Prologue Chapter 2

- Chapter 1: Mission -

Trudging through the sparse pine forest, Keir muttered to himself that it was too quiet; only the soft crunch of needles or the grind of gully rocks underfoot broke the wilderness silence. Glancing up at the hot sun, he wiped his sweaty forehead with a ragged woolen sleeve while reaching for the security of his worn sword hilt with the other. None of the thirty other bedraggled rebels ahead of him, not even his brother, seemed to notice the stillness as they marched through the dry, rocky, canyon-riveted western hills of Lebec towards their camp, heads pointed wearily at the ground. Even the soft breeze from that morning had deserted them.

He stared at the line of tall, flaxen-haired men and wondered if the success of their midnight raid and the all-night march had rendered them careless in their rush to escape to the safety of the hills.

Maybe my imagination is overactive, he thought. Besides, we're no more than a quarter-mile from camp. His grip on the sword relaxed.

Ahead was a narrow, boulder-strewn gully, its walls no taller than three manheights. Their camp lay at the far end in a thick copse. As Keir strode into the snake-like divide, he wondered why the sentries did not welcome them.

Suddenly, warning shouts rebounded off the stone walls of the pass. He whipped out his sword as arrows whistled from above, striking down several of his companions. Keir wasted no time in scrambling one-handed to the top of the gully.

Clambering over the rocky lip, he ducked instinctively as a loincloth-clad servant of The Voryaki slashed with a tulwar. The curved saber whooshed overhead, leaving the dark-skinned man off-balance long enough for Keir to grab the acolyte's top knot and slide his notched broadsword into the man's chest. The novice stared in horror at the blood flowering on his chest before his eyes glazed. As he slumped forward, Keir tugged his sword free.

Turning, the youth dodged a swinging mace from another servant while parrying the tulwar thrust of a third. Suddenly, the mace-wielding acolyte fell, a spear poking through his ribs. Keir parried again, his blade nearly breaking from the force of the acolyte's attack, the clash of steel ringing in his ears. He staggered, his riposte easily turned away. The acolyte slashed again, the powerful blow snapping his blade in a shower of sparks. Keir slipped backwards, desperately hacking at the acolyte with the jagged end he still held as the novice raised his tulwar for the deathblow. Before the sword could descend, however, Keir drove his broken piece through the acolyte's heart.

Rolling to his feet and grabbing the dead acolyte's tulwar, he spotted a black-robed priest of The Voryaki standing alone atop a large boulder less than twenty paces away. Keir watched dumbfounded as the priest stabbed his own hand, then raised the same bloody palm towards the camp. Too late, Keir realized what was happening.

"Nooo!" screamed Keir as he charged across the rocks. The esil-headed priest turned and grinned at the youth, a maniacal gleam in his eyes. Laughing, the priest turned back to the camp as a half-dozen rebels raced towards the priest. Suddenly, a black beam briefly burst from the priest's palm, smashing into the knot of rebels like a rolling boulder into a pile of sticks.

As the beam shut off, the priest staggered, struggling to bring up his knife and defend himself. But Keir was as angry as a wounded hiyaka cat and with one swing of the tulwar, the priest crumpled.

Swiftly, he glanced about to see if any priests or acolytes still stood among the boulders. There were two acolytes, both of whom the rebels were already binding. But the maimed corpses of his men littering the bloodsplattered rocks and gully floor far outnumbered the dead priest and his dozen acolytes. More than a score had fallen in the ambush, including the two sentries. He cursed at the thought of losing that many men.

Our entire force numbered no more than one hundred before the battle, he thought. If those in the camp hadn't responded as quickly as they did, the priest and his band would've slaughtered us all.

He walked from body to body, examining each for signs of life and calling for aid for any rebel who still lived while giving them a drink from his waterskin. Whenever he came across an acolyte with a pulse, he quickly slew them.

Some of these races I don't even recognize, he thought. Teivos' following is spreading too fast. If something doesn't happen soon... He shook his head, not wanting to follow that line of thought.

Keir tended all of the survivors, making sure that the litters carried each rebel to the camp. Finally he rose, wiping off his hands and sword. Glancing towards the hidden camp atop a nearby wooded knoll a hundred paces away, he spotted Jarik, his oldest and only surviving brother, sprinting towards him. By the bitter look on Jarik's face Keir knew something was seriously wrong.

As Jarik neared, he shouted, "Keir! Thank the gods you're alive!" Both men were tall, strong and agile, having grown up working their father's sheep ranch and guarding it from predators and bandits. Sweat glued curly blond hair to their faces, necks and shoulders, although Keir's youthful stubble did not compare to Jarik's full beard. Each wore a ragged, sleeveless leather jerkin over thin woolen tunics, leather breeches and sandals with straps cross-gartered over fleece-lined leggings. Their sizzling blue eyes reflected a fierce thirst for life. Keir, however, was a decade younger than his brother, having celebrated but seventeen winters. His eyes still held a semblance of innocence while there was a hard, bitter edge to his brother's.

Jarik spat, his face angry. "Father was hurt badly by that bloodsucking priest and his black magic. He wants to see you."

Keir groaned at the news of his father's injury, hoping his brother was exaggerating, but something inside told him no. For five years, Jorin Fenalsson had led his revolutionary band of peasants-turned-warriors through the western hills of Lebec, an ancient country of broad, fertile river plains flanked by high, treacherous crags. They had long harried and badgered the king's soldiers and the servants of The Voryaki throughout the western hills, but at great cost; his other six brothers and thousands of their countrymen had been slain.

Anxiously, the two strode through the camp towards the tent where their father lay. The hidden camp was in an ideal position atop the thickly wooded knoll, guarding the gully on one side and overlooking a small river valley on the other. Their tattered, patched tents and lean-tos huddled closely together in a circle amidst the trees, surrounding the deep fire pit they used for cooking. Keir was glad to see that nearly all the wounded had been tended while in the pit others prepared a meal. The savory smells of roasting hare and rattlesnake solicited growls from Keir's stomach but he failed to notice, for only worries about his father's health concerned him now.

As they passed the pit Jarik hailed one of the men, a big Northerner of thirty winters with bushy blond hair and beard. The warrior trotted up to them.

"Sir?" he asked.

"Hilg," said Jarik, "Prepare the men to move. I don't know how that priest found us but we've got to find a new place quickly. In the meantime, send some others to take care of our dead. Leave the priests' bodies for scavengers."

"I've already assigned men to the diggin' of graves, sir. How soon will we be going?"

"My father said tonight, before more of our enemies arrive."

"The men will be ready within the hour."

"Then while you wait, question those captured acolytes and find out how they discovered us."

"Yes, sir." Hilg nodded and returned to duty.

Keir frowned as they continued towards their tent. "How can father and the others who were hurt today possibly survive a march tonight?"

Jarik's head sagged and his voice lost some of its harsh edge. "Father says, and I agree, that while it might kill him to move so soon, it's certain death for all of us to stay here. But first let's see how he's doing."

Fearfully, Keir and Jarik stepped into their father's tent. A cot lined each side of the tent while a single stool stood next to a small wooden table in the middle, a table cluttered with tattered parchments, worn styluses and the waxy remains of old candles. Jorin lay on one cot, his staunch, solid figure covered by blankets and his proud face worn and haggard. Blood matted his stringy gray hair and beard. The entire left side of his face and neck were burned. His steely blue eyes were dull, unfocused. The rebel healer at his side rose.

"I've done all I could, but I fear he won't last 'til sunset." Keir's heart sank and his knees trembled. The shock of the severity of his father's condition stung him. His mouth gaped dumbly and his leaden limbs refused to move.

His brother nodded solemnly to the healer. "I understand. You may leave now." The healer hesitated and Jarik added, "Please, we wish to be alone with our father."

Keir finally moved as the healer left, stumbling to his knees at Jorin's bedside. He was dimly aware that Jarik stood at his shoulder.

"Father..." he began. It hurt to speak as his throat stiffened with sorrow.

Light flickered in the rebel commander's eyes. "Oh, my son. I'm so glad you're alive." Jorin's voice wavered, but his sight appeared focused. "Come close and listen. Taren, goddess of dooms, has declared this to be my final day with you. By dawn my spirit shall enter the gates of Vestal."

"No, father!" cried Keir. Tears streamed down his face.

At that moment, Hilg burst into the tent, dragging a short, scrawny man with him. The man seemed to be drowning in a long, unadorned, earth-brown robe. A half-dozen bulging pouches hung limply on the leather strap which served as a belt while a wide-brimmed hat of the same color appeared to be kept up only by his bushy eyebrows. His scraggly crimson beard and long, unkempt hair were streaked with gray. A hawk nose protruded between gaunt cheeks, lending to the man's unsavory appearance but his green eyes sparkled with a wisdom that belied his looks. In his right hand he clutched a tall staff capped by an orange orb. Hilg held a blade close to the man's neck.

"Sir," he growled to Jorin as Keir sprang to his feet, "I caught this wizard prowlin' at the edge of camp. Is this the one you told me to look out for or can I put my sword through 'im before he bewitches you with his wicked tricks?"

Jorin smiled faintly, struggling to rise to one elbow. "He's the one I expected. Thank you, Hilg." The fighter shrugged his shoulders, letting the wizard go. Before he left the tent, Hilg examined the man closely, as if to make sure he would not harm Jorin or his sons.

As the flap dropped, Jarik flailed his arms and stomped about, asking Jorin, "This runt is the wizard you told us about? I can't believe it!" Glaring down at the mage he asked coldly, "Well, wizard, do you bring aid for my father?" Keir was surprised by his brother's harshness, although he too cared little for magicians.

"Jarik!" hissed Jorin. He coughed before continuing. "This man is a friend of mine. Do not speak to him so."

"But father, he's a wizard!"

Keir glanced at they wiry man, whose head barely reached Keir's shoulders. The wizard stood patiently, apparently awaiting the outcome of Jorin's and Jarik's argument. An amused smile rested on his lips.

What incredible power this man has, Keir thought. I've never felt such power from any so-called magician. Not even those bloodsucking priests.

"Jarik," gasped Jorin, his words coming in short breaths, "I know how you feel about wizards, but this is no charlatan or heathen sorcerer." He paused for several seconds, then continued. "We've known each other for a long time, although he's never had a chance to meet the two of you."

The wizard bowed slightly, still smiling, though it seemed to Keir that his smile drooped sadly. "Allow me to introduce myself fully, Jarik. I am Bautista, Wearer of the Carnelian Robe, eleventh in the Grand Order of Wizards. You should know that with our skills we of the Grand Order serve only Evesthar the Most High God, not some demon from Meth. I wish I had the power to save your father, but unfortunately, I am not a healer. I came here on a mission of Evesthar, a mission of which your father knows."

Both sons looked down at Jorin, their eyebrows furrowed. Jarik asked, "A mission? Father, is this true?"

Jorin nodded weakly. "I'm sorry I never told either of you why Bautista was coming." He coughed several times and when he spoke again, his voice was but a rough whisper. "I meant to, but I could never find the right moment. He brings us aid from the Most High himself."

Jarik snarled, but at that moment, the orange orb atop Bautista's staff began to glow. "It is a sign from Vestal," he said, his face serious. "The gods are instructing me to fulfill my purpose in coming to you."

The mage stood straight and held his staff in front of him with both hands so that it was planted firmly on the ground. "Asjoas dhaltar," he said. Instantly his plain brown robe shimmered with a faint red glow. Swiftly the color of the robe changed and within five heartbeats it gleamed a rich orangish-red unlike any garment Keir had ever seen. The most expensive silks paled in comparison; this shone with the radiance of gems in sunlight, as if the robe had been woven from jewels.

Then Bautista turned to a wide-eyed Keir. "Kneel before me, lad," he said. The youth obeyed, despite a growl from Jarik. Casting a glance at his father, he noticed that Jorin seemed to greatly approve of whatever was happening. Then the wizard pulled a thin silver vial from his robe, twisting the stopper out, and rested a hand on Keir's head.

"Bow your head, Keir," ordered Bautista, his voice resonant and authoritative. The wizard poured the vial's perfumed contents upon Keir's head, chanting as he did so, "Yadta Evesthar etis, adhaar ois adalgor eLebec. In the name of Evesthar, I anoint you king of all Lebec."

Keir's jaw dropped. This was not at all what he expected. "I..." he began.

"Hush, lad," whispered Bautista, a finger at his lips, and strode to Jorin's side. Kneeling, he bowed has head and prayed silently, the brothers joining him on either side.

"I wish I had the ability to bring you healing, my friend," he said gently.

"I still don't understand why you can't!" exclaimed Jarik.

"My magic is not that kind." Bautista's voice brooked no argument. Placing his hands upon Jorin's head, the mage chanted once more.

"Ysjosa asjanlu en aterar ois, radena ala tegar clidena. In peace and love do I send you, until we meet once more." Jorin smiled, resting a hand on top of Bautista's, and closed his eyes briefly in prayer.

Opening his eyes, he beckoned his sons to his side, his voice faint. "I can no longer deny my fate. Tell the men I regret not recognizing the ambush." Again his eyes closed momentarily. When they opened, Keir noticed how weary they seemed. He edged closer as his father continued, his own eyes moist.

"Let me make one last request...You must each do what Bautista tells you...It will be to the benefit of the Revolution."

"But father, a wizard?" pleaded Jarik.

"It is..." The older man groaned and paled.

Keir leaped to his feet, leaning over Jorin. "Father!" he cried.

"It is my last request. Please, for me..." His voice faded as his eyes closed and his head sagged.

Keir dropped to his knees as he choked back tears. "O holy Evesthar! Is he dead, Jarik?"

Jarik placed his hand on Jorin's neck and nodded. Both brothers offered a final silent prayer. Solemnly, Jarik picked up his father's sword, which lay beside the cot, and put it into Jorin's left hand: an ancient Lebecian custom said to give the dead protection as their soul travels the long, harrowing road to Vestal.

With his father's death, Keir felt a sudden hardening of his heart, a purposeful desire to do whatever necessary to avenge him. I'll see Savonna and Teivos dead before I accept this kingship Bautista's forced on me. Keir rose and faced the wizard.

"My father's last request was that I do whatever you ask of me. I cannot deny him that." As he spoke, Keir knew he would best face Jorin's death and deal with the destiny he had just realized by leaving as soon as possible. "However, my father must first be buried."

"Very well," said Bautista. "Jarik, will you prepare the ceremony?"

Jarik nodded and left. Keir suddenly noticed that his older brother had hardly said a word since his anointing.

*****

A single flickering torch lit Jorin's grave a short ways from the camp. As his body was lowered, the rebels quietly sang the ancient burial dirge Lebecians had sung for centuries.

"A fond farewell to our comrade of courage;

May thy sword protect thee;

May it keep thee on thy path.

Fall not aside into Death's darkness,

For no help can thou hope for

And unaided thy spirit be devoured.

Follow the lonely, bitter highway;

Then may Evesthar greet thee at Vestal's gates

And grant thy spirit peace unending."

After dirt covered the grave, a rock cairn was built on the mound. Jarik remained silent throughout the brief ceremony save for a few carefully chosen words of remembrance and the singing of the dirge. Keir feared to say anything to his brother.

As the men returned to their posts, Keir, Jarik and Bautista slowly strode back to the tent. "You must realize, Keir," said the wizard, seemingly oblivious to Jarik's silence, "that until Teivos is dead, you can have no throne of your own and so you must go to Nasaus, the land of the Brimulung."

"To Nasaus?" Keir raised a blond eyebrow. "But that's southwest. I thought the Isle of The Voryaki where Teivos lives is in the east."

Bautista lifted his hat and ran a hand through thinning red hair as they reached the tent. "Let's go inside and I will explain."

The wizard lifted the flap for the brothers to enter and after securing it once more, they each sat on a cot.

"Pranzik, High Priest of The Voryaki, has learned of both my mission here and of yours. He has already sent out his priests with their army of acolytes along with many of Savonna's knights to slay you and so defeat Evesthar. They come closer to finding you with every passing day. That is why you must go to Nasaus. Pranzik should not suspect such a move, seeking you in eastern Lebec rather than western."

Keir's eyes grew wide. "You mean the priest we fought today..."

"If this was part of their search, you can be assured that some acolytes were sent to inform Pranzik of your location. That is why I have brought you this!" The wizard slipped his hand inside his robe and pulled out a sword in a battered leather scabbard.

"Its name is Onaonte, the Sword of the White Death. It was forged by Emathion, the Wearer of the Diamond Robe and first of the Grand Order. It can neither fail nor betray you, though you might fail and betray it, for Onaonte is a magical sword. Bear it well." He handed the sword to Keir.

The youth slowly drew Onaonte from its sheath. Its leather-wrapped pommel was unadorned while the bright blade itself was crafted from the finest tempered steel and inscribed with intricate lines of many colors. Every time Keir moved the sword, the colorful lines changed hue, casting rainbows onto the canvas walls.

"Those lines," explained Bautista, "are actually words of the White Magic, written in the script of the ancient Cylorites, from whom the Lebecians descend. With these words, Emathion has blessed the sword with the power of the White Magic."

As the scrawny wizard spoke, Keir grew aware of a gentle tremor in the pommel.

This thing feels as if it's alive! he thought.

"I must caution you about this sword, Keir, for it contains tremendous magical power, the same power possessed by the Grand Order. Do not try to discover it on your own, for without proper instruction the magic may destroy you. When you reach Nasaus I will begin to teach you how to wield it, but there is no time now."

Keir creased his brow. "But why give me the sword? What good is it against a creature as great as Teivos if I can't use its magic?"

"It is true that Teivos is without a doubt the mightiest Voryaki ever to live yet even he is mortal. Neither he nor any other member of his race could ever become a god. As for the Sword of the White Death, it was forged long ago to end the blasphemy of Teivos. However, its power is to protect you, not to harm others. Only against Teivos is its magic meant to be used. Still, that does not prevent you from using the blade itself as a weapon."

Keir rose as he sheathed Onaonte and tied the scabbard onto his belt alongside his sling and long knife. He threw a worried glance at Jarik as his brother stood, face grim, and began pacing.

Maybe it's just grief that's keeping him quiet, he thought. No, it's more than that. But what? Jealousy? His hatred or fear of wizards and magic? Is it something I've done?

Unable to find an answer, he turned to Bautista. "I don't know how to get to Nasaus. Will you take me there?"

"No, I have pressing business elsewhere. However, I shall meet you at Mt. Alusia, the capital of Nasaus. Travel south along the Aria River. Mt. Alusia is easily the most massive mountain in these parts and the river flows from it. Hurry now, for you will be caught in these hills by soldiers or priests of The Voryaki if you delay."

Turning to Jarik, the wizard said, "As for you, you must take the place of your father and lead your rebels north, away from Keir, so that you fool the priests long enough for your brother to get a good head start. It is at least six days to Nasaus."

Jarik stopped pacing in front of Bautista and crossed his arms, glaring narrowly down at the wizard. "Tell me something, sorcerer," he muttered coldly. "Why Keir? I'm ten years older yet he is chosen. I don't understand."

Keir expected Bautista to lash out like his father always had to Jarik's questioning, but the wizard responded calmly. "The Most High has reasons for everything He does, Jarik, which we do not always understand. However, Evesthar is much wiser than we and what He does is just and good."

Jarik remained stoic. "You are right when you say the gods do things we don't understand. Very well then, let's just send Keir on his way."

Why's he so eager for the throne? thought Keir. At least he hasn't accused me of anything but Bautista's answer sure didn't help any.

He glanced at his brother. Maybe there's a way to get around the anointing. There probably was a mistake made someplace if they chose me. With enough time, I can figure it out.

At that moment a commotion at the other end of the camp shattered the night stillness. The three burst out of the tent, the brothers drawing their swords. Hilg sprinted towards them.

"What's going on?" shouted Jarik angrily.

"The acolytes we captured today," Hilg said, "They tried to escape, sir."

Jarik grabbed the big man by the shoulders. "Well, did they?"

"We killed one of 'em, sir, but the other disappeared into the woods and we lost 'im in the darkness."

"Demon's Eye! He'll be off to warn others of our position and to tell of father's death." Jarik whirled and grabbed Keir's arm. "You can't leave now. It's too dangerous!"

Shaking his head, Keir said, "I'm sorry, but I have to." Pushing away his brother's hand, he turned and hurriedly strode towards their tent.

"What do you mean?" cried Jarik as he ran to keep up.

"I--I don't know how to explain why. I just know that the Revolution will never succeed if I stay. Besides, father's last request was that I follow Bautista's instructions. If we're ever to avenge his death and that of our brothers, then I must begin this quest, no matter what it costs us, including my own life. Now, where's a pack?"

Bautista thrust a small but full pack in front of him before Keir even had a chance to begin searching. "Take this," he said. "I have prepared it for you."

"Thanks. Is my sling in there? I'll need it for hunting."

"It's there," said Bautista.

Keir turned and smiled at his brother as he slung the pack onto his shoulders. "You know I must do this." Grasping Jarik's arms, he pulled him into an embrace. His older brother's body was tense, reluctantly returning the hug.

"There's a servant of The Voryaki out in the woods somewhere," stated Jarik in a final protest.

"He doesn't know I'm leaving." Keir hesitated, then added, "I love you." He felt his brother's body relax some. Pulling away to face him, they grasped each other's arms as he said, "Keep the Revolution alive."

"I will. Survive, Keir. We are the last of our family." Keir felt more tension slide out of his brother's arms.

"Listen," Jarik added meekly. "I'm not angry at you. I know you must think I am but I'm not. I'm angry at the gods for letting father die as well as our brothers."

"And for choosing me king?"

"Yes. But I'll get over it." He smiled. "And I love you also." The two of them, followed by Bautista, walked to the camp's edge. There they met stares from Hilg and the other guards.

"I think you'll have to come up with some explanation for the men," Keir whispered to Jarik. He briefly embraced his brother once more. "Goodbye, Jarik. Goodbye, Bautista." Turning, he began to trudge down the hill towards the creek at its bottom, which would lead him to the Aria River.

After watching Keir trot out of sight, Bautista turned to Jarik, placing a hand on the man's shoulders.

"Let us go back to your tent, Jarik. I need to discuss this pressing business of mine with you."