The Prince of Fire: A Tide of Sacred Ice, #4

By Alexander Saloen

Far from the shores of Aladria, Commander Orron Abhaz must lead a train of refugees through the sacred sands of the Red Desert. But the glistening dunes aren't called Death's Ashes for nothing. Facing starvation and thirst, and with the fate of seven thousand in the balance, Orron must make a heart-breaking compromise.

 

In the north, the Cyngellian Seventh Army led by High Hilt Rocaran marches on the city of Brazar, seeking to gain control over the trade routes. Facing the invasion, Ahb shar Ahn, the capital of the Red Desert, prepares for war. But without Orron Abhaz in command, betrayal and deceit terrorise the streets. The sea lies restless, its horizon haunted. Fearing for his life, Ranok Hal, the city's Surd, wants answers before it is too late.

 

North of Ahb shar Ahn, the Watans discover that the lack of water is far from their only concern. Soon they are forced to leave their homes in the Skull Rock Mountains. A hidden force wields the Ashes with a ruthless hand. The sands have awoken, and somewhere, a deadly race for the desert's heart has commenced - one carefully watched by the gods.

 

In the Land of Fire, a queen awakes in the aftermath of a fatal confrontation. Chained and broken, and with Aladria a world away, she must gather enough strength to rise against her captors. But the enslaved Nightseers conspire to break an ancient oath. Time is running out, and with the last grains of sand, the promise of a darkening tide...

 

  

Far from the shores of Aladria, Commander Orron Abhaz must lead a train of refugees through the sacred sands of the Red Desert. But the glistening dunes aren't called Death's Ashes for nothing. Facing starvation and thirst, and with the fate of seven thousand in the balance, Orron must make a heart-breaking compromise.

In the north, the Cyngellian Seventh Army led by High Hilt Rocaran marches on the city of Brazar, seeking to gain control over the trade routes. Facing the invasion, Ahb shar Ahn, the capital of the Red Desert, prepares for war. But without Orron Abhaz in command, betrayal and deceit terrorise the streets. The sea lies restless, its horizon haunted. Fearing for his life, Ranok Hal, the city's Surd, wants answers before it is too late.

North of Ahb shar Ahn, the Watans discover that the lack of water is far from their only concern. Soon they are forced to leave their homes in the Skull Rock Mountains. A hidden force wields the Ashes with a ruthless hand. The sands have awoken, and somewhere, a deadly race for the desert's heart has commenced - one carefully watched by the gods.

In the Land of Fire, a queen awakes in the aftermath of a fatal confrontation. Chained and broken, and with Aladria a world away, she must gather enough strength to rise against her captors. But the enslaved Nightseers conspire to break an ancient oath. Time is running out, and with the last grains of sand, the promise of a darkening tide...

 

  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexander A Saloen
• Release date: May 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201565770

Alexander Saloen

Alexander Saloen's enthusiasm for stories and tales started early. He especially remembers his grandfather's ability to make small chatter seem like little fairy-tales. Back in 2013, he wrote the play "A Dance in the Necropolis" and had begun working on the novel "The Orphan and the Dragon of Ice", which he finished in 2017. ''​I hope that you, dear reader, enjoy my works and that it inspires you. Again, what would our world be without stories, art and music?''  Titles so far in the fantasy series:  The Orphan and the Dragon of Ice  The Blood of Queens  Children of the Pact  The Prince of Fire (the summer of 2022)   

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The Prince

of Fire

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A. A. Saloen

The Prince of Fire

Copyright © 2022 by Alexander Amit Saloen (Sæløen)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For permission requests, write to the publisher/author at the address below:

ALEXANDER AMIT SÆLØEN

NORWAY

E-mail: [e-mail]

First edition, published 2022

Cover design, made by the author himself at befunky.com

Ouroboros, CC0 copyright, edited by the author for cover.

Illustrations included are made by the author himself.

Acknowledgements

I would like to extend my sincere thanks, first and foremost, to my editor, Simon. Thank you for your excellent work. Without you I would’ve been lost. I would also like to thank my friends. You stick with me through good and bad. Finally, I would like to thank you, dear reader, for keeping up with my endeavours. It’s been a long journey, but I’m not done yet. I hope you enjoy this tale as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Dramatis Personae

Death’s Ashes

Ahb shar Ahn 

Ranok Hal – Surd of the city

Sork Alda – prison master

Masana – sergeant

Orron Abhaz – general, Spying Hawk

Hubaba Doo – soldier and criminal

Rashad – soldier

Panetta – historian and librarian

Habbad – valet to Ranok Hal

Tuqaza – innkeeper

Habina – a refugee

Cyngellians

Rocaran – high hilt

Tarryn – sergeant

Lerania – captain

Cask – heavy infantry

Dome – sapper

Selapa – sapper

Bigmouth – heavy infantry

Priceless – cadre mage

Loser – horse master

Aracan – shipwrecked sergeant

Lucania – shipwrecked soldier

Aqeria – shipwrecked soldier

Erastian – shipwrecked soldier

Paltonio – shipwrecked soldier

Watan Tribe

Zunu Wata – warrior

Nadinia – queen of pots

Ohnad Omtan – warleader

Al Nata – Watan chief

Nafa – sorceress, witch

Zonaba – a woman

Multan tribe

Shab ol Ahsan – Surd, Multan Tribe

Yddam – warleader

Kathoreans

Hanul Kad – Red Serpent

Hassan Oman – Scorpion Tail

Sudha – a girl

Kundha – a boy

Azana – an Arrow, warrior

Sathana – undead visitor

Aladria

Éraz Lûna

Redplum

Narna Ïhm

Rusty Jack

Oliver of Little Creek

Plabbe – a most generous magistrate

Tamira – a girl, fiddler

Grumpy – valet to Plabbe

Snowlingers

Dorgo – a warrior

Felmar – a miner

Almar – a miner

Betty Sue – a girl

Sam – a boy

Róinn – a deceased teacher

Dórinn – a deceased vigilante

Marilia – City of Green Lanterns

Zabroc Khanor – firstborn

Hunug Khanor – thirdborn

Groth – Traitor Witch

Feona – Arnarion

Kobras – High Priest of Azûdrûn

Soppocas – priestess of Azûdrûn

Ithac – warrior

Bonath – warrior

Cyngellians

Blackboot – a captain

Brusk – soldier

Baldwin – soldier

Servilia – refugee

Nightseers

Errac the Shackled – a Sworn

Filsatha – a Sworn

Wrakoth – a Sworn

Others

Émilie – Queen of Little Creek

Ohb of Little Creek

Narratus – druid, historian

Apex – druid, inventor

Azûl – druid

Littlebrook – head of the Octagon Order

Humbletee – red druid, man in red

Acara – Ilan Vaghos 

Poltok – Arnarion

Whitebear the Wise – a polar bear

Itan Yanod – trade leader

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Prologue

Ilan Vaghos

‘I feel nothing, yet I sense everything.

I am a monster, tormented, broken.

Lost in the realm of shadows.

It drives me mad.’

-  The Heartless Emperor

2099 of Driorûn

90 years before the ice dragon’s winter curse

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D

ark clouds were gathering over the red horizon. Black crows from distant shores flew in over gilded mudflats, shrieks piercing the rising smoke. The air was thick with the unmistakable stench of carrion. Someone had made a promise of a better future, a promise now shattered, dissolved, like the rotting corpses along the tidelands. A promise that was now sinking into the blood-soaked silts of Mors Ila. The city of red lanterns had transformed into a tomb, a sepulchre of abandoned dreams, with most of its denizens’ names fading with the wind.

A fisherwoman mending her nets cast a glance seaward. The sangria sky was glowing under the black clouds gliding in over the fjord of Geon Ramûn. The sun was setting somewhere far out at sea. She swung her gaze to the coastal city’s battlements, walls now toned with slaughter, shaking her head. No hope, no future.

‘I’m hungry,’ said a girl next to her. The seven-year-old tugged at the fisherwoman’s mottled garment. ‘I said —’

‘I know. Quiet down before I go mad. There’s no food left, unless...’

The child clambered down from the boulder she was seated on. Scars characterised her innocent face, shallow gashes yet painful. ‘Fine!’

The fisherwoman gave her attempt a proper reconnaissance, sighing, ‘An improvement, at least.’

The child’s unusual eyes fell upon the slain upon the shores, following the fallen ranks all the way back to the city walls. ‘What will happen to us now?’

‘Nothing,’ the woman muttered and spat. The future of the Ilan Vaghos is nothing.

‘Does that mean we’ll die?’

Isn’t that obvious? ‘I don’t know.’

A brisk wind from the ocean blew in over the slaughtered. A strong taste of salt followed the nauseating carrion. For a moment, the old fisherwoman thought the reek of rotting corpses had blown away.

She managed a deep breath, her emerald green eyes closed.

‘I’m hungry!’ the child reiterated.

Hitting her won’t help anymore. She’s starving. ‘Fine... let’s go. There’s got to be someone inside the walls we can loot.’

The child, turning towards the battered city gates, dragged the fishing net she was mending in her wake. ‘Are they still here?’

The old woman spat again, grunting, ‘Who?’

‘Those in coloured robes.’

‘The druids. I think so, though I’m sick of them. The Nightseers will attack again. It’s only a matter of time before our walls crumble and fall. And when they do...’ She paused, looking down on the girl beside her, on her silver-white hair, smiling, ‘we’ll ascend, you and I.’

The girl balanced between the corpses. Her hemp slippers offered but a scarce protection for a pair of feet that were already scarred and blistered. Before her lay a soldier, his mail and coif ripped asunder, ribs broken and jutting towards the sky whereupon crows sat muted and silent, watching as they passed them by. ‘Ascend? What does that mean?’

‘That means we’ll join the Shârz, become one of them,’ said the fisherwoman. ‘No longer shall we strive and suffer. No longer shall we be coerced into the servitude of those who do not care about us. No, my child, we shall thrive, born anew, among the gods.’ She pulled up something from her pocket and gave it to the girl.

‘What’s this?’ the child asked.

‘A totem,’ the fisherwoman said, smiling once more, ‘a very old wristband. I’ve had it for years. It brings luck. Keep it close and do not let anyone take it from you.’

The wristband was dark, almost black yet iridescent in the flamelight from the burning city. There was some kind of pattern on it, too, details the child couldn’t work out what meant. ‘Why do you give me this?’ she asked and tried it on. It was much too large for her meagre wrist.

‘I am old, Acara. But it has started to wear me down. It won’t be the seasons that redden our leaves this autumn. Many will suffer, kingdoms will be usurped...’

‘Usurped?’

The fisherwoman nodded. ‘Regents will be placed upon thrones and seats, imbeciles with a lot of power, minds ruled by others from afar. And that is a dangerous combination, young one. Just keep that wristband close, and don’t lose it.’

‘Ok,’ the child answered, holding it to the fading sunlight. ‘I will keep it close. I promise.’

Hoofs trotted their way, the rhythm of rattling horseshoes steady upon the cool granite, occasionally crunching bones.

A sergeant carried a black pole with a red pennon-shaped signal attached to it, the cloth bloodstained in the dim light of the setting sun. He pulled the reins, the horse’s hoofs kindling sparks in the rising dust. Slowly, he lifted the visor of his helmet to wipe sweat from his eyebrows. He glared down on them with bloodshot eyes, ‘They’re retaliating. A druid assists the remaining three thousand refugees of Black Stone through the southern gate. I’d hurry if I were you, before we shut the gates.’

‘Southern gate?’ the woman rasped, ‘that’s here.’ She peeked southwards. But there was neither sign nor sound of a single refugee.

The sergeant managed a nod, beholding the child beside her. ‘This is the southern gate, healer. That’s why I’ve come.’

The fisherwoman sighed, eyebrows knitting into a frown. ‘How fare our people, Sergeant?’ 

‘Poorly, from what we’ve seen from the watchtowers. Starved, exhausted...’

‘As are we all.’

The girl’s eyes fell upon the longsword sheathed in the grimy scabbard, at the sergeant’s side. 

‘Take her, then,’ the fisherwoman rasped. ‘Take her and ride!’

The child tightened her grip around her arm, ‘I won’t leave you, grandma!’

The fisherwoman gave the girl a smack across her face, her palm little else than pale skin stretched taut over deformed phalanges. ‘Do as you’re told, Acara. Find your place behind the Sergeant or face certain death.’

Acara mounted the horse with the help of the fisherwoman and the sergeant’s hand, her small fingers soft in his befouled gauntlets, the wristband too large around her wrist.

‘The prince has secluded himself in the westernmost tower,’ the sergeant said. ‘Don’t think he’ll come out anytime soon. We need you, healer. There’s a place for you on my mare.’ He reached out a hand, drops of blood dripping from his finger.

The fisherwoman frowned, realising it was his own blood. She peeled her lips back in a snarl, her eyes glaring at the black tower and the yellow light flickering incessantly from the uppermost window, like a sole torch in the night. A pallor of sour smoke was rising from the burning ruins below, halfway shrouding both the tower and the light. ‘The Nightseers knew where the refugees were headed. They attacked the target instead of the flying arrow. Three days of slaughter now. Our prince will die but I guarantee you he won’t ascend. Ride now, before it’s too late.’

‘Are you sure, healer?’

‘Leave, or I’ll make sure you’ll regret it.’

The sergeant closed the visor of his bascinet, swung his mount around, then nudged it into a speedy canter back toward the gates.

Darkness was upon them. In the air lay another promise, one of further slaughter.

The fisherwoman turned to behold the setting sun sinking beneath the horizon. Slowly, the crows looked up from their meals, torn flesh dangling from their beaks, their black pearls for eyes landing on her, caws loud and shrill.

A cloud glided aside, revealing a moon toned redder than usual.

The fisherwoman took a deep breath, the air once more reeking with death. ‘A promise... Perhaps prevaricating is far more essential than telling the truth?’

The ascension won’t be pleasant. It never is. Aladria will be the board on which the Shârz, the Guardians, and every deity in between, will play their game. We are but pawns. She reconsidered. Powerful pawns with nothing to lose.

The crows closed in on her.

She reached out a hand, trying to channel the force from the earth.

Gone.

Nothing, not even light.

The skies went black. The moon hid behind the clouds, turning its pale eye from the atrocities at hand. 

In the distance, the Nightseers charged the north-eastern wall.

The ground shook, the shadows of her people crumbled and fell in the flickering flame light inside the walls, the screams of thousands rising to meet indifferent clouds. 

She tried again, reaching out her hand, closing her eyes in prayers. There should have been light, shards of the earth’s soul, finding a way to travel through her. Instead, she was covered by an unearthly shadow. A growl behind her, one that seemed to block out everything else. In an instance, the shrieks and cries faded, and she heard naught but the echo of her own thoughts.

Her heart skipped a beat. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’

‘Have you considered His offer, child of the Last Shadow?’

The fisherwoman turned to see a large black lynx. Its eyes were aglow, a continuous battle of yellow and fiery red, the flaring of two distinct flames within the stare of a demon. Its claws left deep fissures in the blood-smeared rocks, glinting in the distant flames, like lines of silver.

‘I have,’ she muttered and spat.

‘He’s awaiting your reply,’ the lynx murmured.

No answer.

The wind turned cold and brisk, but the stench of a thousand decomposing bodies remained.

The lynx sneered, its four muscular legs stepping atop a toppled crag pointing seawards. ‘Do you hear that?’

Still no answer from the fisherwoman.

‘That is the sound of misery and of pain, and yet you insist on staying here, among the fallen.’

‘They are my people,’ she grumbled, looking towards the city walls and the butchering that had begun all over.

‘She’s weak. Her strength has been fading ever since He conquered the Night Throne.’

‘Still hiding in the shadows, though, isn’t he?’

The lynx turned to her, taking its demonic eyes off the shores and the ocean beyond. ‘He offers you an escape. You can be young again, strong, healthy, whatever that means to you.’

She turned to him, a flare in her eyes. ‘Young?’

The lynx glared at her, emotionless, answering with the slightest nod.

She held her hands up to the light of flames, the conflagration accompanied with every siege. Fissured skin, dying, paling, emaciated, and for what?  ‘What more does He offer?’

The lynx stepped closer, eyes narrowed to fiery slits.

Fear bloomed in her green eyes, but she stood her ground.

‘You should rather ask what He demands in return, child of the Last Shadow.’

‘Very well. What does he ask of me?’

‘Servitude, for all time.’

She spat, then snorted. ‘For all time? I’d rather take the white stairs, ascend, be reborn somewhere else.’

‘The stairs are taken,’ the lynx murmured, ‘the passage of souls redirected.’

The fisherwoman fell quiet for a long while. The Bridge of Barûn Rûn, conquered by the Hidden Hand? That can’t be. It’s under a universal law, an agreement between the Creators and all incarnated spirits. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Come with me to the Land of Fire. That’s where He entraps them, has them serve, clamped in chains, his rope of fire swirled around their necks. You have dreamt of it, seen your beloved ones fade from your side, their familiar eyes drying into nothingness as their souls leave this earth, only to be branded and yet again set to serve.’

‘Life is cruel.’

‘So is the afterlife.’

‘Who allowed the Hidden Hand to claim the White Stairs and the bridge of souls?’

The lynx’s black, foul lips pulled back in a snarl as it swung to the city gates and the slaughter therein. ‘My master needs no permission. Does the night ask day for permission to blacken the woodlands? Did I ask your permission to cover you with my shade?’

‘Asking would’ve been nice.’

‘But not a requirement.’

At that she said naught.

‘The souls no longer move on, fisherwoman, they stay – with Him.’

A cold chill crawled up her spine.

Her heart was thudding. Something inside her was growing. Fear. Fear of what was to come after this life. The souls don’t move on, the souls do not move on... She devoured the meaning of those words, peering through the black sour smoke and the thousands of refugees emerging from it, pallid and meagre, eyes blank with fatigue and pain.

The lynx, reading her thoughts as if they were spoken words, followed her with its glowing eyes. ‘You’re finally catching up. What is it going to be?’

She looked at it, something trickling down her cheeks and as it reached her lips, she realised it was a fine blend of sweat and tears. No light. The earth has died. She rests, eternal sleep. The stairs are taken. I did dream of steps being broken, destroyed, inverted, so that they led downwards, not up. ‘I accept,’ she mumbled.

‘Louder...’

She glared back at the lynx, rage dimming before defeat. ‘I accept your master’s offer.’

The lynx sneered. At its side, a black nimbus was forming into a portal. Gazing into it, the fisherwoman could see black stones, torchlight from scones on the walls, leading down a narrow corridor. And on the floor, to her dismay, lay a glowing rope, the end closest to her tied in a loop.

She hesitated, ‘I can’t leave her.’

‘Who?’

‘My grandchild.’

The lynx halted, ‘I will seek her out and offer her the rope of fire.’

Acara. When this is over, we can be together again, leave the world to its own fate. ‘Would you do that for me?’

‘An extra servant is always handy.’

The fisherwoman pushed her hand into the portal, and the corridor beyond, unseen by the masses of passing refugees. It was warm and dry, and no stench of battle or aftermath hung upon the air. Also, the purple and blue marks on her scarred arm vanished. She could feel strength return to her, her skin becoming soft, healthy, young. Her eyes fell upon the fiery rope. Tears rippled down her cheeks as she crouched, tossing herself before the noose, her own shivering hands placing it around her neck. A sharp pain seared her, one that ceased as soon as her neck had been burned. The lynx took his eyes from her, leaving to uphold the bargain.

The portal closed.

Before her was nothing but the burning torches in a long, unknown corridor.

She stared at them for a long while, a time that felt like an eternity. Truth was catching up with her. The truth and gravity of her choice.

What have I done? What have I agreed to? She fell over on the floor, sobbing.

But no-one heard her cries.

There is only servitude.

She felt young again, yet a hollow wound was growing inside of her, the death of her own soul. Slowly, she hauled herself to her knees and began crawling forward, following the rope forever attached to her neck. She wanted to cry, but no tears came. She wanted to scream, but no longer had a voice. The stones of the floor were smooth and clean, so much that she could catch a glimpse of her own image. Beautiful, young, healthy, perfect, yet so empty. For ever, she thought, the blood freezing in her veins, fettered, for all time. 

**

Mors Ila, home of the last Ilan Vaghos of Aladria. The ancient people had spent three weeks preparing for the upcoming siege. Boats filled the fjord of Geon Ramûn, bringing in fish to restock dwindling supplies. Barges had been made as a means of escape in case the city’s defences should crumble and fall.

For twelve long days they’d held out against the Nightseers, the undead Sworn who had once pledged an oath to serve the Hidden Hand, the Noose. The enemy didn’t march west with the intent of putting a swift end to the refugees of Black Stone, now pouring into the coastal city, but followed and eventually passed them, aiming straight for the ancient harbour. They’d taken the Naltarion hilltops east of the city and poisoned the river-water running down from the Nagadhras Mountains with corpses, defiling the city’s irrigations.

Food was scarce, and with the awareness of the numerous refugees now storming in through the southern city gate, rations had been kept to a minimum. However, this decision by the city’s magistrate wasn’t well received by the Ilan Vaghos. Some had rebelled, even amidst the heat of battle.

And now, chancellors and councilmen lay dead in the streets, bludgeoned by their own people, the people they’d sworn to protect. As life faded from their eyes, they had witnessed the destruction of a city that three months back was a burghal of peace, the home of thousands.

Mors Ila’s woodlands were unrecognisable, too. Its renowned red oaks had been chopped down to make barges. The coppice that remained had been burned, so the enemy had less places to hide. The scent of the ashes still hung upon the air, especially from the towers in the southwestern corner of the old fortification. Many a familiar bird had taken to its wings and scattered as the oaks, beeches, ashes, and birches had begun to fall.

Barge after barge had been put to sea, making a long jetty, whereupon fishermen were temporarily docking their boats, placing their catch for a loaf of bread or boiled fish, before they yet again took to their oars, hoisting the single triangle sail to the top of the masts. Each boat held anything from three to six skilled fishermen who worked endless hours, taking turns on watch, some mending nets, others rowing or minding the catch the ocean gave them. They all flew red banners, a sign of war, a call for help from whoever saw them at sea.

The black clouds looming in the horizon were unwelcomed. The wind was catching up, and beneath it the undulating waves. Many captains already considered taking reefs. The Shârz were not on their side, and yet they desperately needed them to be.

Horns bellowed. The Nightseers retreated to the Naltarion hilltops east of the city. The attacks had come to a temporary end. The two druids upon the walls had come all the way from Annath Ǜbrin, sent by the head of their Order to offer aid in the upcoming battle. They’d been joined by a third garbed in red, who was standing by the southern gate.

Among the shrieks and cries there was a formidable silence, Acara found. 

Her city bled, but still held out.

Bodies were heaped in piles inside the northern wall. Acara’s people pulled them away and stripped them of their armour, handing out swords, bucklers, shields, daggers, and helmets to anyone who would take the position of their fallen.

The druids quenched the flames with their sorcery. The houses she had once played in were perhaps no longer burning, yet the smell of scorched timber and flesh would linger upon her mind for the rest of her days.

Healers were called from one end of the city to the other. Most wounded wanted to live. Others sought a swift way out, having lost limbs upon the battlefield north of the city, where many had faced the Nightseers up close and personal. The sortie had demanded too many lives, and many a son and father had been brought back on wagons and carts, intestines bellowing from gaping gashes, severed limbs left on the battleground.

The soldiers did a swift job, carrying daggers marked with a black thread. A quick stab in the neck or through the chest was all it took to put those mortally wounded and suffering out of their misery.

Acara sought a place to hide.

A soldier approached her captain atop the southern watchtower. She saluted, then raised the visor of her sallet. ‘Bears, sir,’ she said, panting, sweat dripping from under her helmet, ‘approaching the southern gate.’

The captain swung around, covering her with his shield, as a volley of arrows came from below. ‘Excuse me? Bears?’

‘Yes, Captain.’

‘How many refugees left?’

‘Six hundred,’ she replied, not sure whether or not that was an accurate estimation.

The captain nodded, quickly leading the way to a ladder. Once down from the parapet he took the reins from an aide set to watch his horse, ordering the soldier to mount behind him. Mounted, the captain drove his heels into the beast’s sides, hurrying to the southern gates.

Humbletee was still counting the refugees pouring in under the gatehouse, the light from his staff illuminating the unknown faces emerging from the sour black smoke.

‘Mage!’ the captain managed, coughing, halting his mount. His blood-stained armour darkening under the shades of the gatehouse.

‘Gather them in the square, Captain, have as many as possible draw west, to the harbour. Get them as far away from the walls as possible.’

‘How many left?’

‘Eight hundred and forty-seven.’

‘There are bears coming this way, undead, like their masters,’ the captain said. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have time.’

‘I saw them from the belfry,’ the soldier behind him prompted, hand pointing at the tall tower in the south-eastern corner.

‘Any suggestions, druid?’ the captain said. ‘I wouldn’t want to close the gates on them.’

Humbletee turned towards the south. You should never have burned the coppice. The Nightseers seem to hate woodlands. The forests have been our best defence on our way hither. ‘Bring the remaining refugees into safety. Leave the beasts to me.’

‘Let me at least join you,’ the captain pleaded, hand resting on the pommel of his longsword.

Humbletee frowned, eyeing the sword. ‘No, you lead them to the harbour.’

The captain nodded, then gave orders to have carts and horses prepared for the weakest, awaiting them right inside the city gates. Turning around to look out the gate, the druid was gone.

‘What now, Captain?’ said the soldier, dismounting.

‘You heard the mage. The harbour, refugees.’

The path pursued by the people of Black Stone had been one of suffering and starvation, of uncertainty and loss, one that was now leading them into an ineffable slaughterhouse. The sight that met the newly arrived masses sparked panic. The butchery, the corpses hacked asunder by the same beasts that had chased them across Aladria’s vast wilderness, league after league, had followed them.

In a single wave of uncontrolled confusion, the refugees swung seaward, thousands pulling toward the harbour and the floating barges.

The druids upon the walls noticed the disarray, but the chaos that erupted couldn’t be stopped. People were run down. They saw a child no more than a few months old, dropped by his fatigued mother, was trampled to death by his own people. They despaired as more followed the same way, lives ending just as terribly. The druids could but watch.

The people of Black Stone were turning on each other, fighting their way with sticks and cooking utensils, and when those got broken, lost, or ripped from their grasp they turned to their teeth. The weakest were bludgeoned to the ground and used as slabs along the slippery old harbour road from the southern bailey. Bones snapped, ribcages collapsed inwards, and the lungs of the young and old wheezed their final rattle as the masses of refugees sped up, pulling evermore seaward.

‘This is madness,’ muttered Narratus, wiping blood on his yellow robe.

‘No, brother,’ Apex said, ‘this is failure. You’re the historian, Narratus. Soak it all up, all of it, every scream, every atrocity hereby committed. The world shall remember what happened at Mors Ila.’ Tears ran down the sides of his blood-smeared face. ‘Our greatest failure.’

‘I will,’ Narratus managed. ‘But cruelty can’t be stopped by remembrance alone.’

‘Maybe not,’ Apex replied lowly. ‘But we should still give their descendants a tale they won’t forget. Dammit, where is he? He said he’d offer us aid!’

‘I’d say he’s probably drinking wine with the Dacurean lordship,’ Narratus rasped, studying the continuous murder of innocents. ‘Or dining at a table somewhere far up in the Arnarion Mountains. Azûl isn’t a man who cares for a handful of fishermen and their families.’

‘Thousands, brother, thousands of fishermen, women, and children. Are we going to stand for this? We’re guardians! Sunborn! How can we allow this to continue!?’

‘What can we do at this point?!’ Narratus snapped. ‘Against panic there’s no remedy, no medicine, no magic, Apex.’

Screams from the southern gate. The refugees trampled onward, running down more of their own who failed to keep up. The inhabitants of Mors Ila, realising the refugees were seeking the barges prepared by and for themselves, now attacked the refugees with all they had.

The slaughter worsened. No living being was spared.

The druids hurried down from the walls.

‘Narratus!’ Apex called, ‘the gate!’

The historian swung around, only to see the youngest of their own sprinting back in through the gate. Behind Humbletee followed twelve bears, undead beasts wise as boulders.

The red garbed druid halted with his staff in the air. A vibrant light blinded the bears, halting their advance. The inventor and the historian hurried back toward the southern concourse.

The captain raised his visor, swinging to the regular beside him. ‘The refugees... they’re leaving!’

The woman lowered her single-handed sword, blood running down the blade, dripping from its point. Her braided hair was thick with grime and sweat, itching under her sallet. Her right shoulder was hurt, a fact she noticed first now that she was taking a second to behold the slaughter on the harbour road. ‘Orders, Captain?’

The captain’s left foot was hurt. Standing upright proved hard. His toes were crushed, blood oozing between torn flesh and shattered nails. ‘Never mind the refugees. This isn’t over.’

She nodded, eyes dilating at the sight of the beasts, ‘Captain, look!’

The druid fought like a madman, ferociously swinging his blade and staff. Yet there were twelve bears, and he couldn’t cover every angle. Eventually, the red garbed man fell to his knees, face bleeding severely from a deep gash that ran down the side of his skull. Yet he kept the beasts at bay still, with the light of his staff.

‘Captain, we must do something!’

My city, my home, now ashes and dust.

Horns filled the air.

All this pain.

‘Captain?’

Ranks upon ranks of Nightseers advanced against the city walls.

By the shadows of old. It never ends!

‘Captain!?’

He finally woke. ‘Make haste for the casemate. Find two longbows. Regroup on the mural tower.’

Sheathing her sword, the soldier saluted and made haste.

Acara crawled along the wall, beholding the slaughter from behind casks, carts, barrels, whatever that offered cover. Warhorses ran wild, consternation in their eyes as a thousand arrows smeared with black blood rained down on the city. An arrow plunged into the crack between two cobbles, right beside her. She saw then that the arrowhead was made from sharpened bone. The fletching was made from human hair, and the shaft a rare wood reclaimed from the depths of shunned moorlands.

Soldiers and civilians fell upon the bailey, and further into the city, amidst the concourse, more fell as the arrows pierced eyes, throats, necks, and shoulders. In panic, the people began fighting over helmets and shields, pulling them from the scattered corpses of fallen soldiers. Some hid under roofs, and those who were lucky got inside in time.

The city shook.

The Nightseers had, with rams pushed and pulled by bears, managed to punch a hole through the northern gate. Thousands entered the city, sparing no-one. Blood, vomit, urine, and intestines smeared the cobbles of Mors Ila.

Acara stayed hidden.

The remaining Ilan Vaghos pulled southwest to the harbour. The killing intensified as everyone fought for a position on the barges. In despair, many began swimming, a lot of them drowning in the attempt.

The two druids were out of options.

The inventor looked back up the road, to the concourse, ‘Where is he!?’

‘Azûl!’ Narratus snapped, ‘has the fool drowned in the abyss?! Humbletee, he’s probably dead by now!’

‘No, he’s alive...’ said Apex. ‘This was his plan, he’s alive!’

‘Aye, his plan indeed,’ Narratus growled, covering the children in the nearest proximity with a shield, the crystal in his staff flaring up a yellow light that kept growing. ‘I’m worried about the dead.’

Apex ignited the orange light in his staff, creating a bulging shield that protected those around him. ‘The dead? What do you mean?’

‘Can’t you feel it?’

‘Feel what!’

‘They don’t pass on,’ said Narratus. ‘Just pain, and then they vanish.’

Apex considered what was said.

Darkness. 

Loneliness.

Pain.

For ever.

‘Aye, I feel the darkness,’ Apex said after long. ‘The pain that’s lingered over this place. Not that of the living, but the agony of those who have already walked the stairs of...’

The historian shot him a look of epiphany. ‘Precisely. The stairs...’

‘No... that’s impossible!’ Apex exclaimed, ‘He can’t claim the steps!’

‘But he can climb them...’

‘You’re right,’ said Apex, ‘and in so doing...’

Narratus nodded, ‘Oh shit.’

The bleeding druid, still on his knees, held out.

Arrows pierced the air, sighing upon the carrion, the arrowheads penetrating the thick fur, plunging deeply into the bears. The beasts growled, some swinging to look, receiving arrows in their eyes, nose, and mouths, putting a swift end to them.

‘Shoot at will,’ the Ilan Vaghos captain murmured, commanding the few archers he had left. Gritting his teeth, he sought to bear over with the pain spreading from his foot. ‘Send the beasts back whence they came.’

A shower of arrows. Then another, until the beasts were poked full of holes, the arrow shafts jutting from their bodies like needles in a pillow. The squad released a final volley of fire arrows drenched in oil, setting the beasts ablaze before they could come to again.

He let out a sigh, then began crying silently. The bailey was one huge concourse of slaughter, filled by the cadavers of beasts, animals, and people. A black cloud of crows and ravens descended from the dark sky, cawing fiercely. And the pain within him grew.

Humbletee swung a wary gaze westward, seeing the thousands of dead women and children that lay behind. The ropes had been cut. The barges were drifting seaward, dark rafts paddled by bloody hands, vanishing into the night. Left ashore, the lights or his brethren’s staffs. 

Hoofs trotted behind the magus.

Knights in shining green armour entered the city on dread horsebacks, accompanied by seven hundred dead men at their disposal. For those of the Ilan Vaghos and the Black Stone refugees that hadn’t secured themselves a place upon the barges, or wasn’t already dead, the slaughter began anew. The knights dismounted and crouched down by the fallen, tearing off limbs and began eating. Their undead ran wild, feeling neither remorse nor constraint.

One of the Nightseers’ warleaders entered through the southern gate mounted on a bear. More dead than alive, his long slim figure was gaunt and pale, his hair grey and thin, eyes just as pale. He wore a purple robe, and on his head sat a bronze crown, phalanges attached around its rim. A rusty, battered chainmail stretched across his torso, and beneath it was a leather gambeson sewn with human hair.

He dismounted, then bent down to pick up something at his feet. Holding it to the burning flames he saw that it was a ring, one that changed hues in the light of the flames. The Nightseer’s blue lips peeled back in disgust, his cold gaze falling on Humbletee. He tossed the ring away.

An undead soldier approached, an old robe hanging from his bony shoulders, torn and mould covered. He saluted and exchanged words in a language long dead.

The warleader’s stern gaze swung skyward.

A thunder echoed in the far distance, the sky blinking, a flash fiercer than lightning. 

‘Search,’ the warleader ordered, ‘it is here.’

The soldier bowed and left.

Again, the warleader’s eyes fell on the wounded druid. He approached.

‘Well played, Humbletee.’

The druid snorted and spat, a wad of spit and blood scattering over the Nightseer’s skeleton feet.

The warleader’s expression darkened. ‘I take it you deluded yourself in believing you could save them. I see it in your eyes. You’re like the rest of your brotherhood. Take a deep breath. The scent of seared flesh and burnt hair. That’s the smell of your failure.’

The druid sneered, whispering something. And that something caught the warleader’s attention.

‘The prince?’ he reiterated. ‘His tower is being torn to the ground. We shall impale him in front of his remaining Ilan Vaghos, then force the children to devour him.’

‘The ways of the tide will never be yours,’ said Humbletee. ‘It cannot save you. It is not the answer.’

The warleader’s eyes flared with rage. ‘Find it!’ he growled, turning to his inferiors. 

Humbletee looked away. The slain were hacked asunder and devoured. The Nightseers hadn’t just come to search, they’d come to dine.

Humbletee’s eyes watered at the sight of a girl and her brother, hauled across the harbour road, to the Nightseers’ rapacious glare.

A voice cried. The last standing captain of the Ilan Vaghos charged with all he had, faithfully accompanied by his gallant squad of fifteen strong. They fought until what was left of their strength failed.

The knights approached, swords drawn, with the intent to end the Ilan Vaghos captain and his squad.

Humbletee closed his eyes.

Again, thunder rolled across the sky, a roar from something above nature. A flash of blue lightning struck down from above, blowing a nearby group of Nightseers to pieces. A pale and black scaled dragon descended from the black clouds, causing a fissure in the sky from which it dove earthwards.

There was carnage, this time on the Nightseers’ account. Humbletee gazed up at the dragon. Its luminous green eyes haunted the night. The lights from the shores, from his brothers’ staffs, closed in on him.

My mistake, my shame, my burden.

Then, with the world blurring before his eyes, Humbletee fell.

The captain was dying. His squad had met their end except two of his soldiers, both now kneeling at his side. ‘The Ilan Vaghos won’t perish. There are more of us,’ he managed, swallowing his own blood. ‘You fought bravely today. I have but one last task for you.’

‘Anything, Captain,’ said a soldier, knowing that her efforts in binding the captain’s wound, a gash running along his broken spine, was in vain.

‘The people of Black Stone. Hold no grudge against them but find a new home for them and for our people.’ Hands shivering, he pulled out a scroll from a leather pouch in his belt, passing it on. ‘I used to keep an account of our losses, until I lost my reckoning. There’s strength in the names of the fallen. The Storm Reapers won’t die. They can’t die.’

‘We’ll honour their names,’ the soldiers vowed.

The eyes above his contented smile stilled on the gleaming moon and the ghostly light that in columns fell down upon the ineffable slaughter. The scroll fell into the hands of the soldiers.

**

Above, the clouds collided in a vile thunder followed by a roar that was long and hollow. Lightning, green, blue, and purple, then another roar seeking to tear apart the sky itself. To beating flaps that smote the air like a divine hammer upon an anvil, wings appeared, twisting faster than a mortal’s blink of an eye, adjusting to the upstream of air, the dragon shooting into sight. Every eye was on the sky, even that of the Nightseers, who sought to flee the surrounding hills of Mors Ila. The beasts vanished among the gathered clouds, only to reappear again, this time incinerating the undead ranks on the ground below with green and blue fire. The Nightseers fled, those who could taking to their undead horses.

Horns were still blaring retreat when Narratus and Apex knelt beside their brother.

‘About time,’ Apex growled.

‘Careful now,’ muttered Narratus. ‘Something tells me he’s not in the mood.’

Humbletee was lifeless in his lap, and he wiped grime and blood from his brother’s face.

The dragon landed outside the city gate. Many a Nightseer tried to flee through it, only to be held back by an invisible power, limbs frozen into place and then necks twisted in an irresistible snap.

The fourth druid, the rider of the dragon, appeared in the gate. His ringed fingers held firmly around his black staff. A strong blue light emanated from the ocean pearl in it, illuminating the stone arch above his hooded head.

He approached, face inexpressive and dull, eyes cold and observant.

‘Where in the Abyss have you been, Azûl,’ said Narratus bitterly.

‘Save your pleasantries. Yet again I find myself cleaning up after your mess.’

‘Mess? We were sent by Littlebrook to aid the Ilan Vaghos. Should irremediable damage befall the city, we were to stay and repair it with a touch of our magic and the sleight of our hands,’ Narratus went on. ‘We hadn’t foreseen this!’

Azûl raised a brow, scoffing. ‘Magic? Your skills aren’t decent enough to boil an egg in hot water! Take a good look around. This is an utmost dismal performance.’

‘Wasn’t our idea to bring the refugees hither. The prince...’

‘The prince?’ Azûl intervened, his voice deepening as he stepped closer, ‘is impaled. Now hear me out. You are going to clean this up. I don’t care how long it takes. I suggest you begin your path of remedy by saving the famous man in red.’

The historian managed a nod, deadpan, looking to the north-eastern sky, ‘And the Nightseers?’

Azûl scoffed. ‘It won’t be long until they meet their doom, somewhere, somewhen, in Aladria’s wilderness. I appreciate your concern, Narratus, but leave the devising of their doomsday to Littlebrook and me. As of late, ingenious contrivances don’t seem to be among your preeminent qualities. Truth be told, the current situation is beyond a shadow of a doubt the poorest cogitation I have ever witnessed – in any of the worlds I’ve ventured to.’ He turned from them, heading back out the gates.

The historian’s rageful stare lingered, but he said naught.

‘We’re far from a Lightstone!’ Apex protested. ‘Humbletee is in dire need of healing. Your dragon could get him to the Winter Temple in no time.’

Azûl halted and swung around, ‘Do I look like a postman to you?’

Apex frowned, ‘No. That’s not what I meant.’

‘I’m sure,’ murmured Azûl. ‘And the key? Don’t tell me you’ve lost it.’

‘It’s safe. We’re taking it far away from these shores.’ Far away from you.

Azûl sighed, then shrugged. ‘Well, it is your time to keep it. But mark my words; had I been the head of the Order you would barely be entrusted the task of watering Gwyn’s garden. Fix this. You’re the inventor. Surely your bright intellect should be sufficient enough to wiggle you out of this disarray.’

Azûl turned again, this time leaving for good, finishing off the Nightseers between him and his dragon. Heads and skulls collided with deadly impact against the cold stone-wall, necks twisting in audible snaps. The dragon awaited its rider faithfully. While its eyes were bright green, there was a rot and decay on its face, and its wings were dark and holed. It didn’t matter to Azul, for its ferocity was unmatched even in death, and the internal combustion that gave it a fiery breath worked better than ever. Azûl mounted his undead beast. As it spread its wings, beams of moonlight shone through the holes. In a forceful maelstrom it took off, flying towards the lower curve of the gleaming moon. In a swift manoeuvre, the winged beast took a turn, soon to be obscured by the gathering clouds.

The historian swore under his breath, ‘Why has he always got to be so...’ 

The inventor sighed, finishing his friend’s line, ‘Consenting?’

Condescending, but yes. ‘Aye.’

‘It’s simply his nature,’ muttered Apex.

Narratus shook his head, then his attention fell back on their wounded brother. ‘Alright, let’s get Humbletee and these children into safety.’

A voice spoke behind them, ‘We’d like to offer a hand. The barges are gliding away. We can’t reach them anymore. There are boats hidden in the city. We should be able to catch up with our people and the refugees by sunrise, after we’ve rested.’

‘You intend to follow them?’ said Narratus.

‘Do we have much choice?’ said the young soldier, her face pale and blood covered. She looked at them with sincere eyes. Beside her stood a woman ten years her senior. ‘This city is too burdened with pain, master druid.’

Narratus obliged. ‘Your help is most appreciated, soldier. Is there a house, any house that we can use?’

‘Down the street and to the left, an old tavern, down into the cellar,’ the soldier said.

‘Right, let’s get going.’

‘I’m worried about him,’ the inventor grumbled, assuring a firm grasp around his unconscious brother’s arms.

‘Put your back into it and stop blabbing,’ Narratus murmured. 

‘No, you misunderstand,’ Apex retorted, lifting in unison with the others. ‘Leading the exiles from Black Stone hitherto was Humbletee’s idea. The events of this day will for ever leave a wound inside of him, a wound I fear may never heal.’ 

‘That’s possible, Apex. But let me assure you, the alternative is far worse,’ Narratus ascertained. ‘If Humbletee dies, then only the creators know when he will return. We’ve got to save him. Furthermore, we have a key to hide and we’re already late about it.’

‘Any suggestion yet?’ said Apex, putting his back into the carrying.

‘There’s this city called Darrun, in Raz Néngorod. It’s said the Lunar King himself once walked its streets.’

‘Intricate!’

Narratus frowned. ‘Intriguing, Apex.’

‘Exactly.’

No-one slept well that night, and when the light of dawn broke beyond the eastern ridges, under the silent stars, the last soldiers of the Storm Reaper’s Guild acquired a handful of mud dragged into their city by the refugees, filling their pockets with that mixture of soil, tears, and blood as they honoured the names written onto their captain’s scroll.

**

The shadow that still lingered over Acara had kept her safe from the deadly downpour of arrows. The southern concourse lay before her, a bleeding scene forever stained on Acara’s memory. Her world had been torn apart. She shivered, trembled at the thought of her own people’s brutality more than that of the Nightseers. She was abandoned by all she once knew, and that awareness stung her to the point where she could barely breathe.

‘It’ll pass, the shock,’ a guarding shade voiced behind her. 

She managed no words.

‘I have come to offer you a way out.’ The voice was dark and gruff. ‘Shock today, grief tomorrow, then a thousand eternities of vengeance on your mind. You know it, don’t you? Even at your tender age, you know...’

She nodded, stuttering, ‘Yes.’

The shadow manifested as the lynx stepped out from the wall.

She reeled back, consternation glinting in her eyes.

‘Don’t fear me, child. Like I said, I’m here to offer you an escape.’

‘Escape?’ she rasped. ‘How?’

‘I’m going to take you somewhere safe.’

‘Where’s grandma?’

‘She sends her regards.’

The child’s eyebrows knitted into a frown, ‘You’ve talked to her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Safe.’

‘Will I meet her?’

‘Eventually.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you accept my offer, child of the Last Shadow?’

There was a long silence.

Acara looked back and out upon the slaughter filling the concourse, the soulless eyes glaring at her, the black ravens and crows fighting over the abundance of fodder. There was so much to eat, and yet, she thought, they fought – like her people had.

‘Will I see her again?’

‘You will, in time.’

The child rose. Feet aching, a searing pain crawling up her shins. She looked down and saw that they’d been burned, charred by the dragon’s fire. Slowly she stumbled towards the large, black lynx. There was a hole in the wall from which the four-legged predator had leapt, filled with swirling shadows and gales, a metamorphosis of black sorcery.

She looked back at the slaughter one last time. The caws cut through the air, shrill shrieks of defeat. Putting her hand inside the shadows, she quickly retrieved it at the almost unbearable cold. Ice seemed to coat her fingers when she did. 

‘Don’t be scared, child.’

‘I’m cold.’

‘Life is cold.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Then make the step,’ the lynx pushed. ‘Your choice. Cold or alive.’

Behind her, the shrill caws of crows knew no end, and in her mind, they echoed a thousand times stronger.

She stepped through. 

The once floating magma of Cratarûn had since stilled, cooled, formed into the igneous mountain range under her feet. She was standing atop ice and snow, flanked by dikes tall and looming enough to cast dark shades on her. The ridges she could see were all crested with batholites, ancient deities, bewitched gods, forever frozen, trapped, transformed into cold, immovable statues of rock.

Unbeknownst to her, the orogeny that once found place was set in motion by forces far older than any Shârz or other deity she’d learnt to revere.

Before her, from the dark craggy mountainside, came the light of yellow lanterns, hundreds of them, illuminating the ice in the wall’s crevices and cracks, a wall containing a huge, black gate. And beyond, as far up as she could see, reaching into the ominous clouds, rose three dark towers.

Shuddering, she stuttered, ‘Where am I?’

‘Not where, when,’ the lynx replied coolly beside her.

‘I... I’m still cold. Why did you take me here?’

‘These mountains, child, hold many secrets. They were formed in the heat of creational rage, a war between the creators.’

‘I don’t understand...’

‘When formed, iron is hot, aglow, yet inapplicable. Once cool it takes its true form. The same you should know of these mountains. Atop every peak you see lies the same everlasting ice, sacrosanct, the crowns of a thousand eras.’

‘Can we go inside?’

The lynx stepped forward. ‘Follow me.’

A gargoyle characterised the apex of a stone arch above two tall doors, its eyes opaque, narrow, and observant, and below them a sinister grin.

The lynx broke the preternatural silence around them, ‘Go ahead, knock.’ 

Acara’s cold hands reached for the iron ring in the door, frost going through her as her soft fingers touched by it. The knocks were loud, echoing deep into the dark keep.

For a long while, nothing happened.

Then, the door squeaked open.

A tall figure stepped out. He was slim, pale skinned with red eyes, bald, and garbed in doleful black gabardines. He carried a lantern. Tattoos circled his white scalp, bright blue in the moonlight as he unhooded himself. His voice was but a mere whisper, occasionally interrupted by a dry and monotonous voice. ‘His crows are feeding. There’s a feast yet again, beneath the sky. A Company of Dacureans somewhere in Raz Néngorod. Idiots.’

The lynx stepped forward. ‘You’re still serving, I see.’

The dark garbed man hung his head in reverence, ‘Don’t we all?’ His eyes fell on the girl. ‘And who’s this?’

‘An Ilan Vaghos child. We heard you were short on retainers.’

A mild chortle escaped his throat. ‘I suppose that’s a befitting term, after all, aren’t we all servants in His honour?’

‘We are indeed.’

He came closer, inspecting the child’s scarred face, his gaze meeting her yellow eyes. ‘I am beholden to you. I have indeed before me a true child of the Last Shadow. They’re rare these days.’ He turned to the lynx, ‘And what am I to do with her?’

‘Tutelage,’ the lynx replied. ‘It’s said they’re gifted.’

The servant shrugged, then turned to the door, lantern held aloft, ‘I’m sure the Necromancer won’t refuse such a generous offer. Come then, it’s cold for a child of your feeble measures.’

Starved and cold, Acara turned but the lynx was gone, its traces in the snow ending about ten paces away.

Behind her, from the door, the stranger’s voice called for her. ‘Welcome, child. We are most honoured to have you.’

Chapter I

Where Walk the Dead

These shackles of pain,

Fettered to the roots,

Of my heart.

I wander these lands,

A ghost,

Unclean, bloodied,

Like my conscience,

While above me, the caws,

Of winged beasts,

Fill the sky.

I see nations,

Bled dry by warfare.

Our rivers reddened,

Our earth defiled,

Our air thick with carrion.

These lands mourn,

In utter silence,

Voicelessly, absent tears,

To succeed my cries.

These shackles of pain,

Is there no end,

To their reach?

––––––––

-  Ubraz Khanor, Ûzuk queen

––––––––

2291 of Driorûn

Eight years before the ice dragon’s winter curse

––––––––

T

his land was an abomination of all that had ever been, of all that would ever come to be. Where water should’ve run, lava had taken its place, filling every crevasse, crack, and runnel in the ground, one that was as infecund as bare rock. The tall warrior halted, supporting his weight to his trident, studying the vast expanses of the vile world that was nothing less than the afterlife. Barren, save from distant echoes of what once was, revealed by ubiquitous shadows.

The souls within the ground knew of his presence, for they whispered his name. They called him the Truth Seeker. How right they were. He inhaled the smoke-filled air. There was no need to breathe, but then again, each soul dragged with it the habits and lessons taught and endured throughout a lifetime.

He came to think about a people encapsulated in the ice, stories he had wanted to tell but never could, stories crucial for the survival of his own people. And from the darkness deep beneath the layers of the tundra’s ice he had crawled, from that Ilan Vaghos girl and her weakling boy, back into the warmth of the sun and the distant regard of cold stars. Days of wandering the wilderness of Raz Néngorod had become weeks, then months of contemplating. Maybe, he had wondered, it wasn’t the truth he had found but still a crucial piece of the puzzle to life’s riddle, to the mystery of death and life’s eternal dance. Maybe.

Issues would have arisen if he’d made it back to Koranth Absaron, the capital of Raz Néngorod, to present these truths before his queen and his sons. I wondered what you would have thought of me then, Ubraz Khanor. Would you have believed me anyway? Would you finally have seen that there’s more to life than bloodshed, duty, and honour? And Zabroc, Tomran, and Hunug, would you perhaps have learned to accept each other’s differences, each other’s needs and wants? Would you finally have come to respect one another for who you truly are? And would the tribes of Raz Néngorod have come together under my Bronze Shield and agreed upon a truce that could’ve saved us all? I was mad to think any of this possible. Maybe I was too lost to be saved.

He halted to lay eyes upon a wheel cart. It was broken, wheels torn from the cart itself and raised high on poles, and upon them, the bludgeoned bodies of weaklings. He scoffed, shaking his head at the sight. He stepped closer. These weren’t just weaklings, after all, they were weaklings admitted allowance into his lands for a particular purpose. Gold diggers. Killed, it would seem, by their own greed. What had to be an entire family broken on the wheels and wooden poles, their blood now black and cold upon the ground. Weaklings. Wealth gets them nowhere, and they still don’t realise it. Even in death.

He moved on, the path up a steep slope taking him to a ledge that offered a better vista over these cursed lands. The grey woollen cloak brushed dust and ashes in his wake, the plethora of carved bones tied to the cloak’s capelet rattling to his recurring motions. 

The rider had come to him on his way back, had consulted with him. But he had chased both him and his horse off, condemning every word said. Unfortunately, the rider’s shadow had followed the king all the way back to his people. Truth Seekers, as he had learnt, did not last long. If anyone understood such a simple truth it had to be Groth, the traitor witch. Kobras, the High Priest of Azûdrûn, was another he could turn to. However, his ties to the other priests and priestesses certainly complicated things. Maybe the High Priest had a limit as to how much truth he could swallow in a lifetime, as so many had. Maybe I was wrong there, too. Maybe he would’ve listened with all his heart. If so, then who was I to deny my faithful servant the truth?

He peered out into the yonder distance. Crows and ravens were gathering under the thunderous sky, wings flapping, the hisses flying past the fallen warrior king. He pulled off the crown the priests had left him with, scrutinising it. Blood washed away, the bronze shone as if held against flames, the ancient symbols engraved in it shimmering at him. A fiery light with no obvious source. There was no sun in this place, at least not that he had seen so far.

Ubraz. I have not left your side. My queen, I will one day find my way back to you, in life or death.

He donned his crown, rose, and continued his journey up the slope.

Bodies, corpses, of children, women, and men littered the ground as far as his eyes could see. Among them, broken spear shafts, torn banners draping from poles whereupon sat black, foul crows, the beasts feasting on the carnage. But these, he saw, were not just weaklings. They were warriors, and their shields and armour carried insignias. The Carsothof, Hauthac, Likath, and Tibrac tribes. They seemed to feed more than the hideous birds of prey. They fed the ground itself. Their blood seeped down into the crack like black tar.

He sighed. The plateau hadn’t offered him the tranquillity of mind he sought. The field of slaughter had no end to it, and with each step taken among the fallen, remorse and regret spread within his stomach. Yet the Ûzuk king could not weep. He had shared his last tears on his deathbed, his last breath to an empty room, forgotten, abandoned, ridiculed by his own people, a people that were now strewn at his feet, butchered like cattle. And for what? A question he had asked himself as much in life as he now did in death.

By the banks of a blackened lake sat a weakling girl. She giggled, a finger falling from her mouth. ‘I prefer the smaller ones. They’re more like me. But these are good, too. At least they quench the hunger in my stomach. Who are you? Have you come to play with me?’

‘I have not, child. Are there any more of you here?’

‘Yes. We are many. But they don’t like you. They think you are a threat to them and dare not come out.’

‘Out?’ the king wondered. ‘From where?’

‘The shadows,’ the girl replied, wiping her blood-smeared face with the sleeves of her grimy garment. ‘But I like strangers. Will you play with me? No-one has played with me in a very long time.’

‘What is this place?’

‘A broken world. It’s becoming part of a new one, some say. But I don’t like that. I liked the old world. With flowers and sunshine, with honey and apples. And a blue sky.’

The king looked about, seeing stone fences and various ruins of houses,