Rage Ascendancy Chapter 1

Ash fell in heavy blankets across the torn battlefield. Great black plumes billowed from desolated cottages, from torn down and disheveled homes. Along a path laden with the blood of dead warriors there stood one above all others. The one that went by many names; Oath Breaker, Kin Slayer, He Who Slays the Seas and The Dragon’s Aspect. Yet, to the husks of his foes, he is known by his true name; Kar-Tak.

Roughly translated from the Alatarian language, he is known as Unrivaled Fury. A figure of unparalleled ferocity he was, his curved blade of emerald steel hemmed through ash, through his foes. Like a plague of ants they came, one after another down the sleek streets of Alathar, throwing themselves headlong into the fray that could only truly end with more blood. Kar-Tak’s blade came down upon another warrior, and then another, an endless supply of blood for the Blood Oath that he no longer followed, yet the ones who lay broken still clung to.

Faces he had once remembered. Brothers and sisters of the old way, the way of the Blood Oath. Alatarians, his own kin that lay decimated at his feet. His home burning to the ground as the ones he once knew screamed with fury and anger. Yet he felt nothing. Alatarians are stripped of their emotions young, only left with the hunger for war, for the blood that may subsist their cursed oath. An oath he followed for many years until the day of the betrayal. The day he resigned his oath for another.

High above a mighty storm raged that sent webs of ivory streaks, coating the sky in a thick glow of light that cascaded along the clouds. A mighty roar echoed through the field as a great and mighty shadow fell along the warriors. Wings tinted in a crimson glow sliced through clouds of gossamer, sending streaks of black translucent waves of energy in their wakes. Stelerax, of the Void Wing, an ancient black dragon that reigned supreme in the land above the earth clashed headlong into a wave of golden wyverns. Claws like spears and breath of white flames it tore through their ranks, engulfing the battlefield below in its glory. Yet the wyverns came again and again, a never-ending wave of the beasts summoned by the witches of Alathar known only as The Sisters of Slow Death. They used wicked black magics to subjugate the once noble creatures into their bidding, corrupting their blood with magic of the purest black. Stelerax felt for his kin, but dove onward to the fray, as did Kar-Tak down below.

` Kar-Tak’s emerald blade came down like a hammer, sundering another Alatarian Screamer. Blood spewed forth like a crimson fountain that bathed the floor, coagulating against the sand, turning to a thick slurry. It did not slow the assault, it could not. He had lived this life, bathed in the glory of battle since birth as did every Alatarian, but only now did the glory of war feel meaningless to him. The Blood Oath had been abandoned, and with it the sacred war pact. His kin were bred for war, for conquest. Stripped of emotion and taught only to give into the rage of battle. Succumb to the furies of war. Only then could they feel happiness.

                The city state was a massive sprawl of streets and alleys that broke off into countless directions. Built on the purpose to confuse invaders, the concept was lost to Kar-Tak. He lived these streets, trained in the war camps of his home and drank deep within the taverns and meal halls. Over a decade it has been since his leaving, but the memories lingered like a ghost.

Kar-Tak had his eyes trained to the city square. There, a colony of his former allies, his brothers of the oath, stood in a great wall. His war band had broken off near the city limits, but his objective was clear. To fulfill his pact was his only goal. Around each corner, small skirmishes erupted between the Alatarian forces, and Kar-Tak’s war band. The remnants of them remained as a distraction for the Oathbreaker, for he was the only one capable of putting this war to an end.

His sword swung a low cleave, separating the knees from two warriors. They screamed, but not in pain, but in an overflowing well of anger. It was widely believed that Alatarians could not feel pain, that the rituals the witches committed to the young Alatarians somehow stunted such feeling. The thought was incorrect. They felt pain, much greater than most, but it fueled the fury, it fueled the rage.

A pair of warriors flanked Kar-Tak. On each side they rushed for the warrior as his eyes were trained ahead. The pattering of sand erupted beneath their feet that pierced the shouts of war as Kar-Tak reared to the side, his emerald blade arching up to defend against the first attack. The blades CRACKED violently, sending sparks of gold and blood falling to the sandy floor. From the other side, another attack lunged forth, aiming for the undefended portion of his side. With a quick motion, Kar-Tak lunged back, placing his free hand against the conflicting blade and drove it deep into the warrior’s neck. Before the owner of the blade could react, Kar-Tak drove his hand to his shoulder and shattered the bone with his grip. The Alatarian screamed in a fit of agony before Kar-Tak thrusted his curved black across his neck, severing the screaming in an instant.

Moving like a wave, Kar-Tak passed to the square. The sandy streets turned to a checkered cobble. Large pillars of grey and white cracked marble jutted from the ground, connected together by large beams that ran along the middle of the square. Alatarian warriors lined up in countless rows running along the dividing lines, each brandishing weapons of shimmering steel make. Along the ground stains of black and red withered against the cobble, melding and shading into one another. The streets of Alathar were well known for daily combat, whether they be for training or just pleasure to be scorn across an opponent’s skin. The city square was no exception, yet the blood was fresh from war. Across the sea of warriors, far past the blood and stone, stood a great building with large black spires. The Citadel of the One stood as a stark reminder of the power Alathar possessed. Only there could Kar-Tak’s oath be fulfilled.

Amidst the warriors that stood at the ready between the invading war-chief and his prize was a man who stood a head taller than the rest. A man Kar-Tak knew far greater than any else. The onslaught ceased as the two warriors locked eyes, their innate killing intent lingered like a stain in the air. Kar-Tak moved with pounding steps, the blood still drying against the bare of his chest, across the scar that began it all. The mountain of a warrior stood where he had been, content that if an invader would want to come to blows, he would come to him. Yet this was no ordinary invader. No, this had not been the first war fought on Alatarian soil. Many nations saw the city state as either a prize to be won, or an obstacle to be laid to rest. But this invader was no mere foreigner who sought glory. The man was right at home.

Kar-Tak stood at the edge of a line scorn into the earth, a great big circle that had been carved into the very cobble of the street. Painted in red and gold, the circle had been the stage for many duels. Duels set between brothers of the Blood Oath. Never before had an Oathbreaker set foot upon this sacred ground. Kar-Tak stood upon the bloodied rock, muscles tensing against the cold winter breeze, and looked onto his lost brother.

Rak-Jeb, I have come…” Kar-Tak spoke, his voice a trembling boom.

“I will hear no words from a worm, an Oathbreaker. You, the one who stands upon sacred ground. You, the one who spills the blood of his brothers, not of glory, but of greed and want. No, I’ll not hear from a Kinslayer.” Rak-Jeb spoke.

As children, Alatarians are brought before The Sisters for their rites. They are passed among the dark coven and tested of their resolve, of their mettle. If they deem the child of lesser value, they are tossed aside to survive on their own. A fate that often leads to their demise amongst The Great Mountains and its icy peaks. If, on the other hand, the child should prove worthy, they are given their final rites. The ending of such a ritual leaves the child a husk to be molded, like clay amidst a hearth forged of bone and blood. They are forged to be of use to Alathar, and to be of use they are given a name. Their Given name. It is believed that The Sisters peer into the fate of the child, weaving through the strings of their life to understand the purpose they might possess. Once decided, The Sisters thrust upon them a name of power. A name that shall be a prelude of things to come. Later in life, an Alatarian may be granted a second name, a name earned and honed through their exploits that they may now be a complete being. Their Taken name.

Rak-Jeb, Ceaseless Hunger.

Kar-Tak looked onto his lost brother, a brother he had not seen for well over a decade. Not since the great betrayal. “Our people slay our own kin. It is our religion, brother. As we slay the world, we hunger for power. A power that must be fed to the Blood Oath. An oath that has no beginning, no ending. Can you not see even now?”

“We slay in the name of glory! We conquer for our oath, for the ones who came before! The world is nothing but a battleground, waiting for our conquest, waiting to offer of themselves the blood that will fuel our oath so that we may offer it in the time that comes after. After the seas run dry and the fields wither away. A time when mothers discard their young and hounds feast upon themselves. We slay to give the blood of our conquests to our oath, for the rivers that run red and thick along the isles of the hereafter.” Rak-Jeb spit to the painted cobble below. “What you slay your kin for is an embarrassment. You forsook your oath and now you stand as nothing more than a snake that bites its own tail. Oathbreaker, Kinslayer, Coward!” He screamed.

Jeers from across the field rang out, pelting Kar-Tak with insults and curses. No allies stood by his side. He was alone.

“I forsake an oath that holds no meaning. You speak of cowardice, yet you hide amongst a war-band of thousands for one worm.”

Rak-Jeb leaned back as he bellowed a powerful laugh. “You think of me hiding?! I stand before you with arms of acceptance, of want. My war-band could decimate your puny form in but an instant, yet you stand here under my order. Can you not see me Kar-Tak? I stand before you alone, to send you to whatever world they send traitors and cowards when they cease to breath!”

“Oh, I see you brother. I see you for what you are. You speak of cowardice, yet all those years ago on the night of our nation’s greatest shame you stood firm as I was cast aside. You stood not alone but with him…” Kar-Tak thrusts a finger to the dark citadel. “As I was put to the ground. Left to die, and for what! What part of your oath speaks of betraying a sworn brother?”

Faint murmurs echoed through the crowd of warriors as the accusation stood like a stain amongst the mist.

“The oath of our kin is to slay for power, for blood. You were weak then, Kar-Tak. I have no love for what has happened, but the oath demands power. Power at any cost.”

Kar-Tak scoffed, a look of anger and remorse stretched across the muscles lining his face. “Do you truly believe that? For whom do you speak; your oath, or for him? I have seen things in this world that would change any man. I’ve seen how warriors live, how they fight, what they live for. I’ve seen the oaths they take, the lives they fight for. I see that our people…We fight for nothing! For an oath with no end, for a chieftain who forsakes his own! We fight for power that is not ours to take, and for what? So, I ask you, Rak-Jeb, who’s words do you speak?”

A silence etched itself along the frozen air. The sound of breathing, of metal hitting metal in the distance, of quiet comprehension for what is to come. Rak-Jeb stood firm, his shoulders back, his chest forward. The posture of a warrior, but more than that, was the stance of a leader. Yet, his face shifted. Where once he held the look of an Alatarian general, ready to rip away whatever fool dared question his right to blood, to power, now it showed something Alatarians knew almost nothing of. Remorse, questioning, a sickening look of disgust, but for what?

The war band stood at the ready, their faces looking onto their general for the word to strike, but none came. Kar-Tak remained stoic, looking onto his lost brother with hope that his words meant something, anything. That they could pierce the harsh skin that had been beaten to a shining bronze from decades of war, of conditioning. He prayed that it wasn’t too late.

“Rak-Jeb, it is not too la-”

“Stop.” Rak-Jeb finally spoke. “You know where we stand, brother. Amongst the stains of thousands of those who came before. A sea of brothers of pasts lives that watch down on us, expecting.”

“The dead can expect what they want, but we still live. The expectations of the past hold no more weight than the wind itself.”

Rak-Jeb smirked, brushing back his long-braided hair that stood nearly to his waist. “When the dead speak for battle, the living must be their puppets.” He spoke. “The dead are not long gone, and it will take more than words to sway them, brother.”

Kar-Tak’s face relaxed to a somber stare of understanding. Scars littered his shoulders, his back and legs. The scars were a tapestry of events, of strife and sorrow. They spoke of a life where words meant so little, where actions and steel were more powerful than any speech. His body was a canvas, a thesis to the folly of man. He resented every inch.

“Yes, brother.” Kar-Tak began, his voice low and methodical as he gripped his blade. “I suppose it will.”

The two Alatarians breached the inner circle of the ancient arena. One a zealot of the old ways, the Oath of Blood; the other, an outsider, and Oathbreaker, yet both stood on equal terms amongst the stains of the dead. The masses of the warband screamed in battle spirit for the bounty they were about to receive. Kar-Tak lowered his blade, dragging its tip against the sand, drawing a line of travel as he walked. Rak-Jeb did the same. They etched a new line amongst the infinite carvings that littered the ground. The two moved slowly, unfaltering in their stares, in their battle readiness. They soaked in the essence of blood and death long passed, taking it in for strength.

Rak-Jeb halted in the edge of the inner circle, blood-stained sand and cobble hardened to a fine obsidian below his feet. Kar-Tak stood adjacent; blade raised to his side once more. Rak-Jeb took his blade, a large two-handed great sword that had been emblazoned along the hilt with gems of sapphire and jade. The man-sized weapon hefted skyward, finally landing and resting against his massive shoulders. A silent hush fell across the warband, the anticipation for battle, for bloodshed was like a drug to the Alatarians. Becoming drunk on fury and blood was commonplace, if not expected of a warrior. The omen that hung above the two warriors was like a cursed haze of emotion, ready to be unleashed. The warband waited for its arrival.

Kar-Take raised the blade, passing his off-hand across the length of the cold steel. Even amidst battle, fire and bone clashing like wave against wave, the blade still held its chill. It recalled times of war, of bloodshed and conflict. The cold was like a mentor that had shaped his muscles and hardened his bones. Kar-Tak smiled a waning look of understanding.

He looked to Rak-Jeb, his lost brother and called out. “Upon the sand of the dead we will lay to rest the sins of our past. When the blood runs wet through the sand of eternity, when the blood becomes one with those who came before, we shall forget the transgressions that our scars do tell. This I swear amongst the warband of my blood. This I swear, brother of my blood.”

“You remember the words well for one who disowns his oath. Could it be that underneath all the muscles and thought your heart still burns for Alathar?” Rak-Jeb yelled back.

Kar-Tak lowered his blade back to his side. “I have never forgotten, brother. We are cursed to remember what we have done, and upon my Oath, I will etch our sins into the annals of history.”

“I suppose you will.” Rak-Jeb lowered his torso straight, propping the blade of his sword against his shoulder. “But I won’t be subjugated so easily.”

A hush fell across the torn battlefield as the two warriors, once brothers, stood in anticipation. Rain fell in droves, heavy torrents that soaked the sand like tears against skin. With all the world like a soft murmur, the air grew still. There was no turning back, no escaping what must happen.

Without thought, without remorse, without pause, the two brothers commenced the duel.

To be continued