The Five Kingdoms

The man stepped out of the shadows silently. He had waited a long time for the room to empty. He had watched people come and go, observed as they searched both the room and the body, listened as they discussed the details of the crime. Most of it would not be useful.

The murderer had not left many clues. The Librarian had been knifed from the back, his throat slit. But only a shallow cut. The poison did all the work. The assassin wanted something. Information probably. But any answers died with the Librarian’s last breaths.

The murder was deliberate, and carefully planned. Most of the evidence, what evidence there was, was circumstantial. The time of the murder coincided with the Queen’s speech, so that the Library was nearly empty. The Librarian’s hands had been removed after his death, and no clues could be gathered from them. The room had been ransacked. If the assassin were looking for particular information, it would be impossible to isolate what it might have been.

The Queen’s guards, who had no experience with such crimes, could discern little. But even had they been more thorough, they would not have discovered anything useful. There had not been any mistakes. They would not be able to solve this murder unless the assassin struck again, if he ever did.

No, the assassin had been too proficient to leave behind a trail.

Fortunately, someone else had provided the clues the man would need to continue the search. From his hidden vantage point, he had witnessed the Herald enter the room, doing his best to stay unnoticed. His name was Colm Bainbridge, and from what the man knew of him, was not favorably looked upon.

What connection the Herald might have with the Librarian was beyond him for now. But for whatever reason, he risked arrest by stealing a map during a crime investigation. This map had been buried amongst the clutter of the room. There was no certainty that it was connected to the Librarian’s death, but it must have been important for the Herald to go to such lengths.

The assassin’s trail was cold, so he was left with discovering what was on that map, why it was stolen, and what, if any, connection Colm Bainbridge had to the Librarian’s murder.

The man slipped out of the now empty room. He must first report to his master, and then he would locate Bainbridge before the Herald disappeared from the city. Or wound up dead himself.

The constant stream of people entering and exiting the private studies of the Great Library remained constant for over an hour. There were palace guards, court officials, librarian custodians, priests, officers of varying ranks, and a host of servants. Even the Queen’s Chief Stewardess made an appearance. Nicobar was quite sure it was the most activity the library had seen since its construction.

His brother had insisted that Nicobar stay out of the way while he discovered what news was to be had. So Nicobar sat in a secluded corner and focused on his studies the best he could. But the constant drum of passersby made it impossible to concentrate, even if his brother’s shocking revelation from earlier that evening had not still been demanding his attention.

Colm had sent a message insisting that he come to the library right away, not the first time Nicobar had received an urgent request to meet him at some far flung point in the city. But usually they amounted to little more than pleas for coin or help tracking down some valuable artifact that was rumored in the city market, artifacts which invariably turned out to be tin daggers.

But tonight, there was no doubt something important was afoot. When he arrived at the library, Colm immediately announced the Chief Librarian had been murdered, and before he had time to explain, he got called away. His brother whispered that he should wait out of the way, and not to talk to anyone.

If true, if Gregor Algemon had indeed been murdered, it would be a scandal the likes of which had not been seen in Crown Hill for more than a century. A pickpocket loose in the city made news. The Queen’s rule depended entirely on her ability to maintain order, and she was zealous in pursuing it. A murderer so close to the palace compounds would face the entirety of the Queen’s special forces and the city watch hunting for him. He would not stand a chance.

Nicobar had only been privileged enough to meet the Chief Librarian on one occasion. CL. Algemon had been invited to lecture to the Tower’s permanent delegation in Crown Hill, and Nicobar had been selected to serve as escort to the distinguished scholar. Few words were exchanged, and he got the impression the Librarian was a taciturn man, but Nicobar had been enchanted with his erudite manner . This was a man steeped in knowledge, one who even the wisest of men listened to closely.

But he also was very old. Perhaps his death only looked suspicious. More likely, his heart had failed. Or perhaps he had collapsed, hitting his head in the process. Nicobar started cataloging all the possible scenarios, going so far as to jot them down on his parchment before him. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that murder was out of the question.

So when Colm returned, and quickly ushered him out into the empty hallway, Nicobar could not have been more astonished at what his brother had to say.

“The Chief Librarian was stabbed with a poisoned dagger. Death was painful, and not quick.”

“Who would do such a thing?” Nicobar asked in horror.


“Someone who wanted information. And I think I know just the information he was looking for.” Colm pulled a map from his Herald’s bag he always wore at his side, a tattered old map painted in faded oils, the kind of map that was no longer made, and Nicobar knew that it must be very old. He saw enough to recognize that it showed a remote area of the borderlands, near the Great Forest.

“Where did you get that?”

“I stole it. Let’s go someplace we can talk. I have a lot to tell you.”

Nicobar sighed. It was another one of his brother’s crazy plots, the kind which usually ended with him taking the brunt of the blame. But never before had murder been involved. And looking at the enthusiastic expression on his brother’s face as he folded the map and returned it to his waist pouch, it would be especially difficult to talk sense into him.

Olafur sat the front pew of the chapel, his feet dangling just above the floor. He nervously eyed the Abbot as she grimly stared into the scriptures unrolled on the lectern, not reading, but perhaps immersed in prayer or contemplation. Alsam Lim, the rector, paced across the dais, fussing with his black, oily hair incessantly.

Finally, his patience frayed. “You must not give this boy the orb. It would be the height of foolishness. Keep it here, where we can protect it.”

The Abbot looked up from scrolls, and stared coldly at the Rector. “You yourself said that we would not be able to forestall the forces arrayed against us. We must do whatever is necessary to protect the Orb.”

“You wish to protect it by throwing it away,” Lim retorted with disgust. It was no secret he and the Abbot rarely saw eye to eye, but never before had Olafur seen them openly oppose each other. He stared down at the floor in embarrassment, wishing himself away.

“I have made my decision. Now leave us.” Lim bowed stiffly and swept out of the chapel. The Abbot, stepping off the dais, turned her attention to Olafur for the first time. The youth raised his eyes hesitantly, and was surprised to find her smiling sadly as she sat down on the pew next to him.

“I am forced to place a great burden on your shoulders, a burden no one should have to carry. If you were smart, you would refuse. But you are young, and headstrong, and I know that you will not.”

Olafur inhaled nervously. “I will do my best Mother to fulfill your trust,” he replied, resolutely. But he was seized by a sudden trepidation that he would let her down. He would do anything he asked of her, as she surmised, but he was not looking for danger. Life in the monastery appealed to him exactly because it was safe and calm, so very different from his previous life on the plains. He found himself sympathizing with the Rector, quietly questioning why she would think to entrust him with such a dangerous mission.

The Abbot sighed. “I know that you will, Olafur. Now listen carefully, as we do not have much time.” She pulled a small, square box from under her robes, the size of a melon.

“You must run to the village. Find a man named Hiram Fletcher, and give him this box. Whatever happens, do not allow our enemies to see you, or to get their hands on what’s inside.”

Olafur nodded quickly, and took the box as she handed it to him. It was lighter than he expected, and he slipped it carefully into his knapsack. He stood up, but could not resist asking one question.

“Who is it?”

“Who would attack the temple, you mean? Many people would like to get their hands on the orb, for its magic is powerful. But I have an idea who is behind this attack, and it won’t be the first time they have tried.” She stood abruptly. “Now go, Olafur, and do your best not to be seen. You must not, under any circumstances, be captured with that box.”

Olafur bowed formally and hurried to the Chapel entrance. As he ran through the Monastery, ready to do his utmost to fulfill the Abbot’s trust in him, the many unasked questions rattled in his head more loudly than his footsteps.

The Kingdom of Morena reigned over central Ashan for several millennia during what is now known as the Warring States period. Crown Hill, even at that time, served as Morena’s capitol. From the ancient keep turned fortress overlooking the city, Queen Dorothea governed her kingdom, usually directing several wars at once, without ever setting foot outside her well-fortified citadel. Her rule, often cited as more just than merciful, prided itself on maintaining the martial discipline necessary to preserve the kingdom’s territories in the face of near constant onslaught.

If you were to look at an old map of Morena, Crown Hill, would lie almost exactly at the center. The Adrielle River flowed through the capital, feeding the fertile plains that surrounded it. This area was under direct control of the Monarchy, although local governance was maintained by the minor nobles that administered the various counties and wards. The rest of Morena was divided into six Thanes, all of which owed direct allegiance to the Queen. They were Gaishun and Kolaida, known together as the Twin Thanes, the Euphemian Plains, Whisperwood, Thisbe, and Hesiod’s Pan.

To the North lay the Twin Thanes, Gaishun and Kolaida. These two cities stood at the foot of the Agni Mountains, facing each other from across the beginnings of the Adrielle River. The leather-skinned mountain tribes were kept at bay behind the Long Wall, which stretched many miles in either direction and marked the Kingdom’s northern boundary.

To the northeast, several days ride from Crown Hill, began the Nahalan forest. Even further northeast emerged the foothills of Ios. This mountain group, which gradually increased in height until forming the tallest peaks in all of Ahsan, were the meeting point of two separate ranges, the Agni and the Grey. The region, known as the Staircase to Heaven, was home to the giant races.

The Grey Mountains, at an almost 90 degree angle to the Agni Mountains, stretched towards the south. The Mountains were separated from Morena by the vast and deep Stone Canyon, which was impassable save by flight or magic.

To the south, in the vast Euphemian Plains, lived the diminutive humanoids known as the Hanner Dyn, or shortstriders. The plains ran all the way to the Great Ocean. No one in even the furthest memory has ever ventured beyond the continent in that direction, because the way was blocked by the Orospu Islands, home to the chromatic dragons.

To the west of the plains, the multiple branches of the Adrielle formed the Herpelon Delta. The swamp was inhabited by all manner of reptilian races, including some dragons. Not far to the north, near the widest point of the Adrielle, lay the city of Whisperwood.

Even further west began the Eilleithisan, or the Great Forest, home to the Faerie. It was a mystical and mysterious forest, and its inhabitants remained aloof from most of the constant battling of the neighboring kingdoms, only allowing themselves to become involved when their own way of life was threatened.

To the far west of Crown Hill stood the holy city of Thisbe. This Thane was charged with protecting Morena and its borderlands from the great evil of Skeldya, whose domain began just beyond the border in the Dead Hills.

Finally, occupying approximately the midpoint between Crown Hill, Thisbe, and Whisperwood, rested the economic bastion of Hesiod’s Pan, which acted as a trade center and market place for all the outlying rural areas.

With enemies at every corner, Morena faced a constant struggle for survival, a survival that, through a knotting of fateful events, would suddenly come to depend upon a group of young teenagers from a small, nondescript village known as Moon’s Thresh.

Cal, having to travel the furthest, reached the cave last. By the time she arrived, the moon was past its midpoint, and she cast a long shadow that reached Dish and Dusty as they huddled together, excitedly discussing the attack.

“There’s no way it’s humans. I say they’re from the Forest,” Dish contended, sporting the same dark cloak he has always worn for their midnight adventures. As such, his body was nearly invisible, even with the light streaming from the entrance. Only his face, sharply contrasting his dark hair and the blackness behind him, could be clearly distinguished.

“We’re too far from any borders,” countered Dusty. The golden-brown hair on his neck and cheeks, almost thick as fur, radiated in that same light, and his riding jacket, a dull red, would have looked handsome at the previous night’s festival dance. But he would stand out like a donkey in a horse race, should stealth become imperative. “The attack must have come from bandits. No other explanation makes sense.”

“You know as well as I do it could not be bandits,” Cal interrupted. Her friends turned simultaneously, the relief shining on their faces.

“It seems unlikely,” Dusty conceded. “But no other explanation makes sense either. Who would want to attack a village as poor and far from anything of importance as Moon’s Thresh?”

“They aren’t attacking Moon’s Thresh. It’s the Temple they are after.”

“The Temple? A bunch of old monks and nuns? Who would attack them? The Temple of the Sun?” Dish laughed at his little quip, but Cal ignored it.

“Like you said, Dusty, no other explanation makes sense. Moon’s Thresh is remote, hard to reach, deep in the hills, and has zero strategic importance. Bandits have not been spotted in this part of Morena for ten years. It could be Fairy Folk, from the Eilleithisan, like Dish said, but why would they secretly pass through fifty miles of occupied land so they could launch a surprise attack on Moon’s Thresh?”

“The Temple, of course,” Dusty concurred. “I should have realized. There are countless rumors about the treasures it holds.”

“So what’s the plan, Cal?” Dish asked, flashing a smile.

Cal thought of her father’s instructions. “We wait. It’s too dangerous.”

“Wait? While our homes are being destroyed? We have to do something to help.”

“Dish is right, Cal,” Dusty agreed. “We can’t sit by with our families in danger.”

Cal should not have been surprised by her friends’ impetuous show of bravado, but tonight was not the same as stealing pies or rustling goats. “We aren’t playing games anymore. We could be killed.”

“I don’t believe you’re willing to do nothing. I thought you wanted to be a general?”

Dish was right, though her father had no idea it was her plan to study military strategy at university, not academics. And no, she could not sit by while the village was under attack. But she was still scared.

“Okay, but we have to be careful.” She stared pointedly at Dish.

“Always.” The smile flashed again.

“The first thing we need to do is get some reconnaissance. Here’s the plan.” With Dusty and his magical sphere providing the light, and her father’s sword laying next to her, she used a stick to quickly sketch out directions in the dirt of the cave floor. Her father would be angry with her, but really, he had only himself to blame. He never should have taught her everything he knows.

Olafur looked out across the valley, the moon radiating at his back so brightly the fields and trees were visible for several miles. He and the other acolytes lined the monastery wall, watching the explosions of flame coming from the village. The thunderous explosions echoed throughout the valley.

But unlike the previous nights, when they gathered to watch the festival crackers play over Moon’s Thresh, these explosions were not welcome. The village was under attack. From whom, and for what aim, he and the other initiates could only surmise.

The voice of the abbot suddenly rang out. “Come down here, all of you.” Her voice revealed the anxiety they were all feeling. The monks and nuns were already gathered around her in the temple’s main courtyard, several carrying tall torches, others leaning on stout staffs that were normally reserved for the training hall. Olafur and the others promptly joined their circle.

“The danger that we have long feared has come to pass.” Her voice carried throughout the courtyard, seeming to echo against the darkness surrounding them. “Prepare to defend the Temple. The Orb must not fall into enemy hands.”

The Temple of the Moon was not a martial order. The members were trained to defend themselves, and the abbot could call upon the energy of the moon’s light to tremendous effect, but were a troop of soldiers to besiege them, possessing magic of their own, the monastery could put up little resistance.

Just as Olafur turned, ready to fulfill the abbot’s orders, another voice stopped his motion.

“Mother, this day was foretold long ago. The prophecies were very clear. The enemy will exceed our abilities.” It was the rector, Alsam Lim.

“Do not weigh the prophecy too heavily. Only the wisest prophets are remembered, or perhaps the luckiest, but countless are proven false for every one that is true. Regardless of any prophecy, an object of such power was bound to attract attention from those who would use it for battle. I will take the necessary steps to insure they do not succeed.”

The abbot ended the gathering and Olafur hastened to his chamber, where he would change into his heavy tunic and sandals. The abbot’s words weighed heavily on him. The prophecies formed one of the central tenets of their order. Did their mother intend to ignore them, at their greatest moment of danger? It did not surprise him, but it did not sit easy with him either.

As he left his chamber, ready to join the others in readying their defenses, he encountered Griffin, the Abbot’s personal cleric, in the narrow passageway.

“Our mother wishes to speak with you.”

He gazed up at Griffin in surprise, wondering if he had done something wrong again. “What about the preparations?”

“She has chosen you for another task. Hurry. It is of great importance. She is waiting for you in the chapel.”

Olafur bowed and started down the passageway at a run. Important? That was yet to be seen. Dangerous? Almost certainly.

The Five Kingdoms period, now the stuff of legend and romance, hearkens back to a time when the continent of Ashan was embroiled in near constant warfare. Each kingdom fought relentlessly, if not for complete domination, then to at least hold dominion over their corner of the map. To understand the long and glorious period of peace brought to us by the Emperor, we must examine closely this period of chaos and death which nearly broke the very earth itself.

The Kingdom of Morena: A land of mostly humans, ruled by Queen Dorothea. The Queen was dedicated to wiping out evil across the entire continent and bringing peace to Ahsan.

The Tribes of Agni: Relegated to the Agni Mountains, the tribal nations were a confederacy of fierce, leather-skinned humanoids bent on destruction and domination. Although primal in their nature, the nations were led by the violent and cunning tribe of Kulakshaya. Individual groups included the Skads, Trolls and Tepas.

The Dark Priest of Skeldya: The possessor of dark magic unparalleled in all of Ahsan, the Dark Priest ruled for more than a millennium over a domain of dark, undying races, along with many unfortunate humans he had enslaved to his will. Some stories claim he was an evil deity come to life, others that he bound his essence to the Stone of Kamqk and achieved an immortality as lifeless and frightful as one of his captured souls.

The Giants of Ios: Dwelling in the the Ios Mountains, the giants were a nomadic people intent on ridding Ahsan of all their enemies. Although not ruled by one predominant monarch, they often banded together to join battle, and their chaotic nature made them unpredictable and powerful foes.

The Dragons: Isolated on the Orospu Islands and the Delta Swamp, the chromatic dragons and their followers, the serpentine races, sought to reclaim the hold over Ahsan they once maintained. Although small in number, even a handful of these fearsome yet intelligent monsters were capable of devastating an entire army when caught unprepared.

Dusty sat on the cold limestone, huddling against the night’s chill. Moonlight danced its way through branches and shadow into the mouth of the cave, accompanied by the screams and shouts of his fellow villagers. Even more alarming were the thunderous explosions of sound and light that he knew could only mean one thing: magic.

Dusty should be down there with his parents, helping, not holed up in his childhood hideout. But when the attack began, his father, a gruff farmer that brooked no dissent from his only son, ordered him out of the village.

“Don’t come back ‘til you’re sure its safe.”

Their farm was at the back of the village, against the small stream that this deep into autumn was mostly dry, and he was the first to turn up at the cave. The others will be here soon, he affirmed to himself.

He endeavored to stay calm, but his thoughts persisted in dwelling on the attack. Questions about who might be behind it, and why they would come to Moon’s Thresh vexed him with their inscrutability. The village was far from any borders. Had enemy troops penetrated so deeply within Morena, surely news would have traveled more swiftly then any army could.

The timing was curious as well, during the last day of the moon festival. He and Master Primwell had only been in the village a few days. They had heard no rumors of nearby troops, nor of bandits. Could the attack have something to do with the holiday?

The problem had no easy solution, and finally Dusty drove it from his mind. Perhaps Cal or Dish would have more information. Until then, brooding over unanswerable questions served no useful purpose.

He set his book of cantrips on the ground before him. Focusing his mind, Dusty pictured a glowing orb of light, while whispering the incantation. Soon, there was enough light to read by, but the concentrated nature of the energy meant that it would be all but invisible from outside the cave.

He began reviewing the pages, starting with the simplest spells. He ingrained the words into his mind. He had never before used magic under any more grievous circumstances than Master Primwell’s watchful gaze. He must be prepared to fight should the situation call for it.

His friends would arrive soon. But if they did not, he would be ready to go looking for them.

The moon had seemed extremely bright earlier that night, hanging outside Dish’s window as he tried to force himself asleep. Restless after the two-week long festival, Dish found slumber slow in coming, and the silver cascade streaming across his wall and up the length of his cot tortured him with the possibilities of adventure he and his friends were forgoing.

Now, as he hustled through one of Moon’s Thresh skinny alley ways that twisted through the houses and shops, he worried that in the dark shadows he would trip on a gutter or crash into one of the low hanging eaves that jutted out in seemingly random directions. He knew the backstreets better than most anyone, but he had never before raced through them with such a rush of anxiety.

The commotion had awoken Dish first, and he went to the window of the bedroom he shared with his father to discover the source. Initially, he hoped for some end of festival frivolity that he could join, but the strident shouts from so many voices, a few he recognized and others clad in strange accents, quickly warned him something was amiss in the village. A sudden boom of thunder, certainly not natural, woke his father with a start.

“What’s going on?” the old man asked, a trace of fear in his voice.

“I don’t know. It sounds like the village is being attacked. I’m going out to see what it is.”

“No you’re not,” his father countermanded, as he quickly hopped out of bed. Stay here. I’ll check to see what’s happening. Maybe someone secretly got hold of some lightning crackers.” He mumbled to himself, a common habit, as he pulled on his tunic and fumbled through his key rings. “I’ll be right back.”

“It didn’t sound like crackers.”

“Stay here,” his father repeated, as his head disappeared from view.

His father climbed down the ladder to their shop, and flicked a match for the lantern. Dish could hear him playing with the locks at the front door. Knowing his father, he was actually checking to make sure they were secure rather than opening them.

Whatever was happening, the tumult was growing louder. Not waiting for his father to return, Dish quickly dressed and grabbed his belt and knapsack. In less than a minute, he was propping open the window and climbing out onto the roof. The village of Moon’s Thresh, nestled tightly as it was against Thresh Mountain, fit a lot of homes into a small amount of space. Its compactness meant that Dish could travel the entire breadth of the village without setting foot on the ground, and tonight was not the first time he had crept along the rooftops.

Near the village gate, he could see one of the roofs had caught fire. The shouts were louder up here, and he thought he heard Cal’s father shouting commands, but the actual words were lost as they bounced through the narrow lanes and off the rooftops before reaching Dish’s perch. His first instinct was to run down and have a look, until he thought of his friends. They would be waiting at the cave. How many times over the years had they played at defending the village from midnight intruders?

He turned his back on the flames and scrambled over his roof and down into the narrow alley that ran behind the shops on Hill Street. First, he would find Cal and Dusty, and together they could come up with a plan.

Tonight, their games were turning real.

Lyssa Lyrameister, almost universally acknowledged as the greatest poet of the Five Kingdoms period, recorded the epic known today as The Lost Tomb of Jhohun Thallash’Mer some 400 years after the events. The time period in which the story took place was at the high point of warring among the Five Kingdoms, a time of volatility and blood. Alliances shifted quickly, generals and armies rose to fame and just as quickly were resigned to oblivion. Every living soul on the continent of Ashan knew nothing but warfare their entire lives.

Lyrameister’s fame as a poet rests upon two equally stout pillars. First, she is known lyrically to be the most accomplished wordsmith of the millennium. Second, her stories are famed for their historical accuracy and great profundity of detail. She is the progenitor of a form of epic known as nousreka, or reality of the mind. She traveled extensively throughout the continent, interviewing locals, surveying locations, and pouring over artwork and provincial records, compiling as much information as possible to form the skeleton for her historical sketches of figures that in most cases had been dead for generations. Historians have long mined her works for the informative details found within.

Even today, in the era of imperial unity that has blessed Ashan for the last 800 years, The Lost Tomb of Jhohun Thallash’Mer and its sequels have much to teach us. Ye who embark on this journey of discovery, heed carefully the lessons to be found within. Even as the translation loses much of her original artistry, the impact of her message should resonate. Lyrameister edifies us on the meaning of loyalty, the virtues of bravery, the follies to be found in treachery, and, most importantly perhaps, the mutual ruination to be found in warfare.