” Rising as the rest did, Nikolas knew better than to fight it, now. The white-robed man saw to them one at a time, removing the hood and shackles before giving a small leather pouch. Inside was one day’s rations, so that they might disperse from the trade route, perhaps even chose where and how they die – another twisted sense of mercy. Some would not move from the spot, whilst others would push their bodies to exhaustion in a final show of resistance to the elements.

Finally, his turn came to be rid of the smothering bag of a hood that hid his face, exposing ragged black hair, deep blue eyes and an unkempt beard that traced along his sharp jawline. The harsh light and dry wind made him squint and wrinkle his nose, glad to be free of the damned thing, for what good it would do him.

The shackles off his wrists revealed a thick branding scar around his right wrist that trailed up into the palm to take the shape of a hieroglyphic symbol – one that marked him as it did the others, in what had been conquered servitude to the Pharaoh Kassopeia. One that needed to be forgotten. The allotted rations placed into his hands covered the mark as the Itu’zah to handle him intoned a final prayer.

“May judgement be merciful and path to the afterlife swift for your service, go in the light of Mir’et.” The stoic, towering man intoned, patting Nikolas’ shoulder and pushing him past. Were it not for the weight on his fate, he would have laughed as he staggered past, walking a few steps across the barren sand before turning to watch the rest filter out.

With most of it under the sand, the gigantic worm looked as if a strange road of scales rather than a monolithic beast, spanning a good distance in both directions. At the head, a much smaller boxcar sat for controlling the tamed monster.

Its head and tip lay under the sand, but he’d seen it before. A massive jaw of jagged teeth and bold, red eyes bigger than a man’s head along the side formed the ‘front’, and all but a tapered tail at the rear. Exactly how it sifted through the sands, swimming like a snake, he did not know, but that no longer mattered. Nothing truly mattered, now.

Back by the beast, one of the last of the prisoners out thought to fight his situation, shouting and struggling with the darker man a good few hands taller than him. A single strike saw him fall to the ground, forgotten and ignored immediately. If he were not already dead, he would not see the day through, now, if left unconscious on the sands. Perhaps that was mercy.

Moments later, the gigantic beast was moving once more, the train carts on its back shaking and wobbling as it took on motion, rising from under the sand and continuing east. Those dumped to the desert were abandoned, free to go their own ways. None were expected to survive the exile. Looking back at the man left on the ground, Nikolas sighed and walked over to nudge his shoulder.

“Hey, you alive?” Someone who fought against something like the Itu’zah deserved better, deserved some company in the end. Turned out he was still conscious, and not nearly as bad off as he looked, practically just lazing in the sand – a good way to burn. Groaning, he rolled over to push himself up onto his knees.

“Ugh, of course I’m not flaming alive, we’re in the uncharted bleeding waste under the dead sun!” Spitting blood, he grunted and wiped his mouth off on the sleeve of his greyed cloak before glancing to the man who’d approached him warily.

“What do you want, anyway?” He asked, his footing firm and prepared as he came to stand. Nikolas just shook his head and raised a hand to block out the sun, skimming the horizon.

“Want? Nothing we could gain here, friend. I’ve a feeling about heading for the mountains, wouldn’t turn down the company of a man who fought to the end.” He explained, outstretching the branded hand in a gesture of good will. Looking at it thoughtfully for a long moment, his newfound companion nodded, clapping it to his own scarred palm to it, gripping firmly.

“Suits me, if we’re to die anyway, at least someone to share these moments would do the soul well. Name’s Mihal.” He said, a spark of life and purpose back in his eyes that made the bearded man grin, nodding in return.

“Agreed, brothers in arms to the last.” He replied, the pair setting off on what seemed an infinite horizon towards the towering peaks beyond. The few others had all already gone their separate ways, no spirit left in them for camaraderie or company. Given that there was little purpose to it, neither of the men tried to call out or rally them. They knew their fate, and left the others the peace of theirs. Over the sandworm’s track, the dead men walking headed towards the distant mountains.

They would be lucky to see out the night.

“Aye, I was on shipping duty for that flaming worm, shifting stock to the carriages. Turned out Her Highness had workers that would do the job willingly without the brand. Few good men started disappeared after that. Rest of us got restless, given the rumours. Got into a fight and wound up learning the truth of them, but here we are!” Having had some hours to warm up to Nikolas’s company, Mihal was happy to explain the circumstance that had brought them together, throwing his hands out in exasperation.

‘Here’ was nowhere, for all geography mattered. Only the smooth, rolling hills and salted flats surrounded them. The darkening mountain range expanded across the horizon, yet hardly seemed to be drawing any closer. It did not matter – not even the buzzards followed them. The birds knew better, for the day was dimming, harkening a time of nightmares. Resigned to fate as they may be, none wished to confront creatures that stalked the desert night.

“Well, those who fought to the end will surely be judged in grace, no matter what… fallacy would see us bend in this life. Holding up alright?” Nikolas asked, drinking from his simple leather skin of water as he glanced to the man aside him. Mihal had slowed in the past hour, but only coughed a sharp laugh and waved the concern off.

“Weight of the flaming mountains. I’ll walk with no regret for what I’ve done, but truth of the Holy Mother, to think of those we leave behind.” He spoke, a low, ragged tone that held nothing of defeat in it, but bitter despair. More than the early-evening chill, Nikolas felt sobered and leaden from that presence.

“Family man?” He had to ask, to be the one person to know of the other’s final moments in this world, and share the weight of what he was leaving behind, for all it was worth. Mihal laughed again, shaking his head.

“No, not of my flesh and blood, pray thanks. The city – the people were my own. The men and women who stood aside us especially, they were family. This is family!” His voice grew in intensity until a near shout, raising his branded fist to the dulling skies. Nikolas could sympathise, but barely managed a smile. Mihal’s hand fell limp with a ragged sigh. None of that mattered now, only their death-march in tribute remained, but night was drawing near.

“Well what now? Should we try to find somewhere to hold down for the night? Not that there’s anywhere out… here…” Nikolas mused, his words trailing off as they came to the peak of another dune. Far below the slope down, trees and crumbled ruins littered the valley. With the sun dipping cautiously into the horizon behind them, the area was darker than what lay behind them. Blanketed in that shadow, the valley held an ethereal shimmer akin to fog, as though it weren’t truly there.

“What is this sorcery?” Mihal was already moving ahead, partly sliding down the hill towards the mist as Nikolas questioned its existence. It made little sense, for there was no sun in the sky to create a mirage through heatwaves, and they had not yet descended into madness and desperation of their own minds. Whatever the case, it would make a good place to rest, perhaps find shelter and lay down their last hours.

A good half of the way down the slope, Mihal lost his footing and rolled, but couldn’t find it in him to care. A moment’s sanctuary had to be a blessing of mercy from the Eternal Mother. He was laughing, too, for all it may have been in hysterics of a slipping mind. So long as they had peace and shelter, it no longer mattered.

“Blessing or curse, I no longer care, Nikolas. Doesn’t seem as though anyone was here recently, but we have stone, shelter and dry wood. There’s flaming trees, man! I say we take the night.” Mihal’s optimism and tone was uplifting, so much that Nikolas could almost forget there would be no morrow for hope to find. Setting a small fire in what seemed a secure enough sheltered overhang of what used to be a building, their presence would be hidden from nightmares while comforting them through the night.

Hours into dusk and deathly chill followed before the men agreed on taking turns to watch over the small encampment. Nikolas decided on taking the first shift as twilight set in over them, and for a time, it was thankfully peaceful. He had to admit – looking up through where the roof once was, at the cloudless sky – there was something mesmerising and humbling about the night. Staring into such an endless void, he could feel his soul, and be sure there would be a place for it to rest once all was said and done.

A thunderous clatter broke that peaceful muse, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as he jolted to his feet. The air smelled of sulphur before lightning even streaked across the valley. One of the leafless deadwood trees burst into flame, setting an eerie white light into the dark. Through the sudden illuminating, Nikolas caught a glimpse of what looked like the rear end of a horse, fleeting into the distance. A high-pitched screech chased after it, wings beating past the building the two men rested within.

“Mihal! Hey!” Nikolas hissed, trying not to draw attention whilst they held the element of surprise. The other man did not rouse when spoken to, nor in reaction to the curdling screech. Was he already dead from exhaustion? No, it couldn’t be, but before he could think of getting closer to check, that boom of lightning seared through the air once again. A scream followed it, a human scream, and a woman, to boot.

“What in the flaming hells is a woman doing out here? Bleeding Eternal’s name we’re all flaming dead anyway.” He growled, picking up the small satchel and rushing into the fray. Whilst not a deadly weapon, it would pack enough punch in a moment of surprise to knock the creature off centre. From there, he’d just have to think of something. A flaming branch from the crackling tree would be good.

Barely ten paces out and into the open did a flutter of wind and whistling streak past his head. Something had nearly struck him that wasn’t lightning, making him instinctively flinch down and look around. The sound of horse hooves was returning – but why hadn’t the beast fled the danger? The nightmare may have followed it, but to stay near the burning tree and circle around made no sense. Animals would always single-mindedly flee danger.

Then he saw.

A long ponytail of fine gold hair shone against the white fire as she came into view, a sturdy composite bow in hand, near-empty quiver across her back, its strap covering an ample chest with the aid of tattered leathers. Fiery emerald eyes glared into the darkness as she notched another arrow, her speed never slowing.

Therein lay the truth of it; the speed, and sound of hooves to come with it were hers alone. Below a toned and covered midriff, the woman’s body melded seamlessly into that of a horse – a centaur huntress. Just how and why she was here made no more sense than anything, but there was no time to be concerned with that, for she was shouting at him and raising her bow.

Not at him in threat, he realised, but her words were in warning. Turning around, he caught sight of the flying beast. Perfect, clashing with a nightmare would certainly be a way to go, and he had come to fight. Raising his pack-padded fist, he swung wide and took the full brunt of its impact into his chest, losing his balance as it crashed into him. The sound of an arrow whistled overhead once more as he collapsed, winded and coughing as the beast screeched and fluttered, a boom of lightning searing the ground nearby. This was no time to lay about.

Rolling over and pushing himself up, the sight of that centaur filled his world – floored, stunned and shaking in shock from the electrical onslaught. The beast circled overhead, peeling a raucous screech. It looked to be all but a black blur from where Nikolas lay, truly a thing of nightmares, but he had heard tale of it.

The Zubbaj, a carrion flier as sure as any buzzard, but far heavier, and only walked the night. Like much of the nightlife, the singe and sulphur of whatever hell it came from heralded its coming. Lashing bolts of blue-white lightning into the skies, the clawed mass of darkness the size of a winged hyena entered a death-plunge for the centaur, who still could not rise.

Given their ferocity and speed, death would have been certain, if not for a small sack colliding with the beast, throwing it off-course. Forced to adjust and flutter wildly to regain balance, it boomed around the burning tree, cycling to assess the situation. Mihal had finally woke, though it had been mere seconds since entering the fray, it felt like hours. Gauging the standing man as the bigger threat, the black-winged beast swivelled and bore down on him to meet a better aimed fist to its twisted, beaked head, clashing and sending him to the ground in a flare of lightning, claws and fists as they fought across the ground in a senseless mess.

Struggling to his feet, Nikolas looked back to the Centaur, barely conscious and still shaking, but staring back at him with a pleading hand outstretched. He knew what had to be done, and bolted forward to her.

“Pardons!” He shouted, shoving her down to get at the quiver on her back and pull the last couple of arrows from it as she blasted a muffled scream of indignation into the sand. There was no time for a better apology or manners. Rushing over to Mihal and the mauling nightmare beast, Nikolas dove in with the arrows clenched in his fist to use as daggers, stabbing at the hefty creature’s side.

Its wail was a thing of horror, talons and lightning flaying at random as it was pin-cushioned by the arrow points and beaten by the concussions of fists. In moments, it was over. The beast’s cries withered from enraged to strained and faint before it finally fell limp. Throwing it off his brother-in-arms, Nikolas panted for air raggedly as he looked down to the bloodied man, struggling to breathe as he grinned back.

“Hey, we’re not dead yet.” He rasped, rolling onto his side and coughing up blood as Nikolas swore to all Heavens, trying to steady the battered man out.

“Well don’t flaming start dying now you bastard, damned if I’m burying you. Come on, let’s get back to the fire and look at you.” Grabbing his friend’s arm and trying to roll him back over proved futile, but soon enough, the battered man was able to accept support and get up, almost crawling the distance back to warmth and sanctuary.

“The… agh, the centaur…” Mihal managed to choke out, laid down on the smooth sands next to the heat of the fire. He looked like death – gouges, scrapes and blood everywhere. There was no telling how much was his own and how much belonged to the bird, but given that he went in with fists alone, it wasn’t promising.

“What? Oh hells, right.” She was still there, not nearly as curled up and beaten by shock, but not much better off. The glow of the yet burning tree illuminated her like some fallen maiden, were she not an armed centaur in the middle of the barren waste, he might have taken her for a fairy princess. Nikolas staggered and stumbled more than once getting down the slope to her, cursing whatever rock and outcrop he was tripping over, but at least the flames were not directly over her.

“Hoi! You alright? Flaming darkspawn thing is dead, it’s alright now.” He called, waving to make his presence as known and unthreatening as possible. Turning to face him, the centaur still gasped and rolled up onto her knees. Nikolas staggered again, stopping and lowering his arms to appear less threatening, if such was her issue. The act seemed to be putting him off balance at any rate.

“It’s alright, I don’t mean to hurt you. Do you speak…?” He had to ask. Living out here, somehow hunting during the night surely made her as fearsome as any darkspawn nightmare, but there was just as much chance she was feral, wild and without language. Centaurs were nomadic from the start, so it would not have surprised him. She pointed to him, but not out of fear or accusation.

“You are wounded! Cease!” She shouted, and Nikolas finally stopped to look at himself. Somehow he hadn’t felt it, but the adrenaline rush was crashing down, now. The whole world was crashing, the boundless sky above him shrinking and slamming into his shoulders.

Pain overtook heat as blood touched to his fingers. Clashing with the bird had earned him several gashes across his chest and arms, and he had carried on unfeeling. Breathing was difficult, now. The cold sands cushioned his fall as the world went black, serenaded into the dark by the centaur’s cries. Well, at least he wouldn’t be burying Mihal.

The huntress would have to pass on the message, he’d be going on ahead.

Chapter 2 - A Not So Divine Comedy: http://pastebin.com/W1H2BFXL