Archives: New Marmo Republic
Chapter 13: The Triumvirate
Duke Spark had arranged a meeting with a new assassin. He never liked dealing with assassins, but considering the insidious enemies in the Dark Forest, it was the best way to go. Risking soldiers in unfamiliar and dangerous territory had proved to be more trouble than it was worth, and as an expecting father and noble, he couldn’t risk his own life to stake his claim this land for his king now. It frustrated him to no end not being able to do this on his own.
He had made an arrangement with a half-dark elf from Salbad, but after his last mission, Mica had gone off with his half-brother to find his father. Spark was not eager to find a new assassin, but he had confirmed rumors of a bandit gang in the Dark Forest. Ryna had connections with the underworld. He knew full well she was heading the local Thieves’ Guild, but officially, everyone just looked the other way, considering her heroic deeds at his side. She was considered a lady of the court by day, the wife of the captain of his guard. However, her insight as a thief was invaluable to the duchy, and her underworld contacts had given him a line of communication to the Shadow Guild where he could hire assassins. He never imagined that a knight like himself would ever be involved in such shadowy deeds.
Spark was meeting the new assassin in a building occupied at times by Thieves’ Guild members. Ryna had set it up for him, and assured him that her men, along with Garrack, would be watching his back in case the assassin couldn’t be trusted. She was to be waiting for him, but he didn’t know much about her beyond the fact that she was a dark elf. As Spark and Garrack arrived at the building, his large guard led the way in until the reached the meeting room. On edge, Spark took a breath before he turned the handle of the door, then pushed it open. Inside, a dark elf beautiful enough to take his breath away sat cross legged in a chair. She was beautiful, but something about the gaze in her red eyes chilled him at the core. This woman was a killer, and he could imagine she took great joy in this occupation.
Spark entered the room and took a seat in the chair across from her. Garrack hung back and stood next to the door. “Greetings,” he said as he sat.
Sevrina sized up the duke as he entered. She was amused by this meeting, being that he was such a notable individual, and a part of her was wondering what it would be like to kill home. However, she would only attempt that if she was hired to do so. She wasn’t a wanton murderer, there were the uses of each individual to consider—though, it wasn’t the legal or moral consequences she cared about. Spark was in a position of power, and held the key to new opportunities for her. Aside from that, she had strict rules not to kill such important people unless she was paid to do it.
“Greetings, Spark,” Sevrina spoke, regarding him with familiarity. Some assassins preferred not to deal in names of employers, but Sevrina had no intention of revealing her identity to him. “You may call me Aleina. I heard you have a job for me.”
Spark laid out his mission; “There is a stronghold of Marmo raiders calling themselves the Triumvirate near the desert. They are posing a threat to the duchy,” the duke began. Taking a roll of parchment from under his breastplate, Spark passed it to the dark elf. “I need you to take out their leaders, and anyone in a position of power. If you need to recruit more help, I will pay them as well. Three Raiden on the head of the three leaders, and one Raiden on the head of every officer beneath them. That letter contains all the information on your targets.”
Sevrina unrolled the parchment. It contained information and sketches of the three targets, but nothing more. She would have to do the work on their chain of command. “Very well then, we are agreed,” she replied. She rarely turned down an opportunity, or haggled. It seemed well within her abilities, though possibly beyond her limits. Before she decided whether to hire some underlings, Sevrina would have to scout the Triumvirate to decipher their chain of command. The dark elf rolled the parchment up again and tucked it into a pocket in her cloak, then stood. Tossing her hood up, she nodded a farewell to Spark and stepped out. She was eager to get underway with this mission.
Spark was surprised how easily she agreed; there was no haggling over price, no complaints about a more complicated mission, she just agreed and left. She left Spark with a bitter taste in his mouth though. He trusted Mica; despite his profession, the half-elf was a devout follower of Marfa and always loyal to his contracts. This beautiful dark elf... her beauty was like a facade; underneath that was something dark and insidious. “Do you think I’ve made a mistake?” Spark asked Garrack after Aleina left.
Garrack shrugged. “She doesn’t sit well with me,” he admitted. “But an assassin’s only loyalty is money. So long as she’s paid, she’ll serve you. You’ve got plenty of gold in the coffers, so I don’t think anyone is going to come along with a better offer for her on this island.” Garrack clung to this logic, but that woman chilled him to the core. The captain of the duke’s guard shuddered, as if to shake her off him. “Let’s get back home, eh? Neese’ll be worried if you stay out much longer at this hour.”
With a nod from Spark, the two departed, returning home to the castle formerly ruled by the Marmo council, then Beld, and now Duke Spark.
* * *
The southern expanse of Marmo was a wasteland. Sheltered by the peaks to the west, the lands of the Triumvirate received of the nourishing, tropical storms that often overtook the northern portion of the island. The tribes of the southern lands watched longingly as the heavily laden clouds would split northwards or off farther south to sea, never around to their portion of the god-forsaken island. The people lived on the same rocks that made up the mountains that spited them, which spread into cliffs towards the endless oceans beyond. The soil was clay, devoid of the richness that the north had.
As such, the tribes of Marmo who dwelled in the Rock Sea, as it was sometimes called, lived off of what they could. Living in one place was difficult; no soil help crops for long and the animals that dwelled in such a desolate place migrated about it. Brick towns were spread all across the Rock Sea Steppes, wherever flat land and a place for a dig-able well was located. Mostly, they were empty. Every few years, tribes sent out scouts to check abandoned towns to see if perhaps they had become livable again. Then they would move.
Though the hodge-podge of different races that made up the tribal peoples had managed to adapt to life in such a forbidding place, they were not a hospitable people. Even the kindest of people would steal or cheat an outsider that stumbled into their camps and towns. The worst outright killed any intruder, took their things for the betterment of themselves and their companions. Each group, over the years, had developed distinctive identities in their methods, thus forming what became the south of Marmo, which was said to operate on a chaotic set of rules of engagement. Tribes came to competition with each other and began wars when their numbers could stand it. Fights were bloody, but inconclusive. Survival became a problem for everyone and thus the landscape became the least of a tribe’s worries.
The idea that any tribes could be at peace was a relatively new concept. But three tribes had managed to unite and dominate the Rock Sea Steppes. The Triumvirate, as they were now called, faced a torrent of small offenses in an attempt to break up their collective. The others feared such an alliance would mean that they would, in time, be defeated. None had succeeded in their raids. Some say their success was due to numbers, but numbers rarely mattered in such conflicts. Those within the leadership of the Triumvirate knew otherwise. They credited their success, quite accurately, to legend.
The Triumvirate heralded the coming of a Weaponsmaster to their lands and united under his advice. The rumors went far and wide. Some said that this fighter had brought each of the tribes to their knees single handedly and they take orders from him. Some said that he offered Marmo to them if they came together. The truth was that this strange, black garbed warrior promised to aid them if they worked to unite the Rock Sea Steppes and trust in him in the future. They each did battle, proved themselves, and entered into a pact. The Triumvirate would, they all began to hope, encompass the southern portion of Marmo and become a state of a solitary, independent nation.
After the first three tribes were brought together, the other tribes noticed that their foes, once brought together, suddenly were not barbarians in technique. War strategy became implemented to a deadly degree. From atop the hills, the weaponsmaster watched from his steed and brought his teachings to bear in a defensive war that nearly eliminated casualties for the Triumvirate.
This Weaponsmaster was known as Grennith.
The three leaders took more of the credit than they deserved, but Grennith was held aloft as a general and noble of their respective tribes. When the last of the major assaults left the Triumvirate standing victorious, Grennith returned from the front with almost all of his warriors to a celebration in his honor.
* * *
“This is good, no?” boomed Lok. He was the leader of the Bear Tribe, the first Grennith had brought to the table. He was, as his tribe’s name suggested, a beast of a man, covered in muscle and hair. His old armor was half broken across his chest to show off his power to any who dared look at him. He fought without any weapon but heavy gauntlets, preferring to use his raw strength to rend his foes to pieces. They were known for the Death Drums: they would bash their weapons into their shields to the beat of deep drums, which they claimed called for blood. Before Grennith stepped in, the Bear Tribe didn’t even wear metal armor.
“It is,” Grennith replied softly. His voice was high and gentle, like a mother’s. The victory celebration included every soldier that fought. It consisted of feasting and drinking until the next invasion began.
“What did you say?” Lok asked, leaning down as he ripped some meat off of a bone with his teeth.
“It is very good,” Grennith replied, a little louder. He only said so to be polite.
Lok laughed, looking down at Grennith’s meager plate. “Get more,” he said, pointing to the boar skewered over a fire. “Put some meat on those bones of yours!” Lok nudged him in the side before engulfing some form of alcohol that tasted more like the rocks below them than ale. “I am finished,” Grennith said, rising.
“You’re leaving already?” Lok stood up, pounding a fist on the table. The table end splintered. “All of this is for you!”
“I have had a long journey returning,” the Weaponsmaster said, his voice calm, unafraid of the giant before him. The scar on his face was from Grennith’s sword. “I must settle my affairs and speak with Toumas and Shale before the night is out.”
“Hah!” Lok pushed away from the table and patted Grennith on the shoulder. “Even on a day like this, you look after us! Go, friend, if you must. I shall eat more for you!”
The night was cool, the sky empty. Grennith felt at peace when the hordes of soldiers were not about him. He luxuriated in the calm of the evening, thinking about his next steps. Behind him, he could hear the silent steps of someone coming up behind him. Grennith smiled. He could feel the air move push closer. In a single, sweeping motion, the Weaponsmaster caught the tiny wrist ready to tap him and swung the attached body into his lap. The young human boy lay on his back, his butt cradled in between Grennith’s legs, stared up at him wide-eyed for a moment, then started to laugh.
“Gren!” The young boy pushed himself up to give a hug, which Grennith accepted, while helping him to get there.
“Konta,” Grennith said warmly, hugging him back.
“I’m sorry. I told him to wait until tomorrow, but he wouldn’t sleep until he saw you,” said a kindly woman from behind.
Grennith stood up, ruffling the boy’s hair as he rose. “It is not a worry, Lady Auster,” The Weaponsmaster’s smile was genuine. “I was hoping to reach here before sunset, but the Storm tribe was determined. I know how persistent Konta is.”
“Oh please, Grennith, no formalities,” she said with a blush. “That boy is just like his father, isn’t he?”
“Will you tell me a story, Gren? What were the Storm Tribe like? Did they ride monsters, like the soldiers say? Can they make thunder and lightning? Did you beat all of them like last time?” Konta grabbed onto Grennith’s hand eagerly.
“You have seen him now. Come along, Konta. It is time for sleep.”
“But I want to know!”
Grennith knelt down in front of Konta. “I shall make you a deal.” Grennith brushed some of the dirty hair away from the boy’s face as he said it. “I shall tell you a story of this past moon as you get into bed. Come tomorrow, I shall tell you how we beat them.”
“Yes sir!” Konta said, pounding his tiny fist into his tiny chest, just like a proud barbarian.
Lady Auster chuckled. “Now off with you. Go get ready.”
“You are very good with children.”
Grennith nodded over the sleeping boy, pulling a blanket over him.
Lady Auster waited for a reply, but one never came. “You must teach me how you calm him down.”
“From the mouth of babes,” Grennith whispered, “comes the dreams of a nation. I will not be staying in this place much longer.”
“What?”
“I cannot stay.”
“But what of my husband, the Triumvirate? What of Konta?”
“You are well set now,” Grennith replied. “Marmo will need guidance elsewhere.”
Behind them, the wooden door to the temporary brick house opened and a well-scarred man poked his head in. “There you are,” he said quietly. “Walk with me, Grennith?”
Lady Auster put on a fake smile for her husband, then glanced back at the man who was as much family as her own child.
“I will bid you good night, Lady Auster.”
“You as well,” she breathed, with a tinge of sadness.
“You look well, Grennith. I trust the Storm Tribe regrets any attempt to stop us.” Toumas Auster was famed all across the Rock Sea Steppes for his marksmanship. He controlled the Viper Tribe and was the reason that the Triumvirate was sometimes considered to be made of bandits. Unlike most tribes, the Viper Tribe was more like a guild of deadly hunters and thieves than a group of people. He was the charisma of the Triumvirate, the head of it in a sense.
“They put forth a valiant effort.” It was all the credit he could give them, considering how few men Grennith had lost.
“Capital. I knew I could trust you.” Toumas scratched his shaved head and looked back towards the old shelter. “Konta come chasing you again?”
“He is getting better at sneaking. He could overtake you someday.”
“That’s what Kayla says too.”
“Lady Auster has a good eye then.”
“Perhaps too good an eye, I say,” Toumas replied. “If I didn’t, well, know better, I’d think you two had something going on.” He gave Grennith a once over.
“Your knowledge serves you well.”
“Right.”
“Where is Shale?” Grennith inquired after a moment.
Toumas scoffed. “Out in the wilderness somewhere, communing with his spirits.” Shale was the chief of the Falcon tribe and was a powerful shaman. Very few tribes dared to assault the Falcon tribe out of fear for Shale’s purported contract with the king spirit Behemoth. It was rumored that, with his help, Shale had sealed another tribe deep underground. No one survived from that tribe to tell the tale. “Watching for anyone else who wants to try our borders, he says. I’m starting to wonder if it was a good idea to bring him on.”
“What bothers you?”
“I never met a dark elf that didn’t like to back stab.” Toumas sighed, looking up to the stars. “He spends too much time on his own.”
“Shamans must take time to keep the spirits appeased. I am sure he is wary, as you are, of this. Give him time,” Grennith said.
“Fair enough.”
Grennith and Toumas Auster walked for a time away from the camps, with little to be said. Grennith was still uncertain as to when and how he would leave the Triumvirate. Toumas was questioning Grennith’s motives for bringing them together. Neither one expected what the other was considering.
“I’ve been thinking,” Auster said, “that the Soryen Riders might consider joining us with the right rewards. They say there are no better raiders on the Steppes. Their horses run faster than Rada from Falaris, I hear.”
Grennith nodded. Toumas was thinking like a leader. When the Weaponsmaster had come across him the first time, he was a liar and a cheat, one of the best. Now, Toumas had a sense of honor in his dealings. He could still backstab, but the idea that he would be a leader of men, not dogs, was drilled into him by many sparring matches with Grennith, every time a humiliating loss. A leader should have the courage to be humble and be afraid of bravado, he was told. At first, the quiet wanderer had baffled Toumas, no more than an amusement. It wasn’t until he saw how all of his men revered Grennith after such a short time that the chief of the Viper Tribe realized how true Grennith’s words were.
“You are quiet. Are you strategizing our next victory, Weaponsmaster?”
“It is nothing. The borders of the Triumvirate are secure.” Grennith’s voice was unnaturally high, like a woman’s.
“Nothing, huh? Your words, not mine.” Toumas sighed into the chilly night air.
“If you will excuse me...”
Toumas watched Grennith walk away. “Hey,” he called out. “You never told me how the battle went.”
“Many men died,” Grennith said over his shoulder as he left.
* * *
“Grennith.”
“Shale.” Grennith’s slender hand fell softly on the padded leather of the invisible Dark Elf’s armor. The spirits fluttered away, revealing the last of the leaders of the Triumvirate. He was traditionally slim and weaponless save a dagger. Shale was old for a resident of the Rock Sea Steppes, well over 600 years old. He was born there and had never left it. It was often said that Shale was the historian of the wastelands, as no one else could claim to have lived there as long as he. He could remember the names of tribes lost to the sands, perhaps even tell what tribes came from what previous tribes. Beyond being incredibly wise, the dark elf was an expert shaman with an affinity for earth spirits. The Falcon Tribe was never short food or water thanks to him and the spirits who sought out the precious reserves. And no one ever took his tribe by surprise. Shale always knew they were coming.
“There was victory,” Shale said, making it a point of fact. His voice was raspy. As powerful as the shaman was, he was ill somehow. No one knew what it was.
“There was.” Shale took pride in knowing everything that happened in the tribe lands.
“Come, sit with me a while. We shall listen to what the earth has to say.”
* * *
The day after she spoke with Spark, Sevrina began her mission. This would begin as reconnaissance, learning their strength and weaknesses, and the ranks in the group. She had prepared everything she needed and packed it all onto her horse’s saddle before she set off into the dark elven forest. It had been years since she set foot back on Marmo, but since the change in power and Ashram’s exodus, Sevrina felt it was finally time to return. Nothing remained of the Shadow Guild she left behind, and she no longer feared punishment for the murder of her father. She didn’t expect to return to the dark elven village though, and she had no interest in seeing her mother again.
Sevrina trekked through the forest, taking time to reacquaint herself with the lay of the land. It was likely that Spark may need her services further on this island, so it was time to get to know her homeland again. She at least knew how to get to the basin-like desert that lay in the south of the dark island. The forest had almost entirely changed, but she still had her sense of direction. Occasionally, she recognized a ruin or a tree here or there, but the forest had been reborn after Marfa cleansed the island. Instead of the dark, sickly looking plants that used to fill the forest, it was a lush, green jungle.
The dark elf was coming nearer to the steppes surrounding the desert, so she dismounted her horse. She was armed, as usual, but not with all her weapons. Her fighting daggers were strapped to her thighs, a few throwing daggers were hidden throughout her outfit, and her whip was around her waist. She expected only close range and ranged fighting, but she wasn’t sure if she would need her bow or sword for this mission.
What Sevrina found at the Northern edge of the Steppes was the remains of a battle. The dry landscape had eaten away at the bodies and weathered the cheap swords and spears. Though there was little beyond their garb and their bones, it was clear that this battle hadn’t gone on more than a week before. She could count more than eighty men dead, but all of them wore the attire of the same tribe. Whatever had done the killing had to of been left untouched. The only sign of who had done it was a single war flag, driven up in the center of the fallen men. Against the reds and yellows of the rock and sand, the black flag was vivid. It was carefully crafted, as a traditional nation’s might; in it was sewn the Eye of Marmo, except all in white.
A few youths, no older than fifteen each, were scurrying about the corpses, raiding the bodies of equipment. None of them had noticed Sevrina. They were focused on the bits of gold, crystals, and other trinkets that the soldiers once carried...
Sevrina moved on, sticking to the rocky hillsides. Even she was paranoid of the desert, knowing the creatures that dwelt there. She heard of sandworms that lurked beneath the dunes like sharks waiting in the ocean. Without a proper guide to recognize the signs of their presence, she wasn’t going to tempt fate. Aside from that, the raider tribes lived above the sand.
* * *
“An outsider comes...” Shale’s eyes stayed closed. The sands danced around him in spirals, earth spirits leaping from grain to grain in a dark glow.
“What is the significance of this person?” Grennith asked quietly. Shale never mentioned things if they weren’t important.
“The rocks speak to me. They say the outsider walks without sound across their surface.”
“A thief, then. Or...”
“An assassin,” Shale hissed, almost inaudible.
“Are you sure?”
Shale did not respond right away. The sand curled into itself and popped like a bubble. “She is strong. The spirits know her.”
“Dark elven. Old, you think?”
“To you only, the earth says.” Shale grinned. “Each step comes closer to us.” The aged dark elf opened his eyes as the dust settled about him. “There is motive in her.”
“Its a woman?” Grennith asked, his voice falling low.
“If a man cannot bring you down, perhaps a woman can.” Shale rose with the help of his companion.
“We shall see.”
