The Shattered Crowns

The warriors of Estil pushed farther east, their thundering hooves a song of war against the cracked, desolate land. The sun burned harshly overhead, its relentless rays bouncing off the bone-pale earth. Dust and grit rose with every stride, the wind carrying the sound of leather straps creaking, horses snorting, and weapons clinking like a sinister orchestra of destruction.

Daenys clung to her stubborn mount, Gallus, her jaw set tight as the mare jolted her with every uneven step. Sweat beaded on her forehead and trickled down her neck as she gritted out yet another curse. The blasted animal seemed intent on testing her patience, hitting every rut and rock as if deliberately throwing her off balance.

To her left, Nirme rode with the calm poise of a man who had spent his life in the saddle. His massive black warhorse strode effortlessly through the uneven terrain, its glossy coat rippling with muscle. The beast dwarfed Gallus, a towering figure of power and grace, much like its rider. Nirme's white hair, braided and adorned with copper beads, shimmered in the sunlight, and his piercing dark eyes seemed to scan the horizon for unseen threats.

He turned those sharp eyes on Daenys, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Gallus isn't a beast to be tamed by curses alone," he said, his voice a low rumble that carried easily over the noise of the warband. "You're fighting her, not guiding her."

Daenys shot him a glare. "This beast delights in tormenting me," she muttered, giving the reins another sharp tug. Gallus snorted, unimpressed, and continued plodding along at her own leisurely pace.

A ripple of laughter rose from behind them. One of the Deathless, a tall man clad in bone-plated armor with streaks of dried blood on his helm, grinned and called out, "She rides like a Deadite on their first hunt! No hope for her."

The teasing drew more laughter from the warband. The warriors of Estil thrived on sharp wit and sharper blades, their camaraderie forged in the fires of endless battle. Daenys scowled but held her tongue. These men weren't mocking her out of malice; to them, banter was as much a part of the battlefield as the clash of steel.

Nirme chuckled under his breath, though his gaze remained on the horizon. "Enough," he said lightly, but there was an edge to his voice that silenced the warriors instantly. He glanced at Daenys, his expression softening slightly. "We'll be reaching Kadikar soon," he said. "You'll have bigger concerns than an uncooperative horse once we're among the Deadites."

"Kadikar?" Daenys echoed, frowning. "Who is that?"

Nirme's expression darkened, his grip on the reins tightening. "The Gahkar of the Deadites," he said. "The third oldest of the Gahkar and one of Drema's most devout followers. His warband is... unique."

Daenys raised an eyebrow. "Unique how?"

"They're fanatics," Nirme said bluntly. "They follow Drema, the god of blood and battle, and believe every scar, every broken bone, every drop of blood spilled is a sacred offering. Their entire existence revolves around war—it's their faith, their purpose."

Daenys frowned, her unease growing with every word. "And you're bringing me to them because...?"

"Because we need them," Nirme said simply. "The Deadites are brutal, unrelenting, and utterly fearless. If we're to take the Pickette, we'll need their strength."

The mention of the Pickette piqued her curiosity, but Nirme offered no further explanation. The hours stretched on as the warband pressed eastward, the landscape growing harsher with every mile. Finally, as they crested a ridge, Daenys caught her first glimpse of the Deadites—and the sight made her breath hitch.

The Deadites were a tide of bone and chitin, their ranks stretching across the horizon. Unlike the mounted Deathless, they marched on foot, their movements unnervingly synchronized. Their armor was a patchwork of jagged bone and insect-like chitin, cracked and scarred from countless battles. Each piece was unique, yet together they formed a grotesque and cohesive whole. Their helmets were monstrous, shaped like the skulls of beasts or the heads of insects, some adorned with horns, others with sharp, mandible-like protrusions.

Clusters of warriors were engaged in combat, their bone knives flashing in the sunlight. The air rang with the sound of blades clashing against armor and the low growls of men fighting with primal intensity. Blood splattered the ground as blades found their marks, but the combatants fought on, their wounds seemingly fueling their ferocity.

Daenys's gaze was drawn to a duel near the center of the camp. Two Deadites circled each other, their knives striking with brutal precision. Then, with a sudden lunge, one drove his blade into his opponent's shoulder plate. The bone cracked with a sickening sound, spiderwebbing outward as blood seeped through the fracture.

The victorious warrior stepped back, his chest heaving as he dropped his knife to the dirt. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for his opponent's knife and carved a mark into his own shoulder plate. The crowd erupted into cheers, chanting his name as a group of women approached with a small chalice. One of them dipped her fingers into the blood and painted over the new mark, darkening it with a mixture of ash and resin.

Daenys watched the ritual with a mixture of fascination and unease. "That was a blood duel, wasn't it?" she asked.

Nirme nodded, his expression unreadable. "It was. To the Deadites, these duels are a form of devotion. The cracks in their armor are reminders of their failures. When the armor finally breaks, they believe they've shed their old selves and become something stronger."

"And if they die before that happens?" Daenys asked.

"Then they were unworthy," Nirme said simply.

As they rode deeper into the camp, the Deadites turned their attention to the newcomers. Their gazes lingered on Daenys, their stares sharp and assessing. She straightened in her saddle, refusing to show any sign of weakness. To these warriors, weakness was an invitation to be torn apart.

At the heart of the camp, Kadikar waited.

At the heart of the Deadites' camp stood Kadikar, the Gahkar of the Deadites. He was a towering figure, even seated atop his mount—a beast so grotesque that it made Daenys's stomach churn. The creature was vaguely horse-like in structure, but its pale, translucent flesh stretched taut over rippling muscle, revealing the black veins and sinew beneath. Its skull-like head was crowned with jagged, spiraling horns, and its eyes were deep pits of shadow. Wisps of ghostly white hair made up its mane, fluttering unnaturally as if caught in a breeze that didn't exist. The creature snorted, exhaling clouds of mist despite the oppressive desert heat.

Kadikar himself was as monstrous as his steed. His armor was a masterpiece of bone and chitin, fused together in an intricate pattern that seemed to shift with the light. Six narrow slits in his helmet gleamed like hungry eyes, and golden marks adorned his shoulder plates—four in total, each one signifying victories in blood duels. An orange cape, frayed at the edges, billowed behind him, and he gripped an immense battle-ax with a blade so large it could cleave a man in two with a single swing.

As they approached, Kadikar's steed pawed the ground, emitting a low, guttural growl that sent shivers down Daenys's spine. Kadikar turned his helmeted gaze toward them, the slits narrowing as he studied Nirme and his Deathless entourage. Then, his focus shifted to Daenys, and she felt the weight of his scrutiny like a physical force.

"Nirme," Kadikar rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly, carrying the weight of authority. "You bring strange company to my warband."

"She is a griffin," Nirme said, his tone calm but firm. "And under my protection."

Kadikar tilted his head, as though considering this. "A griffin?" he echoed, his voice tinged with amusement. "She does not look like a warrior. Her hands lack the scars of battle, her shoulders do not carry the weight of a shield. What use is she to you, Old Wolf?"

Daenys bristled at the comment, but she held her tongue. This was not the place to challenge a man like Kadikar.

"She is different," Nirme said simply. "A promise, not a burden."

Kadikar barked a laugh, the sound sharp and mirthless. "A promise? You've grown soft, Nirme. The Old Wolf who once stood on the shores of Astad, grinning with blood on his fangs, now wastes his time on fledglings."

Nirme's expression didn't waver, but there was a subtle tension in his posture. "And yet you accepted Astadians into your warband," he countered. "I hear some of your Deadites have yet to earn their first mark."

Kadikar's laughter died abruptly. He leaned forward in his saddle, the horns of his monstrous mount casting jagged shadows across his face. "They have potential," he said. "Raw, untapped potential. The kind that can be shaped into weapons. What potential does she have, Nirme? Does this griffin have the strength to wield the spear of Estil? The courage to face Drema's Rage?"

The question was directed at Daenys this time, and the weight of his gaze pressed down on her like a hammer. She met his eyes—or rather, the glowing slits of his helmet—and straightened her back. "I may not have the scars of a warrior," she said, her voice steady, "but I have the will to fight."

Kadikar regarded her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "We shall see," he said. "Perhaps you will surprise me, griffin. But do not expect mercy from the Deadites. Mercy has no place among us."

He turned his attention back to Nirme. "What brings you to my warband, Old Wolf? Surely, you didn't ride all this way just to parade your new pet."

Nirme's lips twitched, but whether it was a smile or a grimace, Daenys couldn't tell. "We need to talk about the Pickette," he said. "Your men have strayed too far east. If we're to take the bridge, we need all warbands aligned."

"The Pickette," Kadikar muttered, as if tasting the word. He leaned back in his saddle, his massive ax resting against his leg. "The Pickette will not hold. Its defenders are cowards, hiding behind their walls of resin and steel. My Deadites could take it alone."

"And lose half your men in the process," Nirme said sharply. "We need a coordinated assault. I can't have your warband going rogue."

Kadikar chuckled darkly. "Rogue? You insult me, Nirme. My Deadites answer to Drema, not to you. But..." He paused, tapping a clawed finger against the hilt of his ax. "I will consider your plan. On one condition."

Nirme's eyes narrowed. "Name it."

"A Blood Tourney," Kadikar said, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Let my Deadites prove their worth in battle. Let them show you that we are more than rabid dogs. If we succeed, I will pledge my warband to your cause."

Nirme hesitated, his gaze flicking to Daenys. "And if they lose?" he asked.

Kadikar laughed, the sound echoing across the camp. "Then you have nothing to worry about, Old Wolf. My Deadites do not lose."

The Deadites moved with an almost frenzied excitement as word of the Blood Tourney spread through the camp. Warriors sharpened their bone knives and axes, their eyes alight with anticipation. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and resin, and the rhythmic drumming of fists against armor filled the camp like a war chant.

Daenys and Nirme stood at the edge of the makeshift arena—a circular pit surrounded by jagged rocks and bone totems. Kadikar's monstrous steed loomed nearby, its hollow eyes watching the proceedings with unsettling intensity. A precursor to warm up the strongest of the Deadites.

"Do not speak unless spoken to," Nirme said quietly. "The Deadites respect strength above all else. If you show even a hint of fear, they will tear you apart."

Daenys nodded, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her dagger. She could feel the eyes of the Deadites on her, their stares a mixture of curiosity and disdain. They saw her as an outsider, a soft foreigner unworthy of their ranks.

From the frenzied pit, a duel began with a deafening roar as two warriors charged into the pit, their knives clashing with bone-rattling force. Blood sprayed across the ground as one combatant landed a savage blow to his opponent's side, but the injured man didn't falter. He fought on with a ferocity that bordered on madness, his attacks growing wilder and more desperate with every strike.

Daenys couldn't tear her eyes away. These were not the disciplined warriors of Astad or the Deathless of Estil. The Deadites fought like animals, their movements raw and unrefined, but devastatingly effective.

Kadikar watched from his perch atop the monstrous steed, his expression unreadable. "This is what it means to be Deadite," he said, his voice cutting through the chaos. "To bleed and break and rise again. To offer your pain to Drema and become something greater."

The crowd roared in approval as the victor of the duel raised his bloodied knife to the sky. His opponent lay motionless on the ground, his cracked armor glistening with resin and blood. The women of the warband rushed forward to collect the fallen warrior's blood, their movements swift and practiced.

As the next duel began, Nirme leaned close to Daenys. "This is their faith," he said. "Every drop of blood spilled is a prayer to Drema. Every scar is a testament to their devotion."

Daenys swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the arena. "And if they lose themselves to the Blood Rage?"

Nirme's expression darkened. "Then they become beasts. And beasts have no place in Estil."

The duels before the blood tourney rolled on, each more ferocious than the last. Bone knives flashed under the glaring sun, catching glints of light before plunging into exposed flesh. The Deadites chanted in a language Daenys didn't understand, their voices rising and falling in a hypnotic rhythm that seemed to reverberate through the very ground beneath her feet. It was an unrelenting cycle of brutality—fight, bleed, fall, rise again.

Kadikar, still mounted on his ghastly steed, leaned forward as the next pair of combatants entered the pit. His golden shoulder marks gleamed faintly in the sunlight, a testament to his victories in battles past. He carried himself with the ease of a man who had nothing left to prove. His voice rang out, deep and resonant: "Show me the strength of Drema's children!"

The crowd of men and woman erupted in a guttural roar as the combatants clashed, their bone blades slashing at each other with wild abandon. One of them, a younger warrior with a fresh, unblemished mask, moved with a nervous energy that betrayed his inexperience. His opponent, a grizzled veteran covered in deep cracks and scars, fought with a calculated precision that suggested he had seen countless battles.

"Watch carefully," Nirme said, his voice low but firm. "This is the lesson you must learn, Daenys. The Deadites are not merely brutes—they are craftsmen of chaos. They know when to bide their time and when to strike."

Daenys didn't respond, her focus fixed on the fight. The younger warrior was on the defensive, his movements frantic as he tried to parry the veteran's relentless blows. Each strike drove him further back, his footwork faltering under the pressure. The crowd jeered, their chants growing louder with every misstep.

Finally, the veteran feinted to the left before sweeping low with his blade, catching the younger warrior off guard. The bone knife tore through the chitin armor at his thigh, sending him sprawling to the ground. Blood spilled freely, staining the cracked earth beneath him.

The veteran stood over his fallen opponent, his knife poised for the killing blow. But instead of striking, he paused, glancing up at Kadikar. The Gahkar gave a slight nod, and the veteran sheathed his blade. The younger warrior, though bloodied and humiliated, would live.

The crowd let out a disappointed groan, but Kadikar's voice cut through the noise. "Not every fight ends in death," he said. "The mark of a true Deadite is knowing when to kill... and when to spare."

Daenys glanced at Nirme, who was watching Kadikar intently. "He spares him?" she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. "After all that?"

Nirme nodded. "Kadikar may act like a beast, but he is no fool. Every warrior he spares is another blade for Drema's cause. The Deadites cannot afford to waste their numbers—not with the battles that lie ahead."

The young warrior was dragged from the pit, his wounded leg hastily bandaged by the women who tended to the fighters. He would bear the mark of his failure, a permanent scar etched into his armor for all to see. But he would fight another day.

"How was the test Nirme? Did the Deadites prove that they could handle your instructions well enough?"

"Two died in this small skirmish before this, Kadikar." Nirme said.

Kadikar countered, "You have not given us a true battle in a long time. These men were ill prepared to fight and under equipped. My men grow tired of being used as a cleaning force."

"Because when I do use your Deadites, they lose themselves and kill everything." Nirme said.

Kadikar countered, "Then send us straight at the enemy."

Nirme folded his arms, "You said yourself you wished for a true fight. Your men will die in droves without shields. Your position is striking the flank of Astad at the Landbridge if you can control yourself. It will be a true fight."

Kadikar turned from the pits and commented, "We will talk more of this after the Blood Tourney," before leaving. Nirme let out a tired sigh as he brushed back the long white hair. He gently rubbed at the bags that sat under his eyes.

Daenys pointed out the obvious, "It seems that you are tired, Nirme."

"I have lived through grueling times, but dealing with Kadikar always strains me. A man that wishes to be seen as more than a brute, but he does this."

Daenys offered, "I can take on some of the numbers and accounts if you wish."

"No. I am just an old man lamenting the past. I am fine, Daenys." Nirme assured. 

Daenys grew quiet as he righted himself. He said, "If this is the only thing that I teach you, remember it well, Daenys. When leading Estil you must be a thinker, as well as a warrior. We of Estil swing first and think second. But, you can be different. Risks and losses will always weigh heavy on you for the coming battles, but trust your thoughts and adapt."

Daenys shook her head, "I have no desire to deal with Estil."

Nirme watched her for a moment, then continued, "The Deadites have a built in risk of using them for plans. They are rabid dogs waiting to bite the hand that guides them. The Blood Rage of Drema gives them strength, but it comes at the cost of sanity."

"You know they will not listen, so you plan to stoke the fires." said Daenys as she put it together.

Nirme agreed, "It is something I have thought long on for how to take the Pickette. The best plan is to give them a goal and watch from a distance. I pull them from the main fight to be support and break the lines. A worthy fight I hope will please the Deadites."

"The Pickette is a name that you continuously mention." pointed out Daenys. She needed more information in these treacherous waters she swam in. If she wanted to get home then she would need as much information as she could gain to survive.

Nirme said, "The Pickette is Astad's choke point on Estil. A place where red resin is generated. It holds a tower that can be seen from both the capital of Estil and the capital of Astad. It is said that when a person stands on the top of the tower they are able to see past the Dragon Fang mountains themselves."

"That is impossible. Something that big would collapse." Daenys muttered under her breath. The Old Wolf laughed, "It is a must see sight of Lorian. It will surely take your breath away when we come upon it."

Daenys asked, "You wish to take something so grand?"

"It is the last chance for the raid into Astad to be labeled as a success. If the Pickette can be taken, then the deaths will be worth something." Nirme whispered more to himself than her.

A silence filled the area as they watched as warriors of Estil scavenge weapons and burned bodies of the dead. It would take no more than an hour before the town turned into a small outpost for Estil.

Nirme said, "Let's not focus on something so far from now. We have a Blood Tourney to attend after all."

Nirme instructed one of his Deathless, "Send word to the other Gahkars that lagged behind that there will be a Blood Tourney for the Deadites victory." The Deathless bowed and left.