Talking to Samuel.
The story begins with the Akul Giants, because who knows how the story really started? Were the Akul created? Were they bred? Were they called forth from another plane, or another time? Were they sent?
They walked like men, but stood up to thirty foot tall, covered in thick white fur; their faces were almost human. The legend of the Yeti was born of these creatures, and it’s possible one or more migrated to the Himalayas, but when they appeared in the world, in the Eleventh Century, they were in the Ural Mountains, marauding down in packs of a dozen, two dozen, eating anything they could find that was warm blooded.
They would eat people. To the Akul, a child was as much food as a goat or cattle, but few people were eaten, as they were trickier to catch. More people starved as their livestock was devoured and they were forced to flee across country.
If it had only been local devastation then the world may not have acted, but the uprooting of the families beneath the Urals led to a migration of the Tatars towards Europe and The Middle East, and then the flight of all who they met in their turn. Wars were started between Turkey and its neighbours, between Romania and Bulgaria, as the unrest spread. Meanwhile the Akul Giants were moving closer to Moscow in their search for meat. An army was raised, marched, and was crushed. The only good that came from the defeat of their thousands was the stalling of the giants, who no longer had to look for fresh food.
In those times, it was rare for a magician to bother with events outside of his own research. Borders could shift, empires could crumble, and the magician would not open his door. Women practitioners were usually more involved with humanity, but it was the intensity of a single purpose in men that in time made them so powerful. And so an offer was made of land, gold and slaves, combined with threats of torture and promises of discretion, to a wizard of reputation called Guyrovic. He refused to engage the giants himself of course – he refused to leave his tower, or even be distracted by the matter during a thunder storm – but he did supply each of the interested nations with a weapon.
The commanders – the kings or their generals – of those seven nations gathered at Guyrovic’s tower expecting lances or swords of great power, such as in legends, but what the magician gave them was the Tassamec Chests.
Like travelling cases, but made of metals, they were so called after a style of leather trunk that folded out into different compartments – meaning officers would never need to unpack on manoeuvres. These Tassamec Chests unfolded into a suit of armour, with swords, spears and flails all integral to the design; crystals were embedded in the palms of the gauntlets, and they would glow to provide light, or more intensely to start fires; the visor heightened the warriors’ senses twelve fold, and his strength, speed and agility were all enhanced beyond that of twenty men; the armour itself was practically impervious to damage.
One warrior from each nation was to be selected to wear the Tassamec Armour. And that is were the problems began.
The initial elation soon gave way to doubts and paranoia. The representative of the Tsar claimed Russia should have two of the chests, since they had lost most, and were the greater nation. None would leave the foot of Guyrovic’s tower, fearful that they would turn their back on some treachery. But far more troubling a question was this: if you were a king, what one man could you trust with so much power that he could conquer an entire nation, and you would be at his mercy? Could you trust your commanders? They are proven warriors, but also men of ambition. Could you trust your own son? He will rule after your death, but what if he became impatient? Could you trust a hero from the ranks of your army? Who could vouch for his breeding or his conduct? Could you trust your own bodyguard? Could you trust anyone but yourself?
They walked like men, but stood up to thirty foot tall, covered in thick white fur; their faces were almost human. The legend of the Yeti was born of these creatures, and it’s possible one or more migrated to the Himalayas, but when they appeared in the world, in the Eleventh Century, they were in the Ural Mountains, marauding down in packs of a dozen, two dozen, eating anything they could find that was warm blooded.
They would eat people. To the Akul, a child was as much food as a goat or cattle, but few people were eaten, as they were trickier to catch. More people starved as their livestock was devoured and they were forced to flee across country.
If it had only been local devastation then the world may not have acted, but the uprooting of the families beneath the Urals led to a migration of the Tatars towards Europe and The Middle East, and then the flight of all who they met in their turn. Wars were started between Turkey and its neighbours, between Romania and Bulgaria, as the unrest spread. Meanwhile the Akul Giants were moving closer to Moscow in their search for meat. An army was raised, marched, and was crushed. The only good that came from the defeat of their thousands was the stalling of the giants, who no longer had to look for fresh food.
In those times, it was rare for a magician to bother with events outside of his own research. Borders could shift, empires could crumble, and the magician would not open his door. Women practitioners were usually more involved with humanity, but it was the intensity of a single purpose in men that in time made them so powerful. And so an offer was made of land, gold and slaves, combined with threats of torture and promises of discretion, to a wizard of reputation called Guyrovic. He refused to engage the giants himself of course – he refused to leave his tower, or even be distracted by the matter during a thunder storm – but he did supply each of the interested nations with a weapon.
The commanders – the kings or their generals – of those seven nations gathered at Guyrovic’s tower expecting lances or swords of great power, such as in legends, but what the magician gave them was the Tassamec Chests.
Like travelling cases, but made of metals, they were so called after a style of leather trunk that folded out into different compartments – meaning officers would never need to unpack on manoeuvres. These Tassamec Chests unfolded into a suit of armour, with swords, spears and flails all integral to the design; crystals were embedded in the palms of the gauntlets, and they would glow to provide light, or more intensely to start fires; the visor heightened the warriors’ senses twelve fold, and his strength, speed and agility were all enhanced beyond that of twenty men; the armour itself was practically impervious to damage.
One warrior from each nation was to be selected to wear the Tassamec Armour. And that is were the problems began.
The initial elation soon gave way to doubts and paranoia. The representative of the Tsar claimed Russia should have two of the chests, since they had lost most, and were the greater nation. None would leave the foot of Guyrovic’s tower, fearful that they would turn their back on some treachery. But far more troubling a question was this: if you were a king, what one man could you trust with so much power that he could conquer an entire nation, and you would be at his mercy? Could you trust your commanders? They are proven warriors, but also men of ambition. Could you trust your own son? He will rule after your death, but what if he became impatient? Could you trust a hero from the ranks of your army? Who could vouch for his breeding or his conduct? Could you trust your own bodyguard? Could you trust anyone but yourself?
posted by The son of Edward Fold at 3:21 pm
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