1. A Karkadon’s Tale
Written by Ryan Kaufman, VP of Narrative, Jam City[1]
Two brothers stood under a Bamyim Tree, its tentacle-like roots framing the stone marking their mother’s grave.
The elder brother, Darius, kneeled to wipe away a bit of the golden dust of the Southern Savanna, so that her name was legible again: Narsani, Champion of Massina.
The two Karkadon's stood shoulder to shoulder, their massive bulk blocking out the morning sun, and casting shadow on her headstone. She had been a Champion; having weaned them and then moved on to the City on a pilgrimage to seek glory for the village. In the Colosseum Eternal, she became a legend. Her success was no surprise, but sadly, so was her death; so many village warriors had met the same fate. But they grieved her fully and deeply nonetheless.
“Give us your blessing, Mother,” said Darius. “For today, we seek our fate.”
Omar stood stoically, his great gray face revealing no emotion. He dared not speak of his excitement or hope in front of his mother’s spirit, or his older brother’s judgement.
Darius was protective and strict, even as little Omar had grown steadily larger and stronger. The younger brother had, like a sprouting tree, surpassed his older brother. Now he stood a good head taller than Darius, who nonetheless continued to try and boss him like a child.
“Come, little one,” Darius said, staring up into Omar’s face. “It’s time.”
Omar followed, as they returned to their dwelling, and collected a few things necessary for the long trip to the capital. They said their farewells, and then began walking north, toward the hills, toward Massina City.
Most who enter the City are wealthy enough to do so by boat. The harbor is filled with an ever-changing mosaic of colors: red sails, yellow sigils, oak hulls, silver shields, shimmering over the deep aquamarine of the Harbor of the Fallen.
But for those who have more hope than money, the other entrance is the Gate of Fools, on the western plain. Driven by dust and weathered by wind, the Gate welcomes all — even those who come without a copper in their pocket. Omar and Darius, whitened by the calcified sands, trudged in through the Gate and made their way through the Market Bazaar.
Omar’s throat was tight, and he longed for a drink of the cool waters and ales that the merchants offered. Darius, ever cautious, shook his head. “We must save our coppers to make an offering at the House of Light.”
Omar still found himself staring at a basket of fresh and tender omiyaka shoots, a brilliant jade green, with juicy blue Porrberries nestled in groups. The merchant, a mangy-looking Fenrir, fanned flies away from the fruit. Then he frowned and barked: “Hey Kark, quit drooling on the merchandise!”
Darius nudged his brother. “Come on.”
As huge as they were, the Karkadons found themselves stuck in a slow-moving sea of bodies. Omar stifled a small panic; he had never been in a crowd before. Certainly not one of so many different Families. Swirling all around him were furred Fenrir, a flesh-and-metal avalanche of blue-green Grondals, and an immense Il'gra arguing with itself about lunch. There were many more creatures that Omar did not even know what to call — strange dour humanoids with wings and swords, and piercing eyes. They all jostled to reach the food stands, steaming with lunch and breakfast, or humid huts of alchemical potions, or weapon-smiths displaying jagged knives of diamond and steel. A shadowy stand hid the shy silhouettes of a group of Vitra, offering $ESSENCE in vials. Still another stand was nothing but a set of stone stairs leading into the ground, out of which a mesmerizing spiced smoke emanated. Omar nudged his brother again, to point out a cheap-looking canteen, when the crowd parted.
Their bodies moved like a curtain being drawn. And the burbling talk hushed to nothing. The Market Bazaar became transformed as a golden glow infused every shadow with life and light. Above the heads of the crowd, Omar saw wings, then a horn. A being, a massive Karkadon like themselves, glided slowly past them on immense metal wings. His feet did not touch the ground.
“Golanus,” said Darius, with reverence. The ancient Karkadon had left the Savanna nearly 500 years ago, as a humble calling.
“He floats!” Omar whispered to his brother. “How does he float??”
“Shh!” hissed Darius. “Golanus is Ascended. He is Eternal.” Darius made the Karkadon sign of respect, kissing his fingers and touching his left shoulder. The Eternal Champion saw this and nodded.
Then, as quickly as he arrived, the Eternal passed, and the crush of bodies closed in, and the hubbub rose to a dull roar again. Omar and Darius pushed on.
The House of Life rose from the streets on a set of massive stone steps. Worshippers climbed up and down, some even stopping midway to rest. Darius and Omar made their way up, and into the Temple.
The priests received them, and their donation of coppers, and began to prepare them for the Ceremony of Distinction. The two would-be warriors were bathed, and given the robes of The House of Life. Their $ESSENCE began to hum and glow inside them; Omar had never felt the full strength of this inner energy except in moments of deep prayer. The priests led them to a long hallway, where a number of initiates stood. Some Fenrir some Vitra, others were the strange angels and demons he had seen in the Market Bazaar. But this felt different — he had kinship with these creatures. They all felt the same beating warm heart of Life inside their breasts. Omar felt a grin on his face, but quickly stifled it under Darius’ silent rebuke.
“Potentiates,” announced a priest dressed in the red robes of a Lifegiver. “You will now be given audience to some of the best Maestros in Massina. These men and women will take you, and train you, and mold you into the finest warriors you can be. Fear not — your struggle will bring you glory, and your glory will bring honor to this House and whatever homes you have come from. Hold your heads high, and meet those who can show you the path to Immortality.”
A tall door opened, and a new group entered the room: The Maestros. Omar saw they, too, came from all walks of life. Different $ESSENCEs, different Families. The Maestros, however, also shared a common trait: a keen eye.
The Maestros ambled or stalked up and down the length of the hall, observing the potentials of one creature or another. Several lingered on Omar, sizing up his strength, and muttering to themselves. They sought the strongest, fastest, and most ruthless to become new Champions. They wanted the best warriors possible, to mold into becoming heroes of the Colosseum. Those who were most successful could undergo the arduous process of Ascension and be rewarded with immortality.
One of the Maestros stopped in front of the brothers. He was small, human, with a wispy black mustache. He made a quizzical face. “Karkadon, eh? Are you by any chance related to Narsani?”
Omar nodded. His heartbeat quickened. “I am her son.”
“By the Emperor’s Balls,” laughed the Maestro. “I can’t believe my luck!”
Darius cleared his throat. “I, too, am the son of Narsani. Her eldest son.”
The Maestro studied the smaller Darius for a long moment, stroking his mustache. Then he turned back to Omar. “What’s your name?”
“Omar,” he bowed.
“Don’t bow to me,” said the Maestro waving him off. “I hate that. But DO call me Maestro — that I like.”
“Yes, Maestro,” Omar said, not bowing.
The Maestro squinted at his horn. “What’s that made of?”
Omar glanced quickly at his brother. “Uh…bone, Maestro.”
“The reason I ask is, there’s a filthy rumor going that a Kark horn is actually made of some kind of hair. Is it?”
Omar scoffed. He knocked on his horn. It was heavy, solid and could split stone if he wished it. That’s what made a Karkadon a Karkadon.
“Omar, you want to be a Champion?”
“Yes, Maestro,” he growled, and could no longer suppress his grin.
The Maestro grinned back. Then he turned and snapped his fingers to the Lifegiver. “This one! The mighty Omar!” He laughed as he left the hall.
Omar felt his heart swell, and then suddenly sink again as he glanced over at his brother. Darius had not been selected. The Lifegiver came forward and motioned for Omar to follow. They passed into a smaller hallway, where Omar had to duck his head.
“What will become of my brother?”
“If he is not selected,” said the Lifegiver, “he may still apply to study as an acolyte and wait for another opportunity.”
Omar glanced around as the passageway grew darker. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the Alchemist.”
Omar awoke in the dark, and felt a pounding, throbbing ache in the middle of his chest. He pawed his body, thinking he had been stabbed. But other than a small wound, he felt no spear or sword. He sat up in the room, a small stone cell. There was no candle to be seen, but he gradually sensed light filling it. And the light was coming from his chest.
His $ESSENCE filled him with strength. He stood quickly, his limbs like steel. The Life inside him had been multiplied tenfold. His nostrils filled with precious delicious air, and he grunted in excitement.
“You feeling it, kid?” A dragon stood in the doorway, his grey beard flecked with red. He stood a little smaller than Omar, and had two large horns, one of which was broken off halfway, the jagged remains unadorned.
“The Alchemists have done this?” Omar marveled. “I feel as strong as an Il'gra!” He punched his massive fist into the wall, launching a spray of pebbles into the room.
“Yeah, well, so does everyone else in this Arena,” the creature grumbled. “So, word of warning, don’t go acting like an asshole.”
Omar stood tall. He looked around at the walls and ceiling. “We are in the Colosseum now?”
“These are just the gladiator barracks, genius,” the creature smirked. “Now, follow me.”
Omar soon learned that the creature’s name was Primo. He was the fighting instructor at the Colosseum Eternal. The Maestros often used his expertise to help train fledgling Champions before they entered their first bout.
Primo was unimpressed with the Karkadon’s combat skills, especially after he discovered Omar was the son of Narsani. “You coulda fooled me,” he said, after beating Omar with a training sword embedded with yewla nettles. “Narsani had natural talent. Musta skipped a generation.”
Omar rubbed the stinging wounds on his back. Primo pushed him hard, with training every morning and afternoon. He fought practice bouts with a rotation of different sparring partners, including the strange creatures he had seen in Market. Primo told him these were Keymasters, guardians from the heavens. It was odd to see such divine beings fighting tooth and claw in the sand, mud and blood of the practice arena. But it was the demonic Darulk he feared. The wounds they inflicted somehow got under his very skin, into his soul, and left him with a haunted desperate feeling, even days later. In the mess hall, the other creatures gave them a wide berth.
He wondered if his brother had chosen to remain at the House of Light, or if he had set off with another Maestro. He did not despair that Darius would somehow find a way into the Arena. His brother was resourceful and smart. They would meet again.
During his training, the hulking Karkadon struggled to find an effective strategy against the diverse opponents Primo threw at him. One scorchingly-hot afternoon, a vicious Vitra toyed with him, darting here and there, avoiding his ponderous grasp. Omar twisted and turned to follow her moves, trying to feint and dodge her attacks. Exhaustion set in. Then, the Vitra kicked him in the head, and he went sprawling yet again. As he lay panting in the sand, Primo approached him.
“Speed ain’t ever gonna be your friend, big guy,” he said. “Wait your turn. Take your moment. And make it hurt.”
Omar collected his confidence, and rose to face the Vitra again. She dashed toward him, but this time, Omar simply pushed forward. Her claws raked his face, but he closed his eyes and let his thick skin take the brunt of her fury. Again and again, he pushed her back, toward the back wall of the Arena. She became frustrated, trying to find a hole in this wall of beast bearing down on her.
At last, Omar set his back foot in the sand, and launched himself toward the tired Vitra. He slammed into her and together they smashed into the back wall of the Arena. The perimeter walls shook; vendors inside thought a volcano was erupting; and a cloud of dust arose from every seat in the Colosseum.
The Vitra lay defeated on the ground, and Omar snorted in victory. He looked up to see his Maestro, rushing down from the stands. The wall he’d charged at, solid stone as thick as a tree trunk, was cracked and ruined.
His Maestro and Primo rushed out to greet him.
“Amazing, simply astounding, actually…I’m out of words,” stammered his Maestro.
“The kid did alright,” shrugged Primo. “But don’t oversell it.”
“It was like watching Narsani again,” said his Maestro, undaunted. “Give him some damn credit!”
Omar shrugged. He chewed thoughtfully on a nettle.
“He’s ready. I’m putting him in, tomorrow.” Then Omar’s Maestro turned to him and beamed. “I knew it! I knew you had greatness in you.”
Primo shook his head. “He smashed a wall. Admittedly, that’s pretty impressive. But c’mon, don’t put him in tomorrow. That’s the Emperor’s Day Match. And he’s been looking for a way to screw you.”
The Maestro put his arm around the Karkadon, or tried to. “Bring it on. We’ll turn his Challenger into jelly.”
Omar snorted again in triumph. “I’m ready, Primo.”
“Look, there’s more to this game than just fighting,“ said Primo. “I been around long enough to know that.”
The Maestro shook his head. “Maybe…Maybe you’ve been around too long, my friend,” he said.
The Maestro gave Omar one more admiring glance. “Sign him up for Emperor’s Day.” Then he headed for the exit, tromping back over the pitted sand. Primo shook his head again and sighed, as the Maestro called over his shoulder: “And give my Champion whatever he wants for dinner!”
Omar waited patiently on the platform, as hard lines of light beamed down on him. Silt drifted into his eyes, and he squinted. No Bamyim Tree in the world cast this kind of shadow. He wondered if his mother had stood in the same spot, waiting for her first bout.
An old brown Fenrir stood nearby, and when a distant trumpet blew, his ears pricked up. He started to pull down on a heavy chain, and Omar felt himself rising toward the ceiling.
The hard lines overhead resolved themselves into wooden boards, and then a blare of light and sound erupted as he emerged into the Colosseum Eternal. Omar had never in his life heard a noise that loud. Not even the wildest storm of the savannas could match the raving rush of voices and cheers that greeted him. He could not help but bellow in response.
Omar stepped, blinking, onto the sand where he had toiled so many hours. His new triumph, fresh in his mind, and a surge of Life essence, lent him a savage desire to dominate.
As his opponent’s platform started cranking, Omar quickly scanned the stands. Down near the perimeter of the Arena, he spotted the House of Life box seats. The Lifegivers sat in regal adornments, and saluted him.
And behind them, stood Darius, dressed in the robes of an Acolyte. So, he had chosen to wait and pray. The two brothers shared a moment of pride. Then Darius scowled, as if to say: enough now, stop fooling around, little one.
The crowd swelled again in a frenzy as the defending Champion rose into view. Omar only glimpsed the very top of his head before the creature launched himself into the air on great leathery wings. He landed with a thud that silenced the crowd.
It was a Darulk. A Prime Eternal. An immortal demon from the underworld. The dark energy of Death Essence rose from his chest in smoky tendrils.
Above the crowd, in his own well-appointed berth, The Emperor clapped politely. Then he stood and addressed the crowd through a twisted, angular horn that amplified his thin, smug voice: “Omar, son of Narsani. Gezzik, Dweller in Death. One a Challenger! One an Eternal! Champions all! We salute you!”
Then he sat, with an amused look on his face, and popped a porrberry in his mouth.
The crowd burbled in confusion. An Eternal against a Challenger? The Emperor was apparently making up his own rules now. Omar found his fear overwhelming him, as the Darulk warmed up his fiery fists. This was no Vitra. He could not stand and withstand the attack of such a creature. He glanced back into the gladiators’ cloister. Primo stared out from the dark. His face betrayed no emotion. His Maestro stood behind him, his eyes wild and hungry.
The Karkadon roared, and charged at the Darulk, who deftly avoided him. But his opponent turned and kept coming. Gezzik found himself trapped, as the Vitra had, and Omar smashed him against a free-standing stone pillar, toppling both. The Darulk, dazed, darted away. But Omar kept coming, pressing the attack. He gored the hand of the demon, and a font of black blood sprayed the white sand.
The crowd erupted into an even larger tumult, as if the heavens themselves were splitting open.
The Darulk flew high, to the boos and brays of the people below. It hissed at them and swooped over their heads, grabbing an unfortunate fan and tossing him over the edge of the Colosseum. The crowd fell silent.
Then the Darulk landed again in the Arena. Omarcharged again, but the demon spun away, in a tight circle. Wherever Omarpushed, Gezzik simply stepped aside, smiting him with a handful of sulphur and flame. Omar's eyes filled with the noxious fumes and smoke, and he struggled to see. The Death Essence of his opponent seemed to crush his very chest. The Darulk jabbed him over and over, and Omar started to smell the sear of his own flesh burning.
A warning horn blew mournfully. Two fearful human attendants rushed out onto the field, holding armfuls of weapons. They heaved the pile of metal and wood onto the sand, and then scurried back to the hallways.
Omar could barely make out a spear, and a shield. If he could get to the shield…
The Darulk began pummeling his face with punches, a steady but unrelenting series of blows. Omar pushed forward, toward the weapons, toward the shield. But the Darulk pulled him back. He felt the burning hands on his tail, and his legs give way in the shifting sand.
Since he was a tiny baby, Omar had never been carried by another creature. And this Darulk gripped him like some furious father. Omar felt himself being lifted into the air.
His eyes cleared for a moment, and he saw the Arena, now upside down, and looking quite small. People running around, pointing up at him. What a strange, funny thing that was. Am I ascended?, he wondered. Then the ground rushed up, and everything went black.
Darius threw back his hood, to see the impossible sight of a Darulk carrying his immense brother high into the sky, like a bird carrying a mouse. And then, the horrifying sensation as Omar dropped in freefall, and smashed into the sand. Blood poured from his nostrils. He did not move.
After a long moment, as the crowd murmured, the Emperor stood and peered down into the Arena. The Darulk landed near the Karkadon, hesitating. The Emperor held up his hand. All eyes were on Omar. He did not move.
Then the Emperor shrugged, and signaled across his neck. Finish him.
“No!” shouted Darius. The Darulk swept up the spear, and drove it straight through Omar's neck. The blood droplets were almost jewel-like in the sun. The Lifegivers looked down in disappointment, as the crowd pounded the floorboards in a one-two rhythm of victory. “GEZZ-IK! GEZZ-IK! GEZZ-IK!”
Darius did not move, did not say a word, as the Butchermen wheeled their cart across the sand, and heaved Omar's body onto its platform. Without ceremony, they wheeled him off into the gladiators’ cloister. A drunken Vitra bounced off his arm, and Darius finally came to his senses. “Gonna make some big burgers outta that boy,” said the Vitra. Darius shoved it away and rushed down the stairs.
In the cloister, the fightmaster was arguing with Omar's Maestro. “What did I tell you? What did I tell you?
“An Eternal against a Challenger!” The Maestro defended himself. “It’s unheard of! The Emperor has some kind of vendetta against me.”
“Pay your bribes next time, you cretin,” spit Primo.
“The Emperor did this?” Darius sputtered.
The Maestro and Primo turned to look at him, but said nothing. Primo eyed Darius momentarily and then trudged down the dark hallway.
The Maestro directed the Butchermen, who wheeled their cart out through the Porta Magna and into the thoroughfare. Darius followed them, as they turned left onto a side street, away from the Bazaar and down toward the Docklands. The Butchermen wheezed as they pushed Omar's body cart over streets cobbled with skulls, and Darius hoped against hope that his brother might move, might breathe again. But he did not. Darius’ heart became heavy as lead, when he realized his brother would not be reunited with their mother. Not unless they were together in the village soil.
As they negotiated a tight corner, he called out, and the Maestro glanced back and noticed him.
The Maestro looked weary. “Karkadon,” he said. “Go home.”
“ Omar was my brother.”
He sighed. “It’s a shame, but that’s what happens sometimes.”
“I must bury him back home.”
“No,” said the Maestro. “That I cannot do. His bones and Essence are still of use.”
Darius snorted fiercely, and lowered his spiked horn. “HOLD, I say!”
The Maestro looked annoyed. “I’m not just going to grind him into sausage, if that’s what you’re worried about. His Essence, his Bone, all his strength will be re-used. Perhaps even to defeat Gezzik.”
“No,” Darius insisted. “I must bring Honor back to our House, our village. Now give him to me.”
Darius stepped forward again. Though a small Karkadon, he was still a mountain of muscle. But the Butchermen were used to dealing with grieving relatives. They reached underneath the cart and pulled out two wicked swords that looked like meat cleavers, and a blood-soaked net.
The Maestro looked deadly serious. “I’ll give you a choice, Kark.” He motioned to Omar’s prone body. “You can say your goodbyes, or you can join him on the cart.”
Darius thought for a minute. Perhaps there was another way. “Then let me avenge him.”
The Maestro looked puzzled. He sized Darius up again, still looking unconvinced. “Revenge? Against who? That Darulk? The Emperor? Trust me, I’ve tried.”
Darius felt the rage throttling up inside him. Perhaps he would join his brother; it would be worth it to crush the skull of the ambitious Maestro.
“I will topple them all. If I must, I will start with you,” said Darius. “I have the strength.”
“Do you?” smirked the Maestro. “Maybe it’s a two-for-one deal today, boys.” Then he signaled to the Butchermen, who started to move toward the angry Karkadon.
“Wait,” came a voice from the shadows. A man stepped forward. Thin, cloaked in black silk, with a white demon mask obscuring his face. “Give him the Essence,” the man said to the Maestro.
“This is a private matter, Prometheus,” replied the Maestro. “Respectfully.”
“The longer we argue, the more it leaks away,” he replied.
Darius’ rage settled, and he watched the tense negotiation. The priests and alchemists had spoken of a man named Prometheus, but they had spit his name. A heretic, an abomination.
“I don’t owe this Kark anything,” scoffed the Maestro, while the Butchermen cracked their knuckles and waited. “I’m truly sorry for his loss; which was my loss as well, I would remind you.”
“Tick tick,” said Prometheus. He tossed a small vial to the Maestro. “Just a little.”
The Maestro considered the vial. “Or…”
“Or don’t haunt my halls ever again.”
The Maestro shook his head. “I can’t believe this grondal-shit,” he grumbled. He took a small syringe from his coat, and gently removed three glowing threads of Essence from Omar’s chest. “That’s plenty. The rest is mine.”
He held out the vial to Prometheus, who backed away from it. “Don’t give it to me; give it to him.”
The Maestro gingerly held the vial as he approached Darius, with much hesitation. Darius took the tiny glass in his hand, gently. The last bits of Omar; it felt like a memory of his brother, alive somehow in his heart. The Maestro backed away and then nodded at the Butchermen. They leaned into the cart, and it began clattering over the cobbles again.
Darius bowed deeply to the man called Prometheus. “I am in your debt.”
“Don’t thank me.” He gestured toward the departing cart. “Maestro Magellan has made powerful enemies. It amuses them to see him knocked down.”
Darius nodded, though he did not understand. Nor did he care to. He only wanted to return to the savanna and reunite his brother with Narsani.
“Thank you for returning my brother. I shall bury this in our homelands,” Darius bowed again.
“What? No, don’t do that,” said Prometheus, sounding annoyed.
The Karkadon cocked his head in confusion. “No?”
“No, obviously,” the man in the mask began walking away. Darius followed. “Take it to the Osteomancer. Tell her you want a weapon.”
“A weapon,” Darius repeated dryly. “For?”
“For whatever brand of vengeance you seek. Now, go.”
Prometheus pointed down a side street. It was hemmed in by broken buildings, and a green glow flowed out onto the wet stone streets. Then he moved off into the depths of the Docklands.
Darius cautiously moved down the street. The Osteomancer’s shop was an immense cave of bones, relics, totems, and talismans. As the Karkadon entered, he sought to move carefully and deliberately, to avoid knocking any of them over. Still, the occasional rattle behind him rattled him.
“Like a Karkadon in a tea shop,” said the Osteomancer. Her voice was oddly sweet, in contrast to the visage that descended from the rafters. The Osteomancer was encased in a coffin of bone armor, and her claw-like hands gripped a staff glowing with green fire. Her deathly face scowled out from inside the skull of some great ancient titan. “Yes,” she stared at him. “What I could do with your bones.”
Darius began to speak, but felt the presence of someone else. He looked around. There was no other visible. The Osteomancer frowned. “Too stupid to speak?”
Angered, he held out the vial. “Make me a weapon.”
She nodded. “A weapon? You are another would-be Challenger. I look forward to harvesting your marrow.”
The Osteomancer descended; Darius could feel the chill of the cold fire on her staff, as she lifted the Essence from his hand. Rising again into the air, she uncapped it, sniffed delicately.
“Recently deceased. High quality. Very fresh.”
“My brother,” Darius choked.
“I thought I smelled revenge,” she smiled, with blackened teeth. “What kind of weapon do you seek?”
“One that can kill an Eternal,” he growled. “Or an Emperor.”
“Very ambitious, Champion.” The Osteomancer gazed at him with renewed interest. “A biting bitter blade, perhaps. An avenging axe. Or a cruel club.”
Darius felt again the presence of some other spirit. Trapped, waiting, but powerful. “Who else is here?”
“We are alone,” the Osteomancer cut him off. “Do you have any bone to contribute?”
“Bone?” asked Darius.
“You have brought me Essence. But for a weapon that strong, we shall need an amount of precious bone. Have you brought me any?”
“No.”
The Osteomancer smiled her horrible smile again. Her eyes lingered on his face. “Then I suppose we’ll have to improvise.” She drifted away, dragging her fingers across a glittering galley of saws, scissors, hammers and tongs.
Darius gulped and followed her into the dark.
The process took several hours. Those outside in the street quickened their pace, as the sounds from within the Osteomancer’s store were even more disturbing than usual. At last, as night fell, a lone figure emerged.
A Karkadon stumbled into the street, holding his face. When he released his hands, he gingerly touched his horn — or rather, the place where his horn had been. The bone had been cut down to the quick, leaving a stump like a felled tree. The Osteomancer had got her due.
But, in his other hand, he gripped a large, curved scimitar. A blade that beat with a heart of Life essence, the golden glow swimming under its silver surface like a school of fish. He raised the sword, christened it Omar, and bellowed into the night. Across the Market Bazaar, in the Colosseum Eternal, the hallways of the House of Light, even in the upper reaches of the Sable Hills, where the Emperor celebrated on his extravagant rooftop garden, they heard him for miles. The son of Narsani.[1]