Before Reckoning - The Blood Rebellion

MERCY: Before Reckoning

Tales Anthology

The Blood Rebellion

By Chance Dillon

Chapter 1

Year 3151; EoA (~1; Before Reckoning)

Sen Tok; Fortress on the Witesands

“To be an Artisan’s Trusted, one must face the hardships presented and rise to overcome them through each instance. Only then can you earn that lofty place. Only then, can you ascend.”

- The Book of Nine Runes - Revised 1;AR (After Reckoning)

The grains blew in the swift breeze, the flames upon the Witesands dimming as the day waned.

Tilnus stared out over the battlements; the parapet almost too large to peer over. His hair grazed over his eyes. He felt what little hope remained that his father would come over the hill and through the grainfields. Mother said he was likely gone. She had cried and cried and Tilnus’ sister had looked to him for comfort. He lived inside that tinge of guilt—the feeling that after fourteen summers, he should have been the one out there instead of his father.

But he really was just a boy.

He saw the camps of that unforeseen enemy laid out over the plains between the shores and the walls of Sen Tok. The sun beat down as it set over the horizon on the Splitting Sea. Tilnus leapt upon the parapet, leaning against the height of the stone behind him, his back dragging against its coarse surface as he sat.

He felt a tear fall from his eyes, thinking of who he should have been—the protector he was called to be. But his mentor was gone. Dead. He knew his father burned in those fires on the beaches or had been struck down by some ritualistic believer in those of the Outer Wills. That of the Will of Blood. One that had fascinated Tilnus until they had decided upon launching their rebellion.

Their reason, his father said, was to bring to heel those who used them when they needed them most. Used the Blood Knights when it served the Republic of Artisans. Used them to slay the monsters wrought upon Maetlynd.

Right up until most of those monsters had been eradicated. The Blöunine had been heroes in their own right then.

That was what Tilnus needed—but would never be. Not even to his own family.

Tilnus needed a hero.

He shifted on the stone as the enemy continued to encamp within sight.

Hours must have gone by in his pondering, for countless troops had walked by and let him be. Guards who felt—perhaps—that same, lingering guilt. Guilt for not being on the beach to defend the enemy’s initial onslaught earlier that day. But instead, being cooped up within the fortress. The night sky above glowed with the firelight of the enemy camps, the moon hanging high over the ocean.

At least the guards got to be with their families. Tilnus couldn’t bear to look his mother and sister in the eyes—not with what he felt he needed to do. He had wasted a whole day sitting on the parapet, unmoving and somber.

He watched as paces below, grain billowed in that cooling breeze; the sun now fully set. He swore he saw movement in those fields. But the siege had only just begun. Tilnus didn’t know much of battle or war, but his father had always said an all out assault on Sen Tok would be foolish for any enemy.

No, Tilnus thought. For whatever reason, the Blöunine wanted to make the people in Sen Tok wait. A former military bastion in the Old War, Sen Tok had mostly grown to be filled with families since then. The Amrinil had used it as a trading post while the defenses had always been reinforced or kept.

Now it seemed not to matter, for no anti-siege weapons lay within the walls. Tilnus knew that much.

Tilnus continued to watch as guards walked by, seemingly not noticing, until one stopped and did a double take.

“Hey! You shouldn’t be—” the guard began.

But Tilnus turned his head, only to feel a thumping in the back of it. A piercing, shooting pain rode down his spine as his world turned black.

~

The boy fell off the parapet; the body limp at Alistair’s feet.

The arrowhead cracked against the stone as it had pierced through the youngling’s skull.

“Cover!” Alistair shouted, taking an arrow from the quiver at his hip, notching it, and aiming at the enemy. They must have crept up through the grain brush.

He fired down, hearing a grunt. Was it an assault on the fortress while they still established their position on the beach? Or, was the enemy testing the Sen Tok defenses? Alistair ducked back behind the battlement, loading another arrow.

Omens, Alistair thought. The commander had suggested a sortie to strike out on the invading force before they were able to settle. But it seemed the Amrinil were too long on making that call.

The enemy had come to the walls.

A few more arrows sang over Alistair’s head, the western courtyard behind him wrangling with chaos. Citizens of Sen Tok ran; women with baskets, children falling behind in their mother’s haste. Amrinil archers began to reinforce, coming together in ranks to fire at the enemy across the fields.

Alistair looked back over the battlements, his arrow ready. But no enemy remained. “Hold!” he shouted back to the ranks below and behind him. He had just authority, having eyes on where the enemy was supposed to be, and the Amrinil taught a dichotomy amongst their foot soldiers; spreading down from the leading Kaledar, to the bottom ranks of the battalion. He saw the enemy now, scrambling through the field of grains. He pulled the fletching to his cheek; the weight of the bow string tight on his shoulder and back. He loosed the arrow, but it sailed into the brush just as the small squad shifted out of range.

“Fuck,” Alistair grunted.

He looked down to the boy's body at his feet, the pool of blood at his heels growing by the moment. He stepped back, the squelching of the leather against the bloody stone a sound he would never forget.

He had told the boy to get down. But it had already been too late. The siege on Sen Tok had begun, and the Blöunine weren’t going to play fair.

Chapter 2

The Blood Knights had betrayed sanctity.

They set the assault on the Witesands before the Amrinil could levy them away—before the Republic could respond.

Three weeks it had been, and for three weeks the citizens of Sen Tok were without their usual shipments. Seeing grain from their walls between the shoreline on the plains must have crushed their souls. So close, yet so far.

But Alevist answered the call. Him and the Ghosts of the Nine had answered.

It had been a total betrayal by one of the other Orders of the Nine. It was the Blöunine who were said to be their enemy. Their first assault on the northern shores of Taldreas. But not their first entirely.

The Blöunine were a virus the Republic had let live too long in its host. A virus which Alevist sat on the outskirts of Sen Tok to face, ready to begin its eradication. Those who believed in the Outer Wills had always been treacherous.

The scouts of Oberran, Rangers of the Seventh, gave word that only Kaledar—Runeborn Generals—loyal to the Knights of Blood remained in the encampment along the beach head, though the entire fortress was surrounded. By the number, Alevist suspected five or six Kaledar, each leading anywhere between five hundred to a thousand troops.

How a Will so sickening—so despicable—could lead to such a following was unfathomable. Followers of all kinds. Stained, Haltrishari, even some Aranari—Alevist’s own kin of the gold on gold eyes—were amongst them.

Alevist looked to his left as the Ghosts huddled in the brush, the night sky above singing with echoes of the laughter from within the encampment. He turned his gaze to Gormeron, the Daerikal’s maul resting on his shoulder.

Gormeron had expressed his anger at having to spill blood of his own kin, but his Will belonged to something greater than just mere blood. Something that couldn’t be articulated. Something pure.

The rest of the Ghosts stared down into the encampment, patiently awaiting Alevist’s orders.

Alevist was lucky to have the trust of his own Artisan, for a demigod's faith wasn’t an easy thing to come by. Aranor let him get together his band of Knights of the different Orders to strike fast and hard against the unsuspecting siege.

And the Ghosts were all he needed.

“It’s fucking cold,” Artorious said.

Alevist smiled as he turned to his closest friend among them. The soot from their shared fire strewn about Artorious’ face, covering his fair skin.

“Soot smells disgusting,” Drask said, the priss she was. The only Knight amongst them who preferred the Will altogether through a staff, able to harness her vambrace of Runestones better than any of the other Runine as well.

It was rare for a Uldonai woman who bore a Runemark to become anything but a Weaver, but Drask had proven them all wrong. Her already grey skin appeared almost purple in the moonlight, the soot wiping off her face with each bead of sweat dripping from her tied back white hair.

Gormeron kept quiet, his red on red eyes beaming through the darkness of the coal. "Shut up," he growled.

Artorious shifted uncomfortably. "Something doesn’t feel right," he said, eyebrows rising and falling over to Drask.

Alevist looked through the copse and over the hill down to the encampment. "Well—you did lead us here,” he said, then turning to Artorious, "clearly you had some idea of what we’re up against.”

Gormeron looked to his dial timekeeper before tucking it away. He pointed at the rest of the treeline behind them. "Just a few more clicks. When the moon stretches its shadow among those trees, we will press into the camp."

The siege had started a few weeks prior and the citadel east of the Witesands was ill prepared for the surrounding forces. Behind the four Ghosts, a forest and swamp lay quiet in the harsh dusk. Dead-space over the hill now separated them from their target. They just had to wait for the companion force to be in position before they could enter without much resistance. It would let them get straight to the commanders. Straight to the Kaledar.

The moon's shadow began to stretch among the trees before them. "Time to move," Alevist said, the first to break the brush and storm down the hill, covered by the shadows of the brooding trees under the moon.

Artorious followed, his two Gunhild drawn from each holster; one under his right arm and the other sitting over the left side of his stomach. He pulled back the iron hammer on each, rotating the three-pronged chamber barrels which housed the steel projectiles, harnessed in a tin casing filled with the Runic powder. He had two Runestones; one on each ivory encrusted grip with the silver and gold symbol of a single stone set aflame. Gormeron bore his maul and Drask gripped her staff; each also having their own softstone entwined vambraces.

As the group inched closer to the enemy; the sound of fires, clinging tin dishes, and the voices of soldiers provided more cover to their movement. Alevist heard the raucous laughter of those settled within the camp.

He signaled as the group drew closer, the dead space between them and the enemy now almost gone. His hand turned to a closed fist raised slightly above his shoulder. Then, the bells of the camp chimed loudly. The rangers with their six Elunine began their assault at the front end of the encampment. Arrows wisped precisely through the southern and northern treeline as they had planned, striking down the reprieved soldiers within. The enemies harbored for cover, orders shouted vaguely through the chaos and darkness.

A few more fire lit arrows bore into the camp setting tents and men ablaze. Alevist took his closed fist and punched forward, beginning his sprint toward the opening on the eastern side. The clustered screams of the enemy almost disorienting him.

Alevist saw one of his kin, the Aranari, charging forward. They collapsed before Alevist, sword clenched in their hands, three arrows puncturing the top of their shoulders and head. The golden eyes hung open in the dirt, staring blankly at him.

Alevist turned to his right, seeing the Ghost’s primary target: the largest tent in the siege camp. The lead Kaledar would be there, keeping his forces more inland while his lesser force sat by the water with ships to cover a retreat. Pride would be their downfall, Alevist knew. They found themselves untouchable, and so, they put themselves in a vulnerable position, one of which they would pay dearly for.

One enemy soldier stormed out of a nearby tent, his helmet half on and ax drawn. He swung down at Alevist, but Alevist intercepted, catching the base of the weapon and driving his own blade through the chest of the attacker. The Runestone inside the hilt glowing a radiant light as the dark gold and white beam of the Dawn Tree hummed up the engravings at the center of the pointed blade toward the glass vial of liquid stone at the center. Alevist felt the power coursing through him as it burned the flesh inside the mortal wound. The man fell to the ground, his blood dripping off Alevist’s then unlit blade. Blood and char dripped down the dragon claws atop the hilt onto his knuckles.

The sound of Artorious shooting his Gunhild boomed, a missile firing past Alevist’s head as another man encroached. In an instant, the steel pierced the enemy between the eyes, leaving a trace of Primordial Flame in the wound as the body fell limp, dropping like a dense sack of flour.

Gormeron tackled the next foe that took them by surprise, thrusting the handle of his maul down onto the man's neck and pressing until the crack verberated into the mud below. Fifteen paces back, a wave of Dusk cooled through the air, breaching Drask’s staff as her Runestone hummed at the tip of it. The cold pummeled into another Hardranian who had been about to swing down on Gormeron, having stopped the man in his stride.

That enemy careened backward into a nestled tent. The brooding Daerikal Knight, Gormeron, walked through the opening created by the flying body, then a sharp gust of wind picked up as his maul raised in the air, bringing it down fast and heavy upon the head of the enemy to ensure he would not wake again. The crunching of bone turned into the sound of sloshing wet earth.

Movement a few paces away; a clump of soldiers wearing violet and burnt green armor poured from the largest tent on the compound.

That’s a Knight of the Nine’s personal guard, Alevist thought. He looked back to his group and shifted his head in the direction of the tent as the soldiers poured out.

Only four remained after the rest ran off toward the sound of other gunhild shots and the wisping of arrows. To Alevist’s left, he heard the rounds from Artorious clack off and drop two enemies at the same time. Another puff of smoke came from the open wounds that dropped the bodies limp as the rest of the soldiers closed the distance.

Alevist slashed sideways, his blade still glowing with the gold of the Dawn Tree. It cut clean through the first enemy while another stormed a reloading Artorious. As he took out the three pronged loader and swung his gunhild open, Gormeron stepped in to defend. The maul swung down once more, silencing the attacker.

Artorious clicked another pre-prepared three barrels into the hilt of his gunhild as he gave a smile to Gormeron, nodding.

After a moment of reprieve, the group standing over the fallen enemies, the opening to the tent was wide. "This way," Alevist said, beckoning the Ghosts.

They quietly made their way through the front flaps and Alevist heard the frenzied ruffling of papers. He stopped in his tracks, and in doing so, the group followed. This tent had different rooms and hallways it seemed—they had entered a more complex structure than anticipated.

Alevist peeked into the main hall where Leek, one of the Blöunine, stood holding a Runestone in hand. Clearly the information the Rangers of the Seventh gave was lacking in some detail.

“Rather crafty tent structure,” Alevist said, stepping through the flap of the quarters. He took a moment to look around, eyeing the opening overhead that let starlight through. He noticed Leek holding his Runestone against a piece of parchment as it scribed a message from an unknown messenger.

“Bet your men wish they shared the same luxury,” Alevist continued. He held a hand outside the flap, signaling for the rest of the group to wait a moment.

As he stepped in, a force of the enemies came through the opening flap of the main hall. Alevist turned inside just in time to keep Leek cornered. His Ghosts would deal with the rest of the personal guard.

"I see we’ve crashed another party, Leek. Haven’t you learned how to properly siege yet?”

Leek threw his offhand up at Alevist and kept his widened eyes locked on the sheet of parchment. The tent gleamed with fine silverware and gold. Draperies bearing the blood emblem—a drop of a deep crimson red, the horns and claws of slain monsters riddled within—hung from blackened and silver embroidered flags. Alevist was in genuine awe of how well Leek was living.

"You don’t seem to understand,” Leek said, now turning his gaze to Alevist. The Uldonai commander moved toward him, hands raised placatingly, but the Aranari raised his blade pointedly to the man's chest. In a clenched fist, Leek held the parchment. There was a sense of fear in that Blood Knight’s violet eyes. His white hair was scuffled on top of his head, a tangle of curls just hastily ran through. The scribe must have finished, and Leek appeared shaken by the content of the message. His hand instinctively reached for the dagger at his belt.

The Knight stepped back, his arms held out wide. “Do you know of the foretelling of the Empyrean? Messages written in sacred texts, only two of this world?”

Alevist, unflinching and unmoved, said, "I don’t know what you mean." He then sat down, perching his feet upon one of the tables and leaned his sword up against it as Leek continued to retreat to the opposite end. The runic steel clanked against the dense wood and cloth covering. Alevist grabbed at an apple, taking a bite.

Leek rolled his shoulders back and scoffed. “Unbelievable.” He furled his brow and clenched his fists, slamming them on the table. He then looked down to the parchment. “For when the day comes that the storms broach the dirt, the Empyrean shall wash it away once more. They shall not pity the beings they created. If war is so ingrained in the way of life, then it is war that shall be the death of them all.”

Alevist stopped chewing. The flavor lingered in his mouth before he swallowed. “You pretend to have access to a text no living person has ever held.” His head tilted. “But you’re telling me whoever just messaged you has it in their hands?”

Leek turned his violet eyes from Alevist, who then noticed the rack of weapons he moved toward. The Uldonai put his arms behind his back as the Aranari took another bite of his apple. “Why don’t you ask your Artisan? You’re his Trusted, yes? I am certain he knows now what I have just learned,” Leek said. “There is more to the Outer Wills than Chaos and Blood.”

“A rather convenient plea in your last moments, Leek,” Alevist sighed. “I can’t let you leave here alive if you draw that weapon on me.” Outside, the sounds of the Amrinil making their final sweep of the camp rang out. Alevist could hear the Ghosts still engaged with Leek’s personal guards.

Leek let out a laugh as he reached for the two pommels of his longblades. He peered longingly in the opposite corner, where his buckler sat up against the foot of his bed. He shook his head as he let out another huff. “It won’t matter. Just read the letter when this is over.” Leek’s sleeve rolled down, drifting his tunic off his shoulder. Two Runestones were set within it over his own Runemark; the blood symbol etched in silver.

Blasphemy, Alevist thought. It was disgusting how the Blöunine embedded their bodies with the stone. How much more could they ask of the All Will and its children? To embed oneself with stone was the ultimate sin of pride. It was no wonder the Outer Wills held influence over them. Alevist grew pity for the Blöunine and their curse.

The Aranari swallowed one last bite of the apple, throwing the pit behind him as he turned toward the sounds of battle further in the tent. He gave a confident nod. A part of him hoped he could take Leek alive, but it seemed the Blöunine wasn’t going to give him much of a choice.

Leek turned slowly, grazing his longblade along the sharp edges of his other as they radiated with the black and red hue of the Blood Form, the runic steel entrenched in a clean, steady beam of darkness. “If death is to come to us, I would rather go on my own terms.”

The Daemonine nodded to the other warrior of the Nine. If Leek had been granted another Form of Will, perhaps they would have been brothers.

Alevist stood tall, loosening his shoulders. He gripped Malstran’s two handed haft, clenching his jaw as his spine warmed and chilled in the same moment. The blade lit up the fierce white and hummed its steady beam of orangish gold; it was burning as if freshly drawn from the Cleavers’ blast furnace.

Leek stormed forward, covering the space between the two Runeborn. Alevist parried the first strike into the ground, the clashing vibrant beams let off a sound mixed with steel and the hushing gust of wind. He then punched Leek as he was thrown off balance. A tooth came flying out, blood then dripping from the Daemonine’s knuckles.

Leek stepped back, clenching with his still glowing longblade. He struck back with his own brute force. Being larger than Alevist, he was able to swing on him effortlessly, sending the Aranari onto a back foot as their blades clashed. The flash of light still burned between them. Both of Leek’s blades were affront now, trying to overpower Alevist’s two handed grip.

Alevist used the claws at the base of his hilt to reach up and pull Leek’s longblade down, forcing the warrior to slide off. The clinch separated in a burst of sparks as both men caught themselves from falling. Alevist cooled his Dawn so the runic steel would catch in the dirt, and Leek did the same, switching to an underhanded grip with both weapons.

The two Knights of the Nine turned as their weapons continued to weep, sliding off one another in a clash. The table in the middle flipped over, chairs flung about, bookcases and papers burned to crisp in the air as each cut toward each other. It seemed the Blöunine engaged another Runeform, waves of purple tendrils reaching out and forcing about the contents of the room. Chaos—the Void.

Alevist was happy to be trusted by his men, but he knew soon they might have to step in. Hopefully they would know that, too. All around him, debris flew as he ducked and batted it away, staying locked in the fight with the Blöunine.

One clean swing from Leek’s offhand threw Alevist off balance enough for the man to bring his other longblade in for a horizontal strike, burning through Alevist’s loose overtunic. For a moment, Alevist regretted his decision to go along with Drask’s plan to come wearing no armor, though that was how the Ghosts operated.

Blood burned through the chaos where Leek’s blade had swung, and Alevist quickly recovered, delivering a vertical slash down onto Leek, forcing the warrior to use both blades to parry. It worked to drag Malstran into the dirt, but Alevist’s quickness allowed him to riposte the opposite way, slicing up into Leek’s thigh, dragging him to one knee.

The Blöunine stood tall after, wincing as he parried another swing from Alevist. Leek tried using his Will to force crimson bloodflame from the tip of his blade as the two Knights clashed at Alevist’s waist level, but something within him appeared weakened.

The Daemonine used the Omen Form, feeling the pain surge through him as he gripped Leek’s shoulder where the Runestones embedded. The man’s blades went out, but then he swept away, his face wincing in pain from the power of that Omen. That Will was indomitable and destructive; abrasive and cunning. That Form which pulls the power of Will from its user, for a time.

Alevist pressed, but Leek was faster, even weakened by the slash to his legs. He moved around the tent long enough to gain back his use of Will, the blades relighting the hum of Blood magicks.

Once more as Leek regained his footing, he pushed on the offensive, taking a well timed swipe with his longblade followed by a sweeping strike from his offhand after a fast spin. Seeing a man of such size so elusive threw Alevist off balance, forcing him to one knee as he held his greatblade up to parry two consecutive, weaker strikes.

Now Leek had the upper hand, throwing his blades down as Alevist tried to push off the ground to regain balance. Kneeling and off kilter in the dirt, Alevist was saved by a shot that grazed from the flap of the tent, preventing a final blow that would have knocked Malstran from his grip.

All around, the madness that had ensued abruptly halted, as the chairs and books that floated wildly about the space fell to the ground, Leek’s weapons unlighting.

Artorious’ gunhild fired two consecutive shots, taking Leek’s longblade from his right hand as blood splattered from the raised wrist. Leek sifted down, looking at the burned hole made through his palm. The Runestones about the man’s shoulder began to light and the wound began to close. One hammer strike from Gormeron to the chest and Leek fell back. Alevist crawled fast enough to reach down and blaze Omen through Leek’s shoulder, stopping him from healing.

The group was on the Blöunine quickly, while Alevist sat back and took a breath. Gormeron shifted his maul to lay the weight of it down on top of the wounded Leek. The Blood Knight sat still now, grasping at his hand as the four warriors walked into the quarters.

Alevist looked back to Artorious, the three chambers of his gunhildr loosed, releasing the tri-cartridge. “I had that under control,” Alevist said.

Artorious shrugged his shoulders, smiling toward his friend. “I believe that you thought that.”

Gormeron slammed down his maul once more, immobilizing the struggling Leek. He huffed a wild gasp of air as his hand still bled onto the floor. He groaned as he let out a cough, spitting blood from his throat as the massive hammer sat hefted on his chest.

Alevist flared his nostrils, angry he couldn’t give the man the honorable fight he had sought. His eyes swiveled to Gormeron. “I had it,” he said, clenching his teeth as he now stood, leaning on the hilt of his blade, driving it through the rug and forcing himself to rise.

Leek began to open his mouth, laboring for breath. “There is something coming… something you or I cannot stop.” Blood began to seep from the side of his lip. “Mercy be upon us.” He struggled as his chest heaved with apparent pain from the weight of Gormeron’s maul, his eyes gazing up through the flap to the starlight above.

The Daemonine couldn’t help but feel disappointed. A part of him knew he had been struggling in the fight, though it hadn’t quite registered with him until then, his opponent lying before him, hard of breath.

Leek reached to his lip with his free hand. He looked down at the blood coming there. The old Blöunine laid his head back, almost relieved that death waited for him. Alevist felt the weight of the man’s dark smile as they locked eyes. "I’m only happy I can take this mercy upon myself —"

While Leek was speaking, he had slowly dropped his other hand to his waist, grabbing for the dagger on his belt. Before the four men could react, he had placed it through the side of his own throat, blood now pouring from his neck and mouth. Leek slowly began to stop breathing as the crimson pool beneath him expanded onto the fine rug.

Each of the three men before Alevist had fright in their eyes.

Alevist could have reached down, he perhaps had had a heartbeat or two to heal the man. But he chose not to—something in him felt reluctant to do so. Gormeron slowly released his maul from the dying man’s chest and as the weight lifted, more blood curdled from his throat. The choking Blöunine lay before them now, dead.

“Fuck,” Artorious said, “I knew the Blöunine were twisted. But what could drive a man of the Nine to that?”

“What was he talking about?” Drask asked, her eyes shifting to Alevist who finally felt his breath start to level.

Alevist shook his head. “I’m not sure. I think we go and ask Aranor.”

The crew sat back as screams continued to blare from outside Leek’s quarters. Followers of the Will of Blood were burning and dying in the comfort of what they thought was an impenetrable position. Alevist found solace in the moment, knowing that the people of the citadel would no longer suffer from the siege.

Now it was his job to take the fight through the rest of Taldreas, and if he had to, all the way to the other continent of Anvia to aid the Knights of the Nine there. Let the Blöunine and their cultist army fall to the blades of the Nine, who had granted them refuge by the same for so long.

Betrayal, Alevist spat, the carpet beneath him still shifting with the shuffling feet of his Ghosts.

Alevist narrowed his eyes as he saw a piece of parchment lying on the ground. He deduced it was from the most recent scribe. It sat idly, half-burnt before him. He reached down to pick it up, and the only words he could make out upon it were crimson rains and Mersianei.

Mersianei? He hadn’t heard the place referred to since he was a boy. How often his father would tell him the stories of the mythos of the unexplored lands to the north. The magicks that protected those lands from ever being explored. “The Lands of the Gods.” he would call it. “Where the Artisans were forced to leave, because of all their capabilities.”

The name at the bottom of the parchment was that of Dalimus, the Uldonai Artisan himself. And the book quoted was the Book of Eden. The two books had been lost to Maetlynd since the turn of the first Epoch. How could that man have found something over twenty thousand years old? And what was to come from Mercy?