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  Chateau Cascade

  The Leyline War: Prelude to Chaos

  Dusty Ridgeman

  With unending thanks to Westly LaFleur, without whom this tale would have suffered badly.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  The Chateau

  A New Life Begins

  A Gathering of Allies

  The Hangman

  Cold War

  A Gathering of Allies Pt. II

  The Summoner

  Ourolo Travels

  The Machinations of the Destiny Throne

  The Portal and the East

  Aftermath: Atrocity Denied

  The Beast Seneschal of Cuprite

  To Catch a Thief

  On Kobolds

  Homecoming

  The Chateau

  The river Sphynx was named for the riddle-posing god that lived in the mountains at its base. Running northerly, it split Genesis in twain, separating East from West. Across its many miles was an immaculate stone bridge which sat atop the waterfall, its many stalwart columns standing against the raging waters. Flowing through the gaps in the columns, the water spilled away into whatever unseen mysteries lay beneath the airborne continent of Genesis. Built into this bridge was a chateau, a castle – a stronghold that had existed for ages and stood inexplicably strong and unmarred against the eroding waters for all of that time.

  Chateau Cascade – the name put shivers up the spines of sellswords and glory-seekers alike. It was a nation like no other in Genesis, consisting only of a few farming communities and its single, titular castle – and what a castle it was! This was a true wonder of the world, sitting in the centermost point of that massive bridge. Pointed spires grasped skyward, and below them stained glass windows served to make the Chateau look more like a cathedral than a stronghold. Lovers from all nations flocked to the Chateau, believing that a wedding in its magnificent courtyard would be blessed with lasting strength.

  Above it all was beautiful, ageless Acelia, glancing sidelong at her court as she sat askance on her throne of gems. It was often said that she had an iron in every fire and a scheme for every enemy, even the ones that she currently regarded as friends. Her true age was a hotly debated topic in the Chateau – she had been the queen for as long as anyone could remember but retained the body of a fragile, waif-thin youth. Her peculiar violet hair cascaded down her back like the waters of her castle’s namesake. Only her fierce eyes betrayed her true age. Looking into those faded grays might give one a heavy feeling in the stomach, the uncomfortable weight of the long passage of eons.

  The people of the Chateau accepted her rule gratefully. She had kept them safe from the dangers of the East and West alike, ruling with a just hand. She had brought them prosperity through her sponsorship of adventurers. Her leadership was unmarred by her sex – the fickle chaos of womanhood seemed to have all but vanished from her, perhaps stolen away by the many years she had lived. In its place was a deep strangeness. Her words and behavior were often cryptic, and yet her leadership had kept the Chateau safe for centuries or longer.

  The Cascadians accepted her even without knowing her true nature, though salacious rumors abounded. Was she a vampire, bypassing her kind’s weakness to the sun through some trick of magic? Or did she periodically bathe in the blood of a hundred virgins as part of some obscene goëtic ritual to secure her perpetual youth for each coming century?

  If her advisors knew the secret of her youth, they weren’t telling.

  ✽✽✽

  In Cascadia, many of the citizen mercenaries who had proved their worth were afforded their own lodgings in the Chateau itself. One could not be born into Cascadian citizenship. You could only earn it in a few ways – the first was a sizable donation, usually an item of magical power but sometimes a vast endowment of gold or gemstones. The second was military service. In some cases citizenship could also be voluntarily transferred from one person to another, but this was a rare and complicated process.

  Jak's family was poor and none of them had citizenship to transfer even if they wanted to. Military service was the only possible route for him. Military service, however, came with its own requirements. Under normal circumstances, applicants had to have a strong talent for magic, fighting, or some other exceptional quality in order to be allowed into the ultra-elite ranks of the Cascadian forces. There was nothing special about Jak to make him stand out as a soldier, either mundane or magical. Without such talents he could always become a rank-and-file soldier, but that sort of position didn’t grant citizenship – only a regular wage and unending guard duty.

  Why, then, was the boy so focused on the goal of full citizenship? Living under the protection of Cascadia without citizenship was not exactly oppressive – you paid your tax, usually in the form of foodstuffs or other goods sent to the castle, and enjoyed the extraordinarily strong protection of the Cascadian elite. Nonetheless, he felt like there was something more for him in life than milking and slaughtering his father’s goats. Furthermore, as the innocence of youth began to escape him, he often found himself distracted by girls. He could not help but notice that the ones who stuck around in this rustic riverside town were never very attractive. It seemed that all of the beautiful young ladies were always whisked away by some Cascadian noble or wealthy traveler from afar.

  Jak wanted to live in the Chateau. He thought of himself looking out at the waterfall from the inside of a minaret apartment, riding the sky high above those massive, gleaming stained-glass windows. He wanted to “make it.” He daydreamed about the ladies of the court that lived in the castle – girls that would be a suitable match for him, despite his low beginnings, if he became a member of the Cascadian forces. In addition to the usual reasons young men lust after attractive women, Jak longed for love. He had never known his own mother, and it had created an empty hole in his young heart.

  Most of all, Jak wanted to be a hero. The Cascadian Knights were all he and his friends could talk about while growing up. It was said that they boldly went out and fought to keep the peace and protect the weak. What could be a better cause? In his most secret moments, Jak pictured himself wearing shining armor and riding a horse into battle against great evil. He always rode home with a beautiful princess in tow, and she was always grateful for her timely rescue.

  Someone less determined than Jak might have given up on their dream by now. Over the course of two years, since the age of sixteen, he had applied and reapplied to the training program. One application per year was all that was allowed, and each of his had been denied. On his father's goat ranch he had many chores, but when he wasn't doing them, he was trying to train himself. He had always been a tall but scrawny boy despite the rigors of farm life – to him it seemed obvious that he should begin with his body. Despite their poverty, one thing they always had in great supply was goat milk and goat cheese – he hated the taste but began consuming large amounts of both. He trained by lifting the rocks around his farm and even earned a little extra money clearing some farmland that had gone wild. Volunteering for extra chores was enough to give him more stamina – running around a farm all day was hard, long work.

  At night he had studied the tome. Despite his lowly beginnings he had aspirations of becoming a great warrior – one who could harness the power of magic. Of course, books that detailed this sort of thing were both expensive and rare. The fact that one fortuitously fell into his lap was so unlikely that he began to regard it as fate. The book was like a divining rod, pointing him in the direction of the Chateau and igniting his ambitions. He knew that even if it risked his father's anger, it was fate for him to have and study the secrets contained in its pages.

  His father, whose own father had immigrated from the West, took
a dim view of the arcane arts. Like most Westerners, he believed magic was too dangerous and should not be studied at all; too many aspiring wizards had lost their minds or met with horrible accidents for it to be mere coincidence. Jak, still in possession of his youth and an inherently inquisitive disposition, did not agree with his father. On rare occasions, magically trained Cascadian soldiers traveled through Jak's little rural town on the way back to Chateau Cascade; none of them looked too crazy to Jak. Of course, few bothered to acknowledge his existence, let alone answer his questions which, with the impertinence of youth, he’d shouted up from below their horses.

  If his father knew that Jak had gotten his hands on the tome, he would have tanned his hide bloody and burned the pages in a fire. He would have sprinkled some sage and whispered prayers to the God of Virtue for protection from the evil spirits no doubt contained within. Whenever Jak tried to ask his father about magic – something he’d only ever tried once or twice – the grizzled old bear would turn dour and grim. With eyebrows furrowed, he would tell Jak that such things were simply not meant for mortal men.

  As a result, Jak studied in secret. Night after night, with a single candle lit in his room, he'd whisper the incantations written down in the tome, move his hands in the gestures described therein. Sometimes he'd inscribe runes on a page or perform an odd little dance – he was thoroughly confused by the tome's instructions and didn't understand how any of this worked to create magic. Most wizards, in fact, never figured it out. Even if they became accomplished casters, they were just as incapable as the layfolk of Genesis to describe how their magic actually worked. Only the practitioners of the Ways Goëtia – a rare breed indeed – had a true understanding of what magic actually was.

  Jak had acquired this expensive and precious tome – in truth, a book that only described simple magic – through theft. Under ordinary circumstances, Jak was no thief. He had always tried to act decently toward others, as rural folk often do. Likewise, he had never been particularly sneaky or deft; he had not come by the book through some legendary feat of legerdemain nor pickpocketing. It was nothing more than blind luck and opportunism that brought him into contact with the mystic arts.

  As with most tomes of magical procedure, the spellbook had a storied history. Few practitioners of magic had an interest in writing down their knowledge for others. Instead, they jealously guarded it. Why would they wish for others to have the same access to supernatural power? It is, of course, very difficult for a mundane soldier of any stripe – no matter how trained, muscular, or quick – to contend with an arcanist of even mediocre power. One untrained in supernatural powers might have fared better by using indirect tactics such as stealth, subterfuge, and trickery against spellcasters, but clever mages took great pains to protect themselves from these sorts of would-be assassins. With this power imbalance, it is no great mystery that most spellcasters guarded all tomes – even guides to the simplest of magic – very carefully. The fact that Jak was able to get hold of it spoke more to the incompetence of its previous owner than to Jak's skill.

  It was a late night at the Alecrab Inn, a tavern on the shores of the Sphynx in Jak's hometown. When travelers passed through the rustic village, this was one of the few places they could find rooms for rent without having to ask random farmers to spare some space in the barn. Jak was manning the bar. It had been a few months since his first rejection from the Chateau’s training program; when he was not training his body, he was taking on odd jobs. He supposed that if he earned enough money, he could at least afford to buy some basic military equipment. It wouldn't exactly be high quality gear, but he could at least practice with a real sword and get used to the weight and feel of real armor. Even though he was still a fresh-faced, young man of sixteen years, the owner had come to trust him. After a few months, Jak was allowed to tend the bar alone on the slower nights.

  This was a slow night. It was a weekday and there was only one man there – a local drunk, passed out in the corner of the bar. Jak let him be – he knew that kicking him out would be more trouble than it was worth and that this particular drunk would wake up and wander out eventually on his own.

  Just before the clock struck midnight, a man in a voluminous greenish-brown travel cloak walked in. He was middle-aged and weasel-faced, with patchy dark hair sprouting unpleasantly in an ill-formed, coffee-colored beard. The rest of his hair, such as it was, formed a horseshoe on his head. He sat down in front of Jak at the bar and looked at him expectantly.

  Jak didn’t like this stranger. The man was full of nervous energy, always shifting uncomfortably in his seat. His brown weasel eyes sat much too close to each other on his weathered weasel face. Jak took him for a brigand, and the boy wondered idly at what ill-gotten treasures the stranger's giant, overstuffed bag might hold.

  Poe, as the man was called, was indeed nervous. He didn’t like the way this barman – just a boy, from the looks of him – was staring at him. In fact, he didn't like the way anyone in this backwater hamlet looked at him. The town seemed quiet and out-of-the-way enough – off the beaten path and out of sight from the law. He had concluded that few travelers would bother to stop here on their way to or from the Chateau.

  His body ached from the long march; he felt pulsing heat and pain from his swollen feet which were stuffed into a pair of well-worn leather boots. Stumbling across this town was good fortune. When he saw this ramshackle pub with the comically inebriated crab hanging on a wooden sign outside, he knew he'd have warm food and strong drink and a place to sleep tonight. Good enough.

  The bartender didn't ask anything, but his face displayed unguarded curiosity. Poe stared a moment at this scrawny, tall boy – the faint wisps of a dark mustache beginning to grow on his face – and eventually decided it would be safe to stay here for the night. He felt a powerful need to drink away his memories, if only for a time. Perhaps, with enough spirits, he would not be visited by the slit-throat merchant in his dreams. He shook his head violently, trying to clear it of the bloody vengeance-driven visage that visited him nightly.

  “Boy. Steelberry wine.” His voice came out in a throaty rasp – he had been traveling for several days and, having avoided roads, hadn’t spoken to a soul the entire time.

  Jak eyed him for a moment and pulled down the bottle from the highest shelf. It was the only such bottle in the house. His voice cracked a little when he told the stranger the price, but Poe waved his arm dismissively. Jak poured some of the expensive, dark, silvery-grey liquid into a cup, and it occurred to him that he had never actually seen it outside of a bottle before. Its aroma was exotic, a curious mixture of cinnamon and lilac. The smell made Jak uneasy.

  The stranger cleared his throat grotesquely, loudly.

  “Leave the bottle,” he said, slapping a thick, unevenly milled golden coin on the table. “And bring meat.”

  Emblazoned on the coin was an image of a bearded man wielding some sort of long rod or staff in one hand and a circular metal ring the size of a man’s head in the other. Jak recognized it as the currency of the Affiliation, the government – if one can call it that – to the east. If had been a Cascadian coin, it would have Lady Acelia’s mysterious and jaded face stamped on it. A Western coin would have only the Rune of Virtue on it. In the Imperium, it is known that Man is fallible; the only worthy icons are those made in homage of tradition and moral law.

  It didn't matter. In a Cascadian backwater, they were happy to accept coins of any provenance. Jak took it and went off to the other end of the bar, sitting down and trying his best to look disinterested. Jak was, after all, at least perceptive enough to see that the stranger wanted to be left alone.

  The man was ravenous. He poured the exquisite wine down his throat until the bottle was empty. When Jak finished frying up the goat steaks, Poe tore into them with gusto that only a road-weary man can muster. When he had finished, he washed the meat down with two more bottles of some local piss-water ale. He eventually laid down a silver coin with the same rod-and-ring
symbol and demanded a room. Thoroughly drunk, he took the key and stumbled up to his room. He didn’t notice that a thick book had tumbled out of his backpack and landed face-down on an adjacent barstool. While closing, Jak found it and could not believe his own luck, for he had immediately recognized it for what it was. He supposed it wasn't very heroic of him to take the book but reasoned with himself that the man had probably stolen it anyway. Besides, he thought, if I can learn magic, think of the good I can do in the world!

  Head pounding, Poe rose with the sun and hit the road without so much as a morning meal. He left without realizing that his most valuable piece of loot was missing or that his carelessness would forever alter the fate of a young rancher's son named Jak Barnswallow.

  Before he acquired the tome, Jak had started to feel like he was floundering. He was a determined young man, but his first rejection from the Chateau had made him question whether or not he would ever be able to become a hero. He had continued working, but every morning he would wake up with a heavy feeling in his stomach. In his half-awake, half-asleep state, he would imagine a metal bar floating above his bed; he'd reach out as though to grab it and pull himself into the day, only to find nothing but air. Shaking the strange fantasy from his head, he'd force himself fully awake and work through his daily tasks. Now in possession of the tome, motivation came more naturally to him.

  With renewed vigor, he poured himself into his training: his body during the day and his mind at night. Despite his rigorous devotion to this schedule, he found that his magical ability progressed glacially. By his seventeenth birthday, he had only managed the simplest of tricks – lighting a candle with his fingertip, chilling a glass. While this might be useful for moonlighting as a barman – muttering incantations under his breath and cooling down ale as he carried it – it didn’t really serve his ultimate ambition. He considered trying other sorts of magic but, like most magical manuals, the book's subject matter was rather narrow. This one only described the manipulation of certain basic, elemental energies.