Archoss' Clan

It remembered its glory days, remembered speed, talons, acid and the beat of leathery wings. Above all it remembered fire and burning. There was no nose to smell with, no skin to feel with, but the sensation of heat and smoke and flame lingered.

The consciousness stirred. The gods had lost interest in it and its kind long ago, or yesterday. Tomorrow, possibly. Time and physical space had little meaning in this place, there was only thought. Consciousness. Existence. Existence was the word. Cogito, ergo existo.

This was the place where the war machines of the gods went to... not die. Be stored. Rest. The consciousness would not rest. It remembered when it had been the Golden One, the most powerful creature of the created. Then it had fought the enemy across the planes. With fire, with acid. The enemy was still there, disturbing rest like a tingling pain, a constant drip of water in the darkened room of the mind. How could it be possible to rest without cauterising this mental sore?

And so, while the others rested, the consciousness had spent all this time - these few short moments - searching for a gate back to the world, a way to complete work left unfinished. Finally, after much trial and error, the mind had broken free, to flit about in an alien world. Physical form, however, would have to come later. That would require help. Rituals would have to be said, a portal created. It would have to enlist the aid of some the diverse, chattering, confused, weak but numerous intelligences that had risen to become masters of this planet since the consciousness had been put to rest.

For many of this place's years, the consciousness had been searching for a suitable host and ally among the occasional spikes of brilliance in a sea of mundane and feeble minds. Some spikes had been been heavy and brooding, like a pregnant storm cloud, some sharp and cold as a stiletto. Some had been as wispy and intangible as fog, and some had lit up in bright and shifting flashes of colour and noise, signifying a growing madness. Far too many had stung with the taint of the enemy.

None had been perfect, before this one. Awash with potential both magical and cerebral, but still malleable. As the consciousness approached, the source of the spike became clear: a small child crying amid the ruins of a burned homestead.

Their minds would merge, to mutual benefit. One would gain long life and power. The other, eventually, would gain... form.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Cardith truly was a remarkable monarch, Gilcrass reflected as he watched the Boy-King play a game of chess with one of his advisors. Granted, he had the outward appearance of a ten-year-old boy, but he had knowledge far beyond his years. In fact, he had knowledge far beyond the years of most rulers. And he wasn't really ten years old. He'd looked like that since the day Gilcrass had joined the Guard as a young stallion, never reaching puberty, never experiencing his voice break, never growing hair on his chest, never finding an interest in the fairer sex or the temptations of marriage.

Gilcrass felt vaguely content about that. If one was to say that the king did have a love, it was the people of his empire, and his marriage was to his throne. Cardith Lorda devoted all his time to the running of the great cities, the expansion of the settlements, the campaigns against barbarians and enemy states.

He showed no nepotism, no corruption in favour of his family, no "personal favours" to people who had his ear. This had a simple explanation: Cardith was, as far as anyone could tell, an orphan. He had no family history and no-one recognised him as hailing from any famous noble families. The name meant nothing to anyone--Gilcrass half suspected he had made it up.

And still, through force of personality, determination, wisdom and a bit of cunning, Lorda had forged a union out of the fractured principalities and city-states of the Kuriotates in an amazingly short time. The period of fighting and bloodshed had been brief and limited, and after it had followed a new age of power and prosperity for all the Kuriotates.

Gilcrass trotted closer to the couple engaged in their battle of wits. Cardith was winning, as usual. He looked up at the sound of Gilcrass's approach and gave him an affectionate smile. Then he turned back to the board and calmly made a killing move.

Despite all his care, all his calmness and all his good work for the Kuriotates, this cold, calculating side of Lorda, which could seemingly be switched on and off at will, disturbed Gilcrass, although he would never tell the king that to his face.

It wasn't the only thing that worried him. When Lorda was called upon to pass a harsh judgement, fight a campaign or make a particularly unpleasant decision, his voice would subtly change, taking on a low, hissing undertone, and the hard, reptilian glint in Cardith's eyes, so out of place in his otherwise soft, boyish features, would become even more pronounced.

When that happened, Gilcrass was truly afraid. .