The Seven Kingdoms of Audelas

[Lakin_of_DpN]

(OOC:Closed to Letho)


The moon shone like molten silver against a starless night. Beneath the silent walls of a weathered Cenyth Monastery, the monks had ceased their chanting and gone to rest. Nothing moved through the vast maze of corridors or crossed the craggy stone courtyards. Only a solitary figure eased from the shadows, her tall sleek frame swathed in black, while at her ankles a trail of Zay silk floated along the meandering breeze. Her face was bone white, narrow and scarcely touched by old age; her mouth a dour line as she gazed out into the eerie night. Nothing shook the heavy silence. Yet the witch felt something there as her dark, squinted eyes, moved over the large iron cauldron protecting, the Twelve Crystals of Osentia. Each trenchant shard, gleaming black, was well known and revered for its magical resonance. Trirea watched as a violet spark spiraled up and away from the crystal pool, stabbing the air like a blade of hot pulsing light.

Beating stronger. The violet glow slit the surrounding darkness, dissolving to swirling mist as a great form came through the disturbance, his crimson eyes unblinking. She had never felt this insignificant—ever. Lady Trirea, sister of the ruling king of Cenyth, ran a trembled hand through her silver-streaked mane of black hair. Instinctively lowered her eyes and somehow found her voice. “Welcome, My Lord. The Cenyth Kingdom has great need of you.” She felt a warning prickle up her spine as she stood stock still. His presence pressed in on her, threatening to suck the warmth from her body and the very breath from her lungs. “It has begun.” She whispered in a rasp, subdued tone. “The King of Tigan has called the Warlands Council together. Savion, Zay and Cenyth have agreed to the assembly, it is purely a matter of time before the final three Kingdoms of Audelas respond.”

Close by, the rustle of velvet robes sounded as they plunged from the towering man’s broad shoulders. In his early fifties, he showed almost no sign of age in his chiseled features. His hair hung to the middle of his back, a true white color that reflected his pale skin. His dark pants looked to be made of smooth leather that hugged hard muscular thighs. His shirt a silky black material buckled all the way to his chin with strange clasps that looked like hard curves of silver. Draque, the last Dram Lord, tensed. His back straight, he waited muscles taut. Instinct, finally swayed years of caution, he gave a soft snarl and relaxed.

“Retribution will be mine. Do not forsake me, Trirea. I have waited far too long,” he growled. The Barbarian looked off into the darkness.

“Everything I do is in preparation of your success my Lord. Your wait will soon be over.”

From a windswept tower in the north came the low, haunting chime of distant bells. Before their sound began to fade, the Dram Lord had folded back into the darkness, black against pitch black, his witch-woman close behind.

***

With a final wave to her father, the Duke of East Akashima, and to Naomi, her most trusted servant, Lakin was on her way. Escorted by the Arasaki Honor Guard close at her side, she urged her horse forward through the gates of Savion City to where the wagons formed a line. Her dear friend Marcus, a retired Savion Knight, had secured her travel passage with the Audelas convoy, and her father had paid for a place at the front of the column, which assured his daughter would not be bothered by the dust and grind kicked up by the rest of the caravan.

Lakin opened the nearest satchel dangling across her horses back, yielding nothing but a small leather book—Kristiniel’s dairy. Smiling, she flipped through the well thumbed, slightly yellowed pages. Although Marcus was unable to locate the diary’s new owner, Ruben Letho, he had successfully contacted his son, the reigning king of Savion. Thrilled by the prospect of retrieving his mother’s journal, the King had issued a royal invitation, requesting Lakin’s presence at court in Tigan. Attending the assembly would provide a formal introduction to the Warlands Council; sanction Lakin as a diplomat and perhaps form new alliances for both East Akashima and her clan Dead Pool Network. The enormity of the task was daunting, but she was thoroughly prepared. Lakin had studied long and hard and was well aware of her position in life, her duties and responsibilities. As she waited for the rest of the procession to form, she moved restlessly in her seat and pondered on, just how hard her journey out to the Kingdom of Tigan would really be.

Difficult, Lakin thought a number of days later, answering her own question. It was tough. Shading her eyes against the setting sun with her hand, Lakin calculated that they were a few hours off making camp for the night. The convoy was not making a straight run west; instead the route plotted by the caravan leaders was done according to the availability of known supply outposts. So the procession weaved its way north-west toward Tigan. Lakin moved out of her place at the front and rode back to the middle of the column, where an envoy of Cenyth monks, who had befriended her, had been assigned a place. She would settle in, spend the evening among them, and then come morning, go back to her position in the long caravan of plodding horses and people.

The monks acknowledged her with warm smiles and good-humor as she brought her horse to a stop and slid down to the hard packed dirt strewn with tufts of scraggy undergrowth. Lakin nodded her head in greeting, she lingered a moment, savoring the great expanse of the Wastelands and the cooling effect that came after sunset, then turned to the chore of unpacking. With the last of her tasks concluded she joined the priests in the line they formed each evening before they permitted themselves to rest. These weren’t the kind of monks Lakin was familiar with. They wore extravagant red robes and preferred to keep their own company. In the past eight days, Lakin had come to realize that the monks did not encourage others to follow the simple lifestyle in which they lived their lives. They shared with only a select few, and in the time since the caravan had started, they had turned away several acolytes, who like Lakin had been drawn to them. Singling her out, they had accepted Lakin, and in their company she found quiet companionship and indescribable peace. The high monk spent a lot of time with her, tutoring her in the art of meditation, showing Lakin how to develop the power within the depths of her being and mind. It was only since following the High Monks instructions in meditation that she had begun to understand the mystical ability inherited from her mother. Smiling in greeting to those she had not seen earlier, Lakin dropped to the dry earth and crossed her legs.

The High Monk bowed lightly. “Welcome Lakin. We are ready for our evening contemplation.” The monks seldom engaged in conversation, but their company was always kindly.

Lakin closed her eyes and bent her head as the others did, feeling relief in her muscles and neck instantly. She concentrated and with her next breath inhaled deeply of the dry air and exotic incense that burned in braziers at each end of the line. The heavy fragrance of Cenyth Musk and Myrrh carried to her gently on the wind. With practice, she relaxed her muscles and sought to empty her mind. It was one of the few activities on this journey that brought complete reflection. Lakin masked the sounds of the ever present convoy, as the high monk had taught her. A familiar calm engulfed her and she moved deeper and deeper into her trance, stilling and quieting her external senses completely. Slowly, awareness of her body was left behind. Her mind unshackled, and she flew like a bird through the pure, white twilight, that she had been encouraged to accept by the Cenyth monks. It was as if she was being drawn with purpose to a destination she had no control over. Her rapid flight slowed, someone waited on the forest floor ahead, her silhouette—shimmering a soft azure against the stark white of the ethereal plane they now shared.

Lakin settled onto the grass like substance before her, lifting her airy hands and seeing them twinkle with the same misty blue radiance that bathed the towering woman she greeted.

“What is this place?” Lakin asked, her mind expressing the words her voice could not.

“Another plane of existence,” Trirea answered using thought.

“Why are we here?”

“To give me the opportunity to show you what you are capable of. You must come to Tigan with only one mission in mind,” Trirea demanded, her words pounding in Lakin’s mind. “To destroy and bring death to a man who will cause only pain and suffering to those you love. You must go on, find this man and stop him.”

“I don’t even know who you are, or of whom you speak.” Lakin thought openly, trying to understand. If she didn’t know who this man was, then she couldn’t bring his death.

The Cenyth witch shook her head. “You are on the path toward him.”

Trirea turned her face away from Lakin for a moment. When she turned back, she lifted her chin high and tossed back her black, silver tapered hair. Her eyes flashed firm resolve and her words though unspoken held immense power in them. “In time I will reveal everything, but for now all you will remember of this astral journey is how refreshed and completely relaxed you feel and how compelled you are to continue on your chosen path.”

The witch’s form exploded suddenly to white luminous specks before winking out completely. When she vanished, it was as if Lakin was unleashed from the place of their meeting. Her astral being was plucked backward by an unseen force. The descent was swift, and the joining with her physical body effortless. Opening her eyes, she saw the priests surrounding her. As her vision returned, she saw a strange contentment in the eyes of the High Monk.

[Letho]

In the Kingdom of Savion, beyond the blackened trees of the Haunted Forest, in a spacious courtyard of a fortress long forgotten, Letho Ravenheart practiced his legendary swordsmanship.

The ancient castle of Aluand wasn’t much of a castle anymore. Its decrepit walls had been eroded and smoothened by the sands of time, the dark grey seldom seen under the green of the aged moss and the tough growing weeds. Only the towers resisted the floral encroaching, standing as tall and proud as decaying towers could, leaning hazardously like old geezers without a proper cane. Everything else – the web of cobbled pavements that connected the gates; the empty, shallow moat surrounding the outer walls; the stony remnants of buildings that once found protection within Aluand – fell under the herbal dominion brought by centuries without upkeep. The nature seemed to be reclaiming this piece of rocky land and there was nothing to stop it. But still, even with its fortifications losing their integrity, even with its towers about to keel over and its residents long passed away and its flags turned to naught but dust motes blown away by the northern wind, there was power in that castle. That vague sense of grandeur that brought thoughts and tales of the past and instilled a small portion of humility into your system regardless of how indifferent you were, it was always there.

That was one of the reasons why Letho liked the place. The Savion Palace was a majestic place, an architectural masterpiece like a King’s residence ought to be, but the dusty scent of yesterday and the dead calm couldn’t be found in a place so busy, so populated. In the Royal Palace there was always someone seeking you, questions in human form following your every step, directing you to the next task on the agenda. It was a different kind of life, fast-paced and relentless, the kind Letho turned his back to. The peace and solitude were the two tones that created a chord in his mind. That was why he rejected the throne all those years ago, why he did the same once Savion was freed of the Dram invaders and why he visited the vacant citadel. It was a sanctuary from the world that rushed by at gallop speed.

Standing atop of one of the walls, Letho’s hand guided the sword in three consecutive jabs that stabbed at the air with ferocity of a young adventurer and the precession of a veteran, then withdrew the simple bastard sword in an attempt to parry and invisible opponent. The blade itself looked much like the wielder, old and worn and gray, its edge jagged and its hilt naught but steel and leather. But it, just like the man who held it, moved with such power that it created a whooshing sound as it pierced the air, humming silently every time it came to a stop. Every move was calculated and delivered with maximum power, every step finding a firm stand on a treacherous surface of the decaying walls, every strike a kill in those brown eyes below the graying eyebrows. His footing took him sideways next, landing first on what might’ve been a support column once, then on a conical pile of debris, chasing the incorporeal wraith only his eyes could see. A back flip against the wall and a sliding thrust later he finally came to a stop.

“The second jump was a bit off the mark,” a voice snapped him from his quasi-battle reverie, a deadly calm and flat voice of someone who merely made an observation, but was rather uninterested in the subject. Letho didn’t have to turn towards the arch that used to be the gateway to identify the speaker. “Otherwise, you’re moving like you’re in your primes, Letho.”

“The top stone on the pile is wobbly. I had to aim for the far end,” the aged swordmaster replied, taking of his brown bandana and wiping the perspiration off his slightly wrinkled brow. Only then he turned to behold his son, the King of Savion, Malagen Kha’Thars. The young lord of the land was an impressive man in every aspect. Taller than his father and just as broad in the shoulders, the king had a perfect measure of his deceased mother’s grace and his father’s unhinged might. His hair was black and long and smooth and his cloak was black and long and smooth, and whenever he moved they seemed to move in unison, as if they were perfectly aligned. And on his face, painted like a portrait drawn on a canvas, was an insightful composure, unnatural for one so young. Next to him, even a squad of Royal Guards that stood at the ready looked somehow less imposing, all serious and shined up, the plumes on their helmets fluffy and ridiculous, as if they were a commemorative guard protecting a parade.

“And I am in my primes,” Letho added, pocketing the tainted piece of cloth and sheathing the stark training blade in just as simple wooden sheath. “You forget that we age differently than the rest.”

If the truthfulness of this statement touched Malagen in any way, no part of him showed it. And there was truth in such a claim. As far as recorded history of the Audelas went, it had been noted that those of the Savion royal bloodline kept growing in strength as far as their fifties, only then reaching their peak. Regretfully, few were the ones that lived long enough in the Warlands to support that claim.

A period of silence ensued, the kind that always occurred in these father-son conversations. Letho broke it without much subtlety. “So, what brings your Majesty here?”, he asked, the title spoken with the slightest undertone of patronization. Letho Ravenheart was the only one who could afford such a tone with the Savion King.

“King Kaleas has summoned the Council,” Malagen said, his form a dark statue that stood leant against the stony archway.

“I know. He wants to argue land apportion around the borders or somesuch. Smells of desperate politicking. He is growing old and weak and his son is favored by the folk. The Council is his attempt to prevent the inevitable,” Letho responded, taking a seat on a makeshift bench made of a collapsed beam and a pair of stones that fell out of the wall. He fished out a canteen from the pack that sat next to him and took a deep swallow.

“My councilors agree, but other kingdoms have made similar requests soon afterwards as well. According to their claims, after the Dram War, Savion had claimed some lands that hadn’t been charted as theirs. It is untrue. I studied the maps as did my councilors. Everything seems to be in order,” the king said, his voice usually serene. The words made Letho smile. They reminded him of the bullet he dodged when he refused the throne.

“Well, that’s politics for you. Cut it at the root and move on.”

“Rheawien thinks there’s more to it, however. She senses... a disturbance.” Rheawien, Malagen’s queen, a powerful sorceress and a rather lousy seer, always sensed a disturbance. Sometimes the threat was real, other times it was just a nightmare after a bad piece of fish she had for dinner. Letho figured he could predict the future just as well by flipping a coin and trusting his gut feeling.

“I would not pay much heed to any of that. That woman always seemed to have a bug or two running through her head. Either way, dealing with lying royalty is your job now.”

“Unfortunately.”

Another pause followed, disrupted only by the occasional metallic clinks of the armored men in the courtyard and the wind that whistled through the destroyed castle. Letho looked at his son again, this time with a grin and a pair of keen eyes that looked past the icy exterior.

“So why are you really here? There is nothing I can say to you that you haven’t already heard from your advisors.”

The pale blues of the son clashed with the rich browns of the father in a short staring game, the kind in which there seemed to be some wordless negotiating going on, a contest of willpowers and insightfulness. They looked almost nothing like each other, one pale and beardless and the other rugged and grey, but when they stared into each other’s eyes, they felt as if they were looking into a mirror. They were made of the same stuff, Letho and Malagen, sterner stuff that was only shaped differently by the circumstances of life. It seemed none would ever give up, never give in, but eventually the young king nodded his head and sat next to his father.

“A woman has contacted me. She claims to have in her possession the journal of one Kristiniel Georan.”

The name of his first wife, the one he cast away the kingdom for, carried so much weight that Letho felt as if he was bludgeoned by a giant. “Kristiniel? That’s your mother’s journal!”

“She was no mother to me, Letho,” Malagen responded, emotion for the first time apparent in his voice. It sounded like anger, irritation, but at the core of it was the same simple defiance that prevented him from calling Letho ‘father’. Letho wasn’t there for him no more than his mother was. Why that was so didn’t matter. They were the ones that created him, nothing more. His mother had been the harsh Dram land and his father was every tutor that had whipped him bloody.

“She would’ve been, boy, had she had a chance. So show some damn respect!”

“Respect for the dead is as pointless as words spent on them,” Malagen dismissed his father’s enraged words, standing up with the same solemnity he sat down. Acting like no more than an emotionless shell of a person was Malagen’s expertise, doubly so if his response was expected. His upbringing made him so - the cold and harsh land of the Dram could’ve only give birth to an equally frigid person. It made him a bastard. It also made him a good king, passionless, objective. “At any rate, this woman will be present on the Council. I thought you might be interested in obtaining the journal.”

Massaging his temples, Letho did his best not to smack his son across the face and put a beating on him and his guard. But that would’ve been pointless. Not to mention potentially dangerous. Letho Ravenheart was power, but Malagen had surpassed him in many ways. Even one who knew them both would be hard pressed to predict who would get the short end of the stick in that fight.

“Will you come?” the dark king asked as he was on the way out of what was once the main room of the barracks.

“Of course I will come.”

“And you will bring it?”

“Aye. I am still the keeper of the damn thing, am I not?”

“Indeed you are, Letho. Indeed you are.”

[Lakin_of_DpN]

Lakin looked through a veil of wet, tangled lashes, unable to focus her splintered thoughts, her breath misting in the icy air. She wiped the frost from her skin with the woolen sleeve of her burnoose, drawing her arm up and across her face. The warm relief would be fleeting, but those would be a precious few moments in what was the bleakest morning yet. Twelve days out from Savion, the journey had become torturous, and it looked as if it would only get worse as they slowly climbed. Mountains caught in the grip of early winter towered ahead of the caravan's path, and there were now rocky outcroppings where there had been an endless sea of sand and fierce heat. Lakin was indeed in awe – they approached terrain so brutally cold and scabrous she could scarce believe the contrast. The uneven ground had begun to be more uncertain and dangerous for both animals and humans.

Word had been sent along the column length to watch out for wyrms hidden among the rocks. Lakin had the uneasy feeling the wyrms being referred to were of the enormous kind. The convoy travelled in a heightened state of awareness. At the birthplace of Kristiniel Ravenheart, a small village called Ciamar, the inhabitants had whispered stories of attacks on convoys further to the north. The rumors among the locals were wild, according to them, powerful beasts, half dragon, half barbarian and loyal only to the Dram, were behind the attacks. The terrified dwellers of the tumbledown huts had told tales of insatiable hunger for human flesh, torture and rape. As a result, the caravan had taken a more south-westerly route in the hopes of evading attack.

The monks who had befriended Lakin had stayed behind at what passed as the last oasis undecided as yet whether they would await another caravan to continue to Tigan or return to Savion.

Lakin had spoken privately with the Cenyth Master before her convoy had moved on. "Are you sure you want to stay behind? It could be months before the next caravan arrives."

The monk had nodded. "There is a lot to do here. The question is whether you have the strength and courage to continue, young mistress."

Lakin shifted. Her eyes blazed hard determination. "My destiny lies in Tigan. I must continue, but you may be sure that I won't forget all you have taught me."

True to her word, in the days since leaving Ciamar, Lakin had continued with her meditation and with the olden forms of Cenyth. In both she found peace and understanding. Because of this inner tranquility, she found it hard to believe the words of butchery that surrounded her. Listening silently to the other travelers talk about the stories passed on by the inhabitants of Ciamar, she wondered how much of what the convoy had heard was exaggerated, or inspired by hysterics and a passion for storytelling. It wasn't that she doubted the tales completely, but the extremes of what she was hearing were too far-fetched. Strangely the closer Lakin got to Tigan, the stronger the impulse was for her to be there.

Lakin nudged her mare closer to a small gathering of people who had chosen to walk their horses for a short time. She dismounted and joined them, feeling a soft blanket of mud beneath her boots. They nodded in welcome and returned to their conversations.

Baltham, a stocky man with a long silver beard, spat in the mud and said, "Damn beasts. I thought they had all but been extinct. They disappeared after Prince Ruben defeated the Dram."

Lakin was drawn in at the mention of the prince's name.

"This southern route should throw them off our trail," another man said. "The path through the mountains to the Ocaer coastline is hard, it would be nearly impossible to pursue us."

Lakin frowned. "Why would they pursue us?"

"It’s the scent of human meat, it drives them wild."

"What are these monsters?" Lakin asked. "They are animals… aren’t they? “

"You don't know anything about wyrms?" Baltham gazed at her astonished, and then a moment later a look of understanding crossed his face. "You come from another place. I remember you told me that."

"Wyrms have terrorized our people for decades, even before the Dram. Some say they’re the spawn of dragon demons. The most feared enemy of Audelas." Baltham stated as he leaned heavily onto the thick cedar staff he carried.

"In all the worlds of Althanas," a woman corrected as she pressed deeper into the group. Her sharp gaze stabbed upward as she strode forward and Lakin had no doubt that she was watching for the monsters in the rocks above.

"Those foul creatures would slaughter us all," the woman continued. "The Audelas Council should have hunted the beasts down and made sure ordinary folk would never be bothered again. Prince Ruben himself should have made sure.”

Batham agreed. "You're right, Orianna. The Council should have hunted down the last of them. The Dram are gone. The Savior Prince made sure of that. "

"Oh! You think so? Where ever those creatures were, the Dram were never far behind."

"Those villagers at Ciamar were talking about the wyrms taking slaves," Lakin said, "Is that true?"

"True as any tale you'll hear,” Orianna answered. "There've always been stories that the Dram raided our villages and stole our women as payment to the wyrms. Entire villages are full one day and then found empty the next.

"Where do they come from?" Lakin asked.

There was silence in the group." No one really knows" Baltham admitted.

"So why is Audelas so important to the Dram?"

"A blood feud dating back to Letho I, a Zay princess and the first Dram King," Orianna answered.

Mentally, Lakin groaned. She thought that her father and Naomi had told her all about the culture she'd stepped into.

"Tigan borders on the coast have been expanding in recent years, King Kaleas is openly questioning the settlement between the Warlands." Baltham added. "Many of the people on this caravan are going out there to settle and live and will join the clans who have sponsored their caravan price. The steady flow of people has concerned the Council and could cause conflict between the Isles.”

Lakin looked up and stumbled to a stop. This place was familiar. The stairwells of rock just ahead were exactly the same as she'd seen it. Her gaze scrutinized the jagged ledges beyond. They appeared the same. Instinctively, she looked through the narrow corridor between to determine whether she could see a distant coastline. There was nothing there but clinging fog. She glanced toward the rocky outcroppings above and scowled. Something was wrong. She could feel it. Something ominous pressed in on her, just as it had before. But when? Her frown deepened as she tried to locate what it was that disturbed her about the landscape. Ahead the caravan worked its slow, agonizing path through the pass.

"Lakin!" Baltham called back over his shoulder. "Don't get left behind."

It was a trap! Lakin realized suddenly. The thought came to her from nowhere, but she was positive that the entire convoy was moving into an ambush. The column would be engulfed. Lakin threw herself onto her horse and urging her mount into a gallop, she rode toward the front of the convoy where the leaders were posted. She had to warn them.

Lakin spurred her horse on with all her might. The stories she'd heard at Ciamar flooded back into her mind, especially the accounts she'd rejected because they'd been too horrifying to believe. Intent on reaching the leaders of the caravan, she didn't have time to wonder why she was so certain an ambush lay ahead. She was close enough to the front of the convoy to see the confused expressions of the people she passed by. A moment later, the trap was unleashed.

She had never seen anything like it

Landslides trapped the caravan on either side and the dust provided camouflage for the attackers. The wyrms hovered about the rocks momentarily, before rising even higher and crashing downward, right on top of the column. They were powerless to stop the chaos that suddenly erupted. An onslaught of lashing talons and razor sharp teeth tore into the length. Screams rose from the people as they scattered frantically beneath the assault. Lakin's fellow travelers—save her honor guard, were armed only with simple weapons: poles, knives, and farming tools.

It was a bloodbath.

Lakin steadied her horse and griped her sword. She prepared to do battle with a demon equipped with strength far beyond hers. The bull-necked beast with huge spikes, above black pits for eyes charged toward her and used the advantage of his size immediately. He barged in with blades at the end of long, scaly fingers, lashing out. He ripped through the biceps of Lakin's sword arm. The searing agony of the gash and the smell of burning flesh, her flesh, twisted her stomach. The impact affected her balance on the back of her horse. She felt herself sliding. In a daze, she scarcely saw the other thrashing claw hack at her stomach. The second attack was excruciating and spun her out of her saddle in what seemed like slow motion. Lakin dropped her blade as she fell. She struggled against the poison, feeling it raging like fire through her veins and she knew, if she let herself be ravaged by the unknown, if she gave up, it would be the end. She felt her strength diminish. Her head fell back and darkness enfolded, mercifully taking her from anymore pain.

~~~~

Gasping for air, Trirea started straight up in her bed, her eyes wide as she searched for the remainder of the dream that had woken her. She touched her hand to her chest in a futile attempt to silence the tempest of her heart. She couldn't remember the vision, but she felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from her dark soul.

What could have stirred so much emotion within her?

And then she saw the answer.

Lakin had come.

[Letho]

“So, remind me again why did we opt for the land route?” Genth asked his aged companion, his lips holding back a sardonic chuckle. The young squire was in a squat, his eyes inspecting the aftermath of a one sided battle through strands of flowing blond hair. All around the pair, the glade was in a horrible mess. Once a place of utmost serenity that offered travelers protection from the harsh element of the North, the oasis had been turned into a workshop of a messy butcher. Chunks of meat and bone – human in origin, it seemed, for some were still covered with cloth – were scattered about with reckless abandon, the scarlet liquid that once flowed through them painting the nature’s green with a more sinister hue. The lightly-armored ranger picked through one gut-wrenching pile with the tip of his arrow, the morbid scenery having little effect on him.

“Because the seas are treacherous this time of the year,” Lothirgan responded, his voice dry and raspy, as befitted a man of his advanced age. Lothirgan was old when Letho was still young, serving as a mentor to the young prince, teaching him about the way of the sword and the nature of warfare. Now, some twenty-odd years after those turbulent times, he was still in the employ of the Savion Kingdom despite his aching bones and wrinkled skin and papery-thin white hair. Not because he particularly liked the job or because he was bound by some contract signed long ago, but because it was the only thing he knew how to do. Shifting his stance to support himself even more on the bent staff, Lothirgan shook his cowled head at the horror around him.

“Aye, the seas are treacherous. Not the wyrm-infested path through the mountains. The seas,” the youth nagged, fishing out what looked like a piece of obsidian blade out of a collection of booted feet, and ringed fingers, and ears, and bone fragments, and human shins and whatever else was left from about half-a-dozen folk that the wyrms tore apart. “The seas with their gentle rocking waves, fresh wind, cooked food, hanging bunks...” he added with a sigh as he picked up his bow and regained proper footing. Even as he voiced his regret, a third figure joined them.

“Wyrms?” Letho asked, his black-clad silhouette significantly larger than the other two. They were all traveling in disguise, the entire Savion delegation, for the sole reason of not attracting attention. The northern lands were plagued by more than just the rampageous wyrms – highwaymen and mercenaries weren’t uncommon on the outer bonds of kingdoms – and a colorful target with banners and capes fluttering around like a moving tourney field would’ve drawn more eyes than necessary.

Genth tossed the broken claw to the swordsman, quick to wipe the blood from his fingers. “Sure looks that way. The entire place reeks of them.” It was true. There was an acerbic stink of brimstone in the air, replacing the fresh redolence of humus and tough grass. If it were just the claw marks and the torn bodies, there would’ve been a chance that it was just a rabid bear or a pack of wolves driven crazy by hunger. But that stench of charcoaled wood and poisoned water lead to a single conclusion. The worst one.

“They don’t look like the vanguard of the column,” Lothirgan added, straightening his bent back in the presence of the prince. “There are hardly any weapons or armor left behind. Most likely these folks just couldn’t follow the pace and decided to wait for another convoy. Cenyth folk, it seems,” the old man concluded, tapping a bloody, torn flap of a tunic below with the butt end of his staff.

“They are encircling the caravan,” Letho concluded. He had fought the wyrmfolk before and these half-beasts always had the same tactic; surround and annihilate. “We must hurry.”

***

By the time Savion warriors made their way to the ravine, the battle had already begun. Mountains of rock were pushed from the hillsides, barricading both the advance and the retreat, leaving but one option to those trapped in between. Perched somewhere up above between craggy rocks, a dozen cloaked figures assessed the situation below. It wasn’t a slaughter, not yet anyways. The soldiers below put up a formidable resistance to the winged manbeasts, but most experienced sword hands were concentrated around the royal ambassadors who hid in their coaches and traveling wheel-houses. The rest – the civilians that ran around like headless chicken, the merchants with their laden wagons and cheap swords-for-hire, the women, the children, the elderly – were left to their own devices.

Huddled amidst his men like a common soldier, Malagen Kha’Thars, the King of Savion, observed the battlefield with calculating eyes. When Genth knocked an arrow into his bow, his gloved hand stopped the youth from releasing it. “No, we must not reveal our position. Not yet. If we charged this chaos head on, we would only get engulfed in it. We need a plan.”

“We need a distraction,” Letho added, pulling his hood down to reveal his head of gray hair and his famous faded-red bandana. “I shall go.”

Not waiting for the permission from the King, he slipped over the edge of the ridge, landing lightly some twenty feet below before he proceeded to sneak amidst the jutting stones that surrounded the bloody whirl below. It didn’t take him long to maneuver down the length of the battlefield – everybody, both man and wyrm were focused solely on the fight at hand – and climb one of the landslides. Unhooking the clasp that held the black cloak on his shoulders, Letho let it pool at his feet as he reached for the ornate horn at his waist. And as his mighty lungs blew air through the horn and the blaring sound covered the entire battlefield in an instant, a gale blew down the length of the pass, making his red cloak flutter widely. And everybody could see the emblem of the silver wolf howling at the moon. Everybody could see that Savion has come.

“So Letho is bait, right?” Genth asked, nervous to let his arrows fly, his fingers itching for action. Lothirgan and Malagen both grinned, as did several other soldiers who fought beside Letho numerous times already.

“You have it all wrong, son,” the old mentor said. “He is the shark.”

When the horn claxoned for the second time, most were able to ascertain its origin; the sole warrior walking down the newly formed hillock of stone rubble. By that time Letho Ravenheart was engulfed in white flames, his irises erased by a tide of blood red. Those that recognized the heroic Savion Prince sighed in relief, and those that didn’t were relieved all the same by the fact that the wyrms’ attention was shifted towards this lunatic that just sauntered into his own death. The draconic barbarians, however, growled in anger. They all knew of Letho; after all, he was at the forefront of the force that defeated them and their Dram masters years ago. Letho Ravenheart was the very personification of everything they hated and most of them lived for a chance to end the legendary swordsman.

By the time he descended into the bedlam and the bloody mud that sucked at his boots, there were four reptilian warriors ready to destroy him. Instead of charging at the man with their murderous claws, they dropped on all fours and uttered a deafening roar at him, and in the wake of that thunderous bellow followed the fires of hell. The white light was overwhelmed by the vigorous flames, seemingly scorching Letho until there was naught but smoke and ash. But when the flames subsided and the billows dispersed, the white champion was still there, holding his left gauntlet up. Made from scales of a Haidian dragon, the magical apparel had created a sphere around the man, canceling out the flames as if they were blown against adamanatine. The wyrms prepared for another try, but by then Letho was on the move. Jagged talons extended from his heavy gauntlets before he charged at his scaled foes, dodging and slicing and blocking and slicing until the acidic stench of wyrm blood became the only smell in the air.

“Now!” Malagen commanded his troops, leading the charge from the flank, with only Genth remaining behind. A crack-shot just like his father Denth before him, he had no trouble picking targets from this distance even with the northern wind bringing the chill on its wings. His eyes noticed a wounded woman and a wyrm warrior above her, his mind compensated for the wind, making his hands move slightly leftwards before he loosed the arrow. It whistled past the pacing Savion warriors, outrunning them with ease before it struck the scaled chest of the beast that was about to perform coup de grace on the fallen female.

With both Malagen and Letho slashing their way through the ranks, the tides of the battle turned in almost an instant. On one side, Letho and his brute force were tearing through tooth and claw and scale, crushing bones and snapping necks rather than slicing the flesh. Malagen, always more subtle than his father, danced a dance of death through the enraged beasts, evading the incoming strikes with dumbfounding ease, as if the world moved slower for him. His slender katana moved with lethal precision, finding a chink in every armor, bringing down his opponents with a single strike more often than not. Needless to say, such display of battle prowess inspired all those who witnessed it, emboldening everybody from soldiers in their heavy armors to the pitchfork- and scythe-wielding peasants. With odds no longer favoring them, the wyrms soon gave to the sky and fled the battlefield, disappearing amidst the distant snowy peaks from which they descended in search for human blood.

With a jaded cheer of those still standing, with aching muscles raising arms made of lead and bloodied weapons attached to them, the battle was done.

But while the fight was finally over, it left behind a field covered with soggy, crimson soil and lifeless bodies, both bestial and human. Those with skill in mending wounds and alleviating pain walked in the haunting silence of the aftermath, healing those that they could and comforting those that they couldn’t. Those with no such abilities at their disposal helped clear the battlefield, burying graves, repairing wagons, retrieving scared horses, stacking wyrm corpses until they made a huge, conical pyre. Amongst them, splattered by the black blood of his foes, was Letho Ravenheart, laying his healing hands on those that still had a fighting chance against the blood loss and the poison snaking through their veins. Those that saw him claw through his foes, that witnessed how much of a monster he became in the heat of the battle, wondered how hands that wielded so much power could bring anything other than utter destruction.

[Lakin_of_DpN]

Calmer now... even though the adrenaline continued to pump through her body Trirea threw back the covers and left her bed. What she wanted to accomplish had to be done quickly, discreetly—even if that meant suffering the Warlands Council for appearances sake. Her servants, hearing her stir entered the bedchamber to assist her in dressing. She endured their painstaking attentions, but at the first opportunity dismissed them and left her rooms. Her tall, black robed form glided as she made her sinuous way along the residences corridors. The epitome of propriety, Trirea approached the Council Hall’s enormous, double doors that were made of polished bronze insets with sparkling blue crystal spheres. Once inside, she slipped down the stone; pew lined aisles, heading for the meticulously kept library far in the back. She moved for the shelf in which she’d secreted her precious charts. What better place to hide her ambitious plan for Audelas than right under the noses of the Council? Unraveling the crisp clean sheet, Trirea gazed down at the map she’d marked; outlining the new margins for the Kingdom of Cenyth. She sank into a seat and was soon lost in her campaign for a new Warlands, a Warlands under Dram rule.

“M’Lady?”

Blinking in the dimness, Trirea looked up from the parchment. “Back here,” she called out recognizing the voice. Her oldest servant, at least a hundred or more, appeared at the end of the aisle.

“My Lady!”

“What is it, Maara?” Trirea asked, cutting a look at the grossly hunched woman.

“Oh, my Lady, there’s terrible news from outside the city!” The old woman shuffled forward, wobbled, and fell to her knees in front of her mistress.

Trirea slipped the map she was holding away, carefully. A dark veil of composure hid the feeling of alarm that beat within her greed stained heart, at the old woman’s words “What news?”

“Terrible news,” the old woman shrieked, with great distress.

Trirea grabbed her shoulders. “Calm down Maara, and tell me what you’ve heard”

“Wyrms have attacked a caravan on its way here from Savion,” Maara cried, forcing down a sobbing breath. “The Savior Prince and his son King Malagen managed to save some, but most are dead.”

“Come,” Trirea commanded, rising to her feet and loosening her grip on the old woman. “I must discover what has happened.”

All the way back to her chambers, wild thoughts raged in her mind. She cursed the beasts; she’d worked so hard to discourage open attacks. It was unwanted attention and certainly not a part of the big plan. How many travelers had they killed? The wyrms could claim whatever they like. She would find out who was responsible and their disobedience would not go unpunished. They twisted their allegiance far too much to suit their own end.

What if Lakin was already dead?” The thought caused Trirea to stagger and use a wall for balance. If she were dead, Trirea, herself would have to break faith by taking Ravenheart’s life. That would complicate matters severely, she could not be named. The other Kingdoms, her own son, would unite against her. Secrecy would be the key to her success, where the Dram had failed in the past.

Despite the dangers, Trirea determined it necessary that she should join the salvage party and traveled out to the site of the attack to see if there were any survivors. Careful to blend in with the group she wore the same woolen wraps to protect her from the cold. A guide who served as a link between the city and the rest of the Warlands donated his horses, carriages and his guide services for the sake of the Council and led the envoy into the pass and toward the place where the caravan had been attacked. Trirea knew the site was near before she ever saw it. Scavengers circled the rocks and the mountain breeze brought the vile stench of slaughter. Rounding a large peninsula of rock, she reigned in her horse and a momentary glitter of black eyes flashed from deep within her hood. She seethed. There in the distance, in all his chivalry stood Ruben Letho.

~~~

Lakin emerged from the cold, heavy cloak of unconsciousness overwhelmed by an unbearably familiar pain. It engulfed her, sharp and cutting. Claimed her total awareness and forced all thought to the state of her ragged body. Her shoulder screamed in protest and her stomach burned as if someone held a raging torch to it. Her head pounded in time with every staggered beat of her heart and the very idea of focusing was excruciating. Worst of all, her mind was blank; she couldn’t quite remember why her body hurt so much.

“Was she still on the Junyo? Bound for slavery?”

She didn’t think so, yet the same misery was attached to it. That answer didn’t seem right to her. Her ordeal in Akashima, the kidnapping, it had been so long ago.

No this pain was different...

There was a murmur of voices; turning her focus from herself and back to her surroundings her eyes splintered open. Something flickered at the corner of her vision. A bolt of red cloth and towering silhouette billowed into her obscured line of sight. Although frayed, understanding unraveled in Lakin’s mind. She remembered what had happened. The attack on the caravan had been horrific.

“I’m going to heal her enough to move.” Came the baritone.

Who was it? She felt his weight against her.

“I’ll do all that I can, but I’m afraid I don’t have all the time required for a complete healing.” Letho warned. “You understand that what I do now is only temporary?”

“Do what you can. I’ll assist in whatever way you feel is necessary,” Baltham replied, as he squeezed and leaned heavily on his staff. The Savior Prince was a powerful man Baltham told himself, he could bring about whatever it was he intended.


Lakin’s eyes were reduced to slits as a pure-white, cleansing light swelled and magnified straight above her stomach. The brilliant explosion of a supernova was poised at the crest of a perfect arc, until suddenly and without warning the indistinguishable figure controlling the light plunged it down, directly into her body. Frantic Lakin jerked to escape the invasion. Brand new pain vibrated through her and wrenched at her wounds. She could feel the poison being drawn out and into the light; the venom thrusting at Letho like a blade to a vein.

It was instant. It was deadly.

The mental link between Letho and the source of Might he channeled had altered to a thing of repulsiveness and sin. Sweat beaded on his cheek as he tried to exorcise the poison from his mind. But it manifested, fortified and in a split second, broke through his resistance. Pictures formed in Letho’s mind, obscene images of him and its whore of evil naked; of its harlot crawling up between his parted legs, with her black tresses dripping all over his hard muscular thighs; of its prostitute performing unspeakable acts upon him. The dark horror amplified. He felt its unearthly touch on his flesh. It’s vaporous, stroking caresses were as real as if lustrous fingers explored his naked skin. Leather, cloth and steel were no barrier to the grisly power the poison possessed.

The only sign of anguish and torment was the perspiration that now careened down his forehead. Motivated by revulsion, Letho gathered the age-old power welled deep in his core, the pure shining love he felt for Myrhia, the glowing tenderness he held for Kristiniel and refocused the light. And the light overcame the darkness.

Trirea waited in the shadows, watching from beneath the cowl of her robe with no emotion revealed in her gaze, her dark eyes merging with the stone black of her pupils. Ruben Letho stood; he lurched slightly then strode away. She realized that she would have to move fast and unnoticed. Lakin would be weak and vulnerable from her wounds for only a short time. Barely five minutes later, a box carriage left the mass destruction and hurtled west toward Tigan. Akashiman honor guard rode at the back, Baltham as the coachman in front.

Dazed, Lakin’s eyes crept open and a woman with long midnight hair sat close. From the position she was at, Lakin could see the wrinkles that flawed the woman’s skin. As she focused more intently on the woman, the lines seemed to lighten and her skin seemed to gleam with the life of youth. Lakin frowned, not sure of what she’d seen, yet this younger woman, looked familiar. Trirea scrutinized Lakin, her thoughts and will congealing to a concentrated force. Her mouth no longer moved but her words throbbed with intensity in Lakin’s mind. Still weak, Lakin turned her tattered mind to the Witch and found herself lured once more into the flat, black of her demands. She was unable to move and the hair on her neck rose in silent complaint at the mental power being exerted over her. Exhausted, her mind accepted the intrusion and gave in to it. Quickly, instinctively Trirea strengthened the fragile link that had existed between them into hardened steel and the fusion was complete.

“Rest now my dear,” whispered into Lakin’s mind and finally she closed her eyes.

[Letho]

Despite being short and uneventful, the home stretch that led to Tigan capitol turned into a dreadful affair. The indecisive skies that colored the dome above in every hue of gray finally made up their mind and set loose the icy drizzle from its floodgates, slowly saturating an already miserable bunch below. The sleet, combined with the wind that rolled down the mountainside, had a vicious bite to it, penetrating even the thickest of clothes to chill the flesh below. And with most still recovering from battle fatigue and injuries sustained in the strife, the short march seemed to defy the laws of time, making every second as long as a minute and every minute as long as a lifetime.

Letho Ravenheart fell victim to this freezing spell as well, the legendary swordsman hunched ever so slightly in the saddle of his mount and fighting the overcoming urge to get into a more horizontal position. It was not the battle that did him in either. No, crushing scales and parrying fire blasts was a walk in the forest when compared to the excruciating healing he performed afterwards. But then again, that wasn’t so surprising; it was always easier to destroy than it was to rebuild and renew.

The pair at his flanks – his personal guard, despite the fact that his person obviously needed no guarding – seemed significantly more fresh, however. Lothirgan, despite his advanced age, sat as stiff and upright as a staff he carried at his side, navigating his horse around the deep, muddy gashes left behind the rest of the convoy. His young squire, nudging his horse this way and that with only the use of his thighs and knees, had his hands busy with meticulous fletching of an arrow that got damaged in the battle. The trio took the role of the vanguard while Malagen and the rest of his congregation joined the rest of the royalty at the spearhead of the torpid column.

Every now and then, when he’d either be satisfied with one of the feathers on his deadly projectile or when he replaced it with another from his quiver, Genth would steal a gander at Letho and the massive wrapping at his back. After he did this several times – fletch, look at Letho, look at the concealed weapon at his back, return to fletching – Lothirgan got tired of the question behind the silent scrutinizing.

“Something bothering you, boy? You look like you’re ready to lay an egg,” the aged instructor asked, clucking his horse closer to Genth’s brown steed. Letho rode several paces ahead, but there was no change in his posture to suggest he was interested in the conversation behind his back. The young sniper didn’t respond immediately. He blew at the feathers of the arrow lightly, his breath clearly visible in the northern chill, before he returned it to his quiver and produced another.

“You know, I’ve been wondering...” he finally uttered, but before he could finish, Lothirgan interjected.

“Ha, no surprise there. All you young people seem to do is wonder,” he said, a grin on his wrinkled face. Genth didn’t seemed to be slighted by the condescending remark, his eyes affixed on Letho once again as the Savion prince pulled a bit further ahead. As if this new distance from the man encouraged the archer, he finally voiced his thoughts.

“I’ve been wondering why he didn’t use the Audrin Sword.” And when Lothirgan narrowed his smile and said nothing in return, Genth added. “Back in the battle, I mean. Surely less people would die if he unleashed its power, like he did in the final battle with the Dram at Osselitha Clears.”

His mentor shook his head before he responded. “You don’t what you’re talking about. You don’t even know the Sword’s true name, lad, and damn well don’t know what it takes to wield it.”

“Is that so?” Genth said with a speck of defiance coloring his tone. He shoved the arrow back amongst the rest, picked up the reins and turned to Lothirgan with a smarmy smile. “So enlighten me, oh sage.”

“It would take three suns to enlighten the cobwebbed corners of your mind, boy. But I shall try,” the old man shot back, his tone sterner, but not malicious. “That blade that Letho lugs around, right now it’s no more than a very heavy chunk of adamantine. You see, its true name is Ferro Audrin, which translated from Old Tongue means the Sword of Seven Seals. So as you might conclude from such a name, the power of the blade is sealed.”

“Why?” the squire asked, eyes back on the canvas cloth on Letho’s back. “Why not use that power? Back at the Osselitha...”

“You know NOTHING of the battle at Osselitha Clears, boy! Nothing!!!” This time Lothirgan’s raspy voice lost its composure as he lashed out at his apprentice. “You weren’t there. You don’t understand the extents of that power. It’s far too much for one man to posses, for one kingdom to posses in the Warlands. That was why, when the blade was created, it was adorned with seven enchanted diamonds, each one serving as a seal and each one given to one king of Audelas. Only when the seven are united in their cause can the blade be used.”

Genth, somewhat taken aback by Lothirgan’s severely serious tone, took several moments to reflect on the words. But like his arrows and his finger, his young mind was hasty and didn’t linger on the subject for too long before he made his decision on the matter.

“That’s dumb,” was his judgment. The old man at his side disagreed, his staff striking the boy at the back of the head.

“You’re dumb, mooncalf boy. Now pray be silent the rest of the way before you give me a headache.”

***

Of course Genth wasn’t silent the rest of the way, dwelling on both the bump on his head and the Audrin Sword for about five minutes before he asked his next question. Letho found the discussion between the two quite amusing, distracting even, helping him endure the jadedness that seemed to creep into every fiber of his being. The truth was, however, that he wasn’t sure if he would’ve used the Sword even if it had been unlocked. There was something about the blade that sacred even him, some deep sense of wrongness in the midst of all that unhinged power contained within that piece of enchanted metal. He remembered the Osselitha Clears quite well and he remembered how he felt that he was losing a fraction of himself every time he swung that devastating sword. Lothirgan said it right: no one man should be allowed to posses such power. It was a good thing then that Audelas kings seldom agreed on anything these days. It was almost a foolproof way that he Sword would never be used again.

The thoughts of the magical blade soon perished as Tigan walls came into view. Gray and tall and stark, they were a mere reflection of the frigid land that surrounded them, a frosty fortress in a frosty land. Still, with the burden of the battle on his shoulders and with the soreness from days spend on horseback, they looked more homely than a crackling fireplace and a comfortable armchair. From one of the watchtowers that overlooked the main gate a trumpet blared and soon it was echoed by numerous others, the sentries announcing the arrival of the caravan. The sodden gray flags of the Tigan Kingdom, emblazoned with a golden emblem of a bear, hung limply at the flagpoles, put to motion only when a really strong gust of wind whipped at them.

The reception was from far from festive. Instead of people dressed in colorful attires, throwing cypress branches at their path while the musicians struck a triumphant hymn or two, they were welcomed by healers and soldiers and squires and servants, all running around with their salves and food baskets and stretchers. The common folk scrutinized the battered procession from their windows and doors with indifferent eyes, whispering to each other and occasionally pointing towards a well-known member of royalty or a famous knight from one of the kingdoms. It was a befitting welcome, Letho thought, given the reason for their arrival and the events that preceded it. The Seven Kingdoms assembled in Tigan to do some dreadful politicking and their arrival was nearly prevented by the bloodbath at the hand of the wyrms. There was little to celebrate.

With his hood on and his guard anything but impressive, the eyes that were attracted to Letho were few and far between, just the way the ranger liked it. He and his two companions dismounted and did their best to push through the chaotic crowd, eventually rejoining with King Malagen and the rest of the Savion delegation in the inner bailey of the fortress. Unlike in the begrimed streets of the city proper and the chattering folk, the paved inner courtyard was a peaceful place, cleaned and ready like a bride waiting for the groom. The squires – who had been better dressed than Letho, Genth and Lothirgan combined – immediately took charge of their mounts while others directed them to their quarters. Everybody was so courteous, with their bowing and their ‘sirs’ and ‘my lords’, but Letho knew just how hollow and temporary that civility was. It was at the Council that everybody would show their true face.

[Lakin_of_DpN]

(Bunnying checked by Letho)


Lakin mumbled a halfhearted oath as she rose up on a platform of deep blue silk that shimmered with her every movement and fashioned a large, opulent bed. Her eyes squinted against the light that blazed from an open hearth and her gaze flickered as she scanned the extravagantly designed chamber through lush folds of the finest muslins. Layer upon layer fell from the ceiling and surrounded the bed. Deliciously warm; the room was nothing like the cold dank ground she had occupied what seemed like only moments before. A crochet of lace covered her, and when she pushed it aside, she discovered she was clothed in a traditional, flowing, white gown and her waist length hair had been weaved into dozens of intricate braids. An abrupt awareness kicked in when she realized that she was almost free of pain. Glancing at her shoulder and her stomach, she saw that the skin was marked only by purpling bruises. Lakin traced over the dark patches that she remembered as wide, sickening wounds. Where were the gashes?

Her injuries were relatively healed. Had she been unconscious for that long? Surely that wasn’t the case. She touched the back of her head. There was no sting, only a sensation of tenderness. Compared to the sharp pain she recalled this was nothing at all. Incredibly, there wasn’t a smudge of dirt on her. During the long hours of her journey she had felt as if she’d never rid herself of the grit and grime that invaded her every piece of clothing and infiltrated every pore. Someone (she wondered who) had succeeded in removing every trace of the journey from her skin, and instead she breathed in the fragrant oils of jasmine and musk. And at the very edge of the platform she noticed a pair of slippers partially tucked under the bed, she pulled them on gambling they were an ideal fit. The gleam of her Sylvan cloak caught her eye; she walked across the thick Tigan carpet, retrieved her precious possession and listened for a moment to determine whether she could hear anything.

Tentative, moving slowly, she tested the door. It cracked opened; she peered out into a wide hallway and was instantly relieved to see her honor guard. More relaxed, she opened the door and spoke with her men. She questioned them thoroughly before continuing out and along the spacious hall. It was decorated with life size portraits and a pattern of closed doors led directly into a room beyond a sandstone archway. She saw a growing crowd of women and children bunched at the far end of the room, near another identical archway and felt drawn immediately to them. Lakin slipped into the throng trying to get her bearings. Surprisingly, pale faces in this crowd were familiar. She peered around the edge of the arched stonework into another larger room—a hall, with grey flagstone floors and saw that it was some sort of infirmary in which she recognized many more faces. A number of the patients that occupied the long white pallets had traveled in her caravan.

"Ahh, my lady,” said a low staid voice, “It is good to see you up and about.” Letho singled Lakin out from the crowd with a courteous nod. “You were very lucky," he confessed, as he brought himself directly in front of her,” I was uncertain whether you were going to make it or not."

Lakin shifted her attention to the broad expanse of the man that spoke; there was an undeniable pull in his voice. “It was you? That healed me?”

"I suppose you would not remember much. Aye, I helped you and it was my pleasure."

“I am in your debt Sir. You must allow me to settle with you.”

“My father is a very wealthy man. He will arrange a very handsome reward for your trouble,” Lakin said in an attempt to compensate him. When she tried to speak again her words were eaten up by the impatient and voracious mass of women around her. They burst forward chattering like birds in a flare of excitement.


“My Lord! Bless you.” One woman cried out.

“Bless you for saving us,” called another.

Letho avoided the appreciative raucous for the moment, he tried to focus on only one person in the crowd—Lakin. But that was impossible. The mob pushed and pulled, until the Savior Prince was forced backward and urged to help a sick child lying on a pallet in a corner. He knelt beside the boy and lowered his head, leaving Lakin to glance around the pallet lined room feeling overwhelmed.

So many people flowed in from outside and crammed the hall. In the minutes since Lakin had arrived the ration of onlookers had increased dramatically and the admiration for the stranger’s talents drew more and more in. Lakin could see that the healings took much of his energy and exhausted his strength, but he remained benevolent with both himself and his ability.

Letho touched the small child’s head and spoke quietly to the boy’s mother.

“Your child is healthy. With plenty of rest he will be up and playing again in no time.”

The mother’s face was wet with tears of joy and gratitude as she took her son into her arms and embraced him.

At that moment, the surging crowd drove Lakin out and into a courtyard; a backward glance showed she was being forced along by an express of people. She had become cut off from her protective guard and swept away in the rush, passing through street after street until the crowd subsided. She found herself in a curious section of Tigan called the Boundary, it existed around the outer reaches. Poverty stricken, it was overcrowded by small two storey houses that illustrated their un-kept, ramshackle way on a pattern of narrow streets. The Boundary she discovered was over-shadowed by the towering more elaborate structures in the more prosperous parts of Tigan.

“This is no place for a Lady like you,” a small woman beside Lakin muttered. “You should not be alone out here; it will be full dark soon.”

As the slender, curly haired woman walked along talking, Lakin greeted others in the crowd who stared at her with a polite smile or a brief nod of her head. She noted with an anxious glance that the crowd skirting their path had swarmed much too quickly and now the men outnumbered the women and children.

“Doesn’t she look like she eats well,” one dark character called from the crowd. “

“Aye, while my family is hungry,” growled another.

“Maybe she should try living here for a while,” remarked someone else with obvious resentment fuelling their voice.

The horde had shifted to an attitude of irate and surly expressions—disdain settled in their stares like shapeless evil.

“Why are they angry?” Lakin asked quietly, her gaze switching from side to side. “I mean them no harm, yet they seem to want to hurt me.”

“I agree,” her new companion said hastily, scanning the faces of the crowd. “They are unhappy and many are out of work. Families are close to starving.”

“Come, my house is not too far from here.”

“I can’t let you put yourself in danger for the sake of my safety.” Lakin told the young woman. “A riot could break out at any moment.”

“Why is she here?” Another man bellowed.

“Go back to your precious Council.” Someone screamed, they had noticed her braids which were commonly worn by woman of court. The crowd roared with sudden excitement at the chance of a violent let loose.

Lakin caught her breath as she watched a white aura of electricity ripple along the figure of a man dressed in a corona of black cloak, with the excess radiating out and into the crowd he stalked through. She shivered as the energy lightly brushed her senses and caused every inch of her skin tingle. The phosphorescence that encompassed his body emanated into a flaming white glow that ignited and created a starburst of blinding light. Instinctively, the people shielded there eyes and cried out in fear. This gave Letho the precious few moments he needed to act. He ordered Lakin’s honor guard who had been steadily gaining ground to retreat and shouted “Run!” to the woman that huddled close to Lakin.

“You seem to attract danger like a moth to a flame my lady” Letho whispered as he seized Lakin’s arm and pulled her behind him, he jostled roughly through the men standing on the sidelines and fled into a rickety old building. He overlooked the startled shout of the owner, just as he disregarded Lakin’s gasps of shock and anger.

“What are you doing? We can’t just intrude here,” she demanded, struggling to break free.

Letho dragged her through candle lit rooms. Stanch, he paid no attention to her protests or to the guttural insults of the man inside the door. Instead he yanked Lakin along behind him as he searched for a way out. He found a poorly hung door that led out into another street.

Lakin burrowed down and stubbornly brought them both to a halt. “Where are we going? “ She cried. “I have to help that woman... my guard. They are all alone.”

“We have no time,” Letho said bluntly. He lunged forward and picked her up. Taking no notice of her outraged squeals at his action, he launched her up and over his shoulder, then pinned his arm firmly over her thrashing legs. He took off down the littered street at a rapid pace.

“Put me down!” she shrieked.

“Not on your life,” he panted, feeling her hands against his back. “It’s your blood they want.” He heard the howl of the pack drawing closer and drove forward even harder.

Lakin sensed his fatigue and tried again. “I can run. Please... let me down.”

He slowed to a stop and slid her down the front of his body until her feet touched the cold, cobbled street. In silence he led her into what seemed like a warren of alleyways and narrow streets. Darkness had fallen and there was only the dim glow of the moon to light their path. The air was tight and toxic—nothing like the clean, freshly scented palace she had left behind. A short time later Letho stopped in front of a sizeable door. He knocked loudly, paused and knocked again.

“You will be safe now.“ He told Lakin, and without another word, hood intact, he disappeared.

Soon after, the door swung open enough to see who was waiting outside. It shut behind her and she waited in the darkness. The atmosphere inside was clean, fresh and aromatic with the smell of herbs.

“Baltham?” Lakin asked, straining her eyes. She rushed forward to greet the old man.

“How ever did you find me?” he asked, lifting a lamp high in the air. “And who was the man with you? I could not see his face.”

Lakin froze. “He never offered his name and in the confusion I neglected to ask.”

~~~

The ambiance was dark and dingy. And the low purr of whispered conversation accompanied by frequent groans of pleasure drifted down the stairs, along with thick cloying smoke. Trirea observed the mottled clientele as she passed through, it was easy to identify the regulars. They were entertained by two or three girls and sat in private stalls. Most of the noise came from them. Then there were the dregs, intoxicated, they watched an open show with visible arousal as the delicate fingers of a voluptuous girl teased the loose straps of her tunic down the length of her body.

Trirea was led far in the back to a corner booth hidden from the rest of the room. The angle allowed the figure waiting to watch the activity without worrying about being seen. Draque settled against the backrest of his seat and merely lifted an eyebrow when she arrived.

“Sit down, my dear.”

She was beautiful. Her raven black hair tracked with silver fanned out past her hips while her ageless shape exalted perfection. He leaned forward reached out and grasped her chin. She quivered as the tips of his fingers continued; they explored along her neck and past the hollow of her throat, hesitating at valley between her breasts. Draque focused on her speculatively. “What news do you have for me?”

Trirea remained totally submissive and spoke quietly. “I have acquired five of the seven diamonds my Lord.”

“What?” His voice for the first time revealed a hint of emotion. “We need all seven to gain control of the sword,” he raged, as his fingers clenched. He slammed his fist on the table and stood up.

“Do not come before me again, unless you have all Seven Seals.”

[Letho]

The wind was howling. Like some ancestral beast caught in a trap, it unleashed its terrifying cry around the eaves of every house, bringing a chilling bite in its wake. It tormented the evergreen trees, whipping them into obedience and forcing them to twist and turn in some kind of ludicrous dance. The deciduous flora seemed to be more fortunate. With only the barren branches to defy the assailing gale, it barely moved as the sleet came crashing from the skies, but it too seemed to shiver before the oncoming cold. The weather had worsened since their arrival in Tigan. The stormy clouds descended from the nearby mountains, black and thick and unrelenting, decisive to freeze the world. But unlike the unfortunate sods outside, Letho felt that cold bite not at all.

Standing behind a barrier made of thick glass, the swordsman looked down on the royal garden from one of the windows of the banquet hall, finding the lousy weather more interesting than the merry congregation behind him. He preferred the gray hues of the drenched, half-frozen yard far more than the vivid lordlings and courtesans that hid from it; there was a constant in it, a straightforward simplicity that the frolicking bunch lacked. Out there, everything was exactly the way it seemed. Inside, there were more masks and feigned smiles than in a jester’s parade. Everybody seemed to agree on playing this game of courtesy and random jabbering, moving from one laden table to the next, tasting food and mulled wines until their faces were red and their eyes were glassy. And all were dressed in their finest, of course. Dresses weaved with gold and silver threads, velvety tunics with intricate decorations, necklaces and tiaras and bracelets adorned with priceless stones, they all moved about, so ludicrously lush and beautified that they made the people that wore them insignificant. In here, the clothes and jewelry made the statements, not the people wearing them.

Needless to say, Letho Ravenheart didn’t quite fit into this bunch. His leather pants and a velvet tunic were both new and clean, his cape was smooth and long and spotless, but where others opted for the vivid, parade colors that flaunted their wealth and stature, Letho went with the dull grays and browns. Only the defiant wolf of Savion weaved into the fabric of his cape shone in a vibrant silver hue, half hidden behind the massive weapon on his back. It came as no surprise then that aside from old Lothirgan (who was already half-dozing on one of the comfy armchairs), nobody else decided to accompany the legendary swordsman. Even his other guardian, young Genth, was mingling with the crowd. Mostly female crowd.

It wasn’t until one of the pages announced the arrival of one Lakin Le Conte, ambassador of the Akashima Province, that Letho turned his attention from the storm outside. Twice he had met the woman before today; once in her bloody throes on the battlefield and the second time in the treacherous streets of the city. This third time she was finally in an attire that did her figure justice. Like a waterfall made of silver, the velvet cloth of her gown came down around her figure, cascading ever so gently over the curves of her body before pooling diligently at her ankles. Further upwards, a white bodice with intricate Akashima weavings was less gentle to the woman, clinging closer to the alabaster skin of her torso. However, the noticeably deep cut down the middle of it clearly left enough room for her to breathe and display more of her smooth skin. Only her hair differed from the silvery white glow she brought into the room with her presence, its dark, smooth curls flowing down the length of her back like spilled ink. She was like a ceramic doll, all dressed up and perfect, threatening to shatter if touched.

“Something caught your eye again, oh noble Prince?” Lothirgan said in a dry voice, clearing his throat before stretching his thin lips into a smirk. He knew, Letho realized, about the last night’s escapade in the streets, probably knew about the healing back on the battlefield as well. There was little that the old coot didn’t hear or see these days.

“Go back to sleep, old man,” was all that the stark swordsman told his elder, abandoning his window in favor of lovelier scenery.

He didn’t approach Lakin immediately; a pair of nobles (a rotund baron with oily hair and his disproportionate wife in a scandalous corset) were the first to greet the foreigner, skillfully feigning utter intrigue and fascination. It lasted for whole two minutes before they excused themselves. Next, a collection of stuck-up courtesans made their introduction, but it looked more like a routine of females marking their territory and less like a friendly greeting. Lakin kept her composure, though, fending off courtesy with courtesy and smiles with smiles, but she didn’t seem overly interested in the game in the long run. Before long she was standing alone next to one of the tables with appetizers.

“Do you find this crowd as dull as I do, my lady?” he asked as he neared her ((FIX IT), unconcerned about anybody overhearing his words. His deep voice startled her for a moment, making her nearly drop a slice of pear as she turned. For several seconds there was no recognition in her eyes, nothing but a query about his identity, but then her memory kicked in and connected the voice with the mysterious stranger. The remembrance of the last night’s occurrences made her unintentionally disregard his question.

“I... You. It was you. Last night...” She found it hard to articulate her words at first, but soon her composure returned and she managed a soft smile and a mild bow. “I never got a chance to properly thank you, sir.”

“Ah, yes, last night. Think nothing of it, my lady,” Letho said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “Seeing you safe and back on your feet is reward enough. I should probably apologize for my rashness, though. I am afraid that the situation dictated such a hasty approach.” He smirked before he continued, shaking his head in self-reproach. “But where are my manners. Three times now we met and still we haven’t been properly introduced. I am Letho Ravenheart of Savion.”

Once again her reaction was delayed, this time not due to lack of recognition, but rather due to some cord that his name had struck. Somewhere beyond her deep blue eyes, something was brewing and it prolonged Letho’s courteous bow for several seconds before she responded. “Lakin Le Conte... as you probably heard already, sir.”

Like a true lady, she offered a genteel hand to him, and like a true lord (despite his ignoble attire), he took it and neared it to his lips. Her skin, endlessly smooth and sinfully soft, smelled like a spring garden. And even though he was a faithful man, even though he had a wonderful wife waiting for him back in Savion, even though the life he had with his family was everything he could ever hope for, for one brief moment he felt that primal urge inside of him that made him covet this woman. But a moment is all this emotion got. The difference between an adulterous man and a faithful one was control, and controlling his emotions, walling them up and extinguishing them, that was something Letho knew quite well.

“I have a proposition for you, Lakin Le Conte. Let us dispense with ‘sirs’ and ‘my ladys’. After hearing it spoken so many times in the last hour, by such an undeserving crowd no less, those words became old and spent.” He paused, suddenly worried that he had taken too much liberty with someone whose name he only just learned. “Or do I presume too much?”

“Oh, no. Not at all,” she was fast to reply. Picking up a glass of wine, Lakin bought herself some time before she spoke again. “You seem to have little love for gatherings such as this one, if you do not mind me noticing.”

“I have witnessed too many of them in my life.” The rigid swordsman followed her example, retrieving one of the glasses with spiced wine and taking a sip to wet his throat. When he continued, his eyes were no longer on the beauty before him, but rather the dregs that moved about like roaches. “The truth is, you throw a coin in any direction and you are bound to strike three dishonest men.”

“Don’t you mind Letho, my sweet girl,” a raspy voice cut his gloomy speech. Lothirgan, feeling quite peppy after his catnap, thought it appropriate to intrude on their conversation. “It’s not that he dislikes these nobles. It’s simply that he dislikes folk in general.”

Letho smiled and took another sip of wine, accepting the jest without an attempt of a rebuttal as his aged mentor followed the proper etiquette, kissing Lakin’s arm despite creaky joints and aching back. Lothirgan was half-right anyways; he didn’t like these people, with their powdered faces and false pretenses and clothes that could feed a family for a week. And even if he wasn’t, the old man had more wisdom in his toe than most of the councilors had in their skulls. There was no way to win a debate with someone like that, even if the subject was humorous.

“This is Lothirgan, one half of my personal guard,” Letho introduced the old man, accepting both the jest and the interjection in good spirit.

“A better half if I might add. That mooncalf boy is good for nothing, always running around, chasing skirts. Half a mind...” The old man trailed off, murmuring something in his long beard, but he snapped right back when both Lakin’s and Letho’s faces cracked with a smile. “Khm, yes, as I was saying,” he coughed, regaining composure. “So, what brings you to these frigid lands, my fair lady, and from a country so distant?”

[Lakin_of_DpN]

Her smile warmed at Lothirgan’s question. “I was invited,” she said simply in her soft clear lilt, her azure eyes awash with ease. “I swore an oath that I would return a precious journal to its rightful owner. I mean to fulfill that oath here.”

She seemed to grow in stature and dignity as Letho listened to her. Her honor guard drew back to give her the space she needed, as if authority suddenly flared through her at a look. And for the first time in their acquaintance, Letho saw how she could wield power in her position as ambassador of East Akashima. So this was the woman who held Kristiniel’s diary. His heart lurched because he knew that once she made the connection and realized who he was, it was inevitable that like his son, she would be disappointed, let down—he had failed Kristiniel in his previous life, when he hadn’t been able to protect her from death.

Slightly distracted by his thoughts he offered his arm. “That is an honorable thing you do, though mistimed, I fear.” His tone was husky with emotion at the memories that until this moment he had successfully pushed to the back of his mind. “If you allow me, I will endeavor to explain why.”

For a moment Lakin was hesitant, she reached out a slender hand to him, her sparkling sapphire eyes questioning, her mouth curved in smile that seemed to be an effort. “Mistimed? I was invited,” she pointed out, “and I do... though you most likely would not believe it after our last two encounters—have a good sense of propriety,” she assured. Lakin moved forward with Letho at her side and when they paused in the iron laced gateway of the banquet room, she had become well acquainted with the serious side of his nature. She craved the distraction of Lothirgan’s presence. But customary, maybe even purposefully—he remained two steps behind.

“Of course you do. I mean no slight on your character, rather it is far too benevolent of a task for surroundings as belligerent as this,” Letho pressed, urged on by her unwillingness to concede to his point. He only wanted to help her, she had to realize that. “A place where seven men with near unlimited power at their disposal meet is everything but serene and kind. All of this courtesy,” he stopped and gestured with his free hand, sweeping out pointedly. “You will soon see it disappear behind the closed doors of the Council room.” Irritation washed over him, not at Lakin but at his son the so-called King of Savion. He claimed this woman as important, but was indisposed to inform or protect her. “Respectfully, I do believe you could have picked a better time for a visit.” Almost tenderly he brushed back a thick lock of hair from her cheek. “Are you truly ready to face the wolves, Lakin?” Came the deep, chiding voice at her shoulder.

Her heart pounded a warning, not daring to hold the dark molasses gaze glistening with inquiry; she forced her attention back to the room before them. “Maybe I could heed your suggestion,” she replied in a more subdued tone, “if you supplied me with a more appropriate time.” Lakin advanced slowly, inhaling a marveling breath at the spectacular design of the banquet room. Surely they were safe inside the palace? Hanging lights twinkled like amethyst fire in elaborate crystal chandeliers far above long inlaid tables of marble and ivory. Tear-drop pendants reflected in mosaic tiled walls, bouncing and refracting and turning the extremely large hall into a visible Milky Way of endless, gleaming stars. It was indeed stunning—but by Letho’s
account, flawed by the elegantly dressed guests who moved in various conversational groups.

With a wry smile Letho acknowledged the irony of his situation, if he let her give the journal to his son; he believed the young King would destroy it—without even turning a page. If he admitted who he was, it would unleash a storm of questions from her that he was ill prepared to answer. His conundrum was exactly the reason why he preferred a life of solitude. “Now is not the appropriate time, I’m sure you will agree.” He placed his empty glass on a nearby table. “I will have Lothirgan collect you this evening, to discuss this matter further.”

Second’s later news of the royal envoy’s arrival swept through the Hall. Groups shifted, they broke apart and came together like the dazzling, spectrum of color in a Kaleidoscope. There were exclamations of joy and waves of excitement brimming in the expressions of the crowd. Most of the people in the room, ambassador’s, nobles and servants alike, bowed and curtseyed in one sweeping movement, demonstrating their loyalty to the Seven Kings of Audelas, as was customary. Lakin bent gracefully in her curtsy, but there were two in the room who did not comply with tradition. Letho, stationed beside Lakin, did not bow. Neither did the tall woman nearest the entry.

Trirea. Her distinctive black, silver flamed hair and piercing eyes, combined with her height and silky form molded head to foot by an ebony shimmer (which showed her figure in a most explicit way) stood straight in the crowd. Lakin observed the dark-visaged woman’s hostile stare meet with steely brown eyes just as strong and the sheer force of Letho’s personality. It was electric and in a second—over. Trirea swiveled sinuously and melted into the parade. Attendants, silent but dutiful flowed ahead and behind the entourage, and stringing along the outside edge walked the High Courtier dressed in familiar white bearing royal introductions.

“King Kaleas of Tigan,” herald out, in rich baritone.

Twelve stone of sauntered arrogance led the procession. Kaleas held his nose high in the air and a grin baring strong white teeth revealed to everyone, as he paused to exhibit a war honed physique in the chandeliers light. Whatever else he was, he looked to be a king of self-indulgence. King Taymar of Zay, impeccably tailored with a taste for beautiful things, had thick eyebrows that pulled together over a hooked nose, glossy bald pate and bugged out eyes. While King Lendanonn of Eriam was carved to resemble an Adonis, pure grace in motion, with rich almond eyes that glowed from tanned folds of flesh. King Rymas of Coremas, wore a long, bold nose that resembled a beak, illness and worry had stolen his youthfulness and left a shell of a man. King Ethiep of Cenyth, a pious by all accounts, bright eyed, vigilant to a fault and renowned for being a King of his people. King Lothe of Roreloth, held a mysterious and magnetic charm. His high cheekbones, sharp brow and full lower lip were that of a Rorelothian god. The final monarch bringing up the rear was King Malagen of Savion, with his brooding good looks and cold gray eyes. No doubt a driven man—no doubt a force to reckon with.

Wearing formal attire richly fit, the Seven Kings of Audelas bowed reciprocally to the room at large. Awed gasps leapt from the crowd as the retinue moved, perfectly choreographed through the Banquet Hall and into Council Room. Within minutes they were poised beside large stone thrones, with the emblem of each Warland kingdom shinning under the brilliance of the reflected light. Then came the final announcement, it erupted like a volcano, bringing all conversation in the room to an end. “Madam Chancellor of Cenyth, presiding.”

Trirea, sitting center front, who kept her silence, now spoke. Cold-blooded—sharp, “Council is now in session.”

Lothirgan looked shocked; he lifted a questioning eyebrow at what he just heard. Sensing the old man’s reaction immediately Letho responded with a heedful look, telling him that he was allowing his emotions to show. Understanding his silent message, Lothirgan sighed nodding.

“Forgive me, but I must take my leave,” Letho exclaimed, his intonation quiet.

“Of course.” Lakin answered back, looking at him directly.

He smiled, as he gave her hand to his guard, “Lothirgan will see you safely to a seat.”

“Thank you... thank you for everything” came her soft reply, and to Lothirgan’s relief, Lakin remained silent.

The session started fiercely, with each King deliberately flouting the authority of the other, by delivering opening speeches filled with grievances, blood feuds and land claims stretching back over decades. Lakin was surrounded on all sides by heated discussion and furious politicking until finally it became a blurred jumble of voices and noises around her. The lack of understanding and vigorous arguments affected everyone. Everyone, except Trirea. Her presence was impossible to ignore. What was it about the black clad woman that was so far beyond Lakin’s understanding?

Lakin pressed her fingers to her temples. Her head throbbed. It was four hours in and only now was the Council showing signs of adjourning. She realized quickly that what she had been told was true—the first sitting had been anything but serene and kind. At one point, King Ethiep stood up his face flushed with anger and his eyes bulging. He demanded a solution to the wyrm crisis, reminding the forum of the many lives and fortunes lost in the outer regions. Sweat beaded along his forehead and his face beat scarlet red. He had to force himself to calm down, to be more reasonable, it was if he suddenly realized, that there was an audience listening to every word and that he would be judged on what he said next.

“These monsters must be stopped, once and for all.”

“Aye...”

“Here, here”

Finally, all seven kings agreed.

[Letho]

The squabbling seemed to be endless. They were like children, these seven men of power, going back and forth over issues that seemed genuinely insignificant in the global scheme of things. An acre of land here, a patch of forest there, a ramshackle village somewhere on the border, all trifle matters blown out of proportion, Letho thought. A peasant living on the border probably didn’t give a damn whether the land his worked on belonged to one king or the other; he was dirt poor either way, slaving at the bottom of the food chain. And yet the arguments continued, making the grizzly swordsman conclude that the only detail that separated these kings from some random tykes playing in a sandbox was the size of the sandbox.

Even when reprieve finally occurred – everybody agreeing that wyrms posed a serious threat to all – it didn’t last, couldn’t last, not with that many egos in one room. And the fact that there was a snake swiveling amongst them didn’t help either.

“I propose we form a company with the sole purpose of eradicating these vermin,” Malagen spoke up, something he seldom did throughout the meeting so far. The Savion King seemed to inherit his father’s dislike for these congregations, inserting his cold, calculated comments with an utterly uninterested voice. Thing that could rile him up were few and far between, Letho knew. “It would be a joint effort, of course...”

Kaleas of Tigan would have none of that. The battle-hardy king, his stature almost as impressive as Letho’s, sprung to action instantly as the words were spoken. “Wyrms are Tigan’s problem and Tigan men will deal with it. We do not need anyone’s aid.” It was pride speaking, of course, pride and arrogance typical for the hardy northern folk of Tigan. Though most seemed to disagree, none seemed willing to defy the stringent tone of mighty Kaleas until Trirea intervened.

She didn’t interject herself, it wasn’t the way the dark woman operated. Instead, she shot a gaze towards one of the Cenyth diplomats lounging next to king Ethiep, a mere glance that lasted for but a moment, and the slick-haired man moved almost immediately. Leaning towards his monarch, he seemed to whisper something into his ear and the Cenyth ruler nodded before he spoke. “Tigan men failed to deal with it so far,” the golden-haired king spoke, his sharp, azure eyes clashing with the instantaneous rage that was birthed at the other end of the table. “As a result, others are threatened as well. The wyrms do not respect the borders we draw on a map. They will spill over to other kingdoms if we do not destroy them.”

The vein on the forehead of King Kaleas was bulging, a clear sign of his irritation. “They had been dormant until recently and as such not out priority. There were more pressing matters to attend to. Not everybody was fortunate to fully recover from the Second War.”

Another sign from Trirea, this time a nod so minute it might not have been there at all, and another advisor at the table obeyed. The enigmatic ruler of Roreloth kingdom, his face always locked in an undecipherable smirk, spoke after consulting with his subordinate. “I already told you, Kaleas, that all you need to do is ask and I shall lend you some gold for rebuilding. I’d even forgo the interest.”

It was a lie, of course, a snide remark whose sole purpose was to further irritate the Tigan king; no Roreloth king would even give away his precious gold without a nice percentage. And it was exactly what the already heated atmosphere didn’t need. The table shook and the cups spilled over as Kaleas struck the wood with his fist.

“You dare mock me in my own halls?” he exclaimed, the booming echo of his voice momentarily silencing every other sound in the Council Chambers. And then Trirea mentally nudged another one of her lackeys and the arguing continued until it turned into an incomprehensible clamor. To Letho, it sounded like a very busy day at the market, where you couldn’t hear your own voice properly and you had to bawl from the top of your lungs in order to get the point across. And in the midst of this foul symphony of raised voices, Trirea was the conductor, rekindling the fire whenever it seemed to die a bit. Letho couldn’t decipher what her plan was; didn’t even try to. He knew that she had to be stopped before the whole thing escalated.

Rising to his feet from his seat next to Malagen without a word said a frown sharp enough to cut melons, the legendary swordsman took off the Audrin Sword from his back. In one swift motion he spun the weapon once and shoved it downwards into the polished wood of the table. The blade, sheath and all, went through the ornate surface with a thunderous crash, imbedding itself into the marble below. Such was the power of Letho’s strike that the heavyset table, hundreds of years old by the looks of it, cracked completely in half. Needless to say, it was enough to hold everyone’s breath in their throats. Well, almost every everyone.

“What is the meaning of this?” Trirea demanded, her pale hand pointing a finger towards the bearded ranger. “Are you threatening us, Ruben?” His real name, the one that he was given as the Prince of Savion, was spoken with such bitterness that it curled her fair face into a disgusted grimace.

“I am warning you,” Letho’s voice rumbled. “And I am reminding you.” He yanked the sheathed weapon from its bed made of wood and stone, then pulled the canvas off to reveal the intricate ornaments of the Sword’s scabbards. Emblems of all seven kingdoms were enameled into the adamantine alloy, and by each one of them was an empty slot for a precious stone. Letho tossed the blade onto the cracked table where it landed with a single, powerful thud. “Last time the kings of Audelas bickered in this fashion brought twenty years of war with the Dram.”

“We do not need history lessons, Ravenheart,” Trirea seemed to be the spokeswoman for the rest, dismissing his words in a frigid voice. “We all remember the Wars. And we remember you being the cause of it. You and your little peasant filly.”

“I do not need history lessons either, my lady. It was my choice to reject you – a choice I paid dearly for – but it was the choice of all of you to go to war over such an inane manner. A war that weakened us. A war that brought on the Dram. And instead of learning from that mistake, here we are, arguing over scraps of land and a pack of rabid beasts. You are all wiser than this.” Picking up the Audrin Sword, he shouldered it before he concluded. “This meeting is adjourned.”

******

“Well, that was certainly an entertaining palaver,” Malagen said, sliding the whetstone over the length of his saber. He was sitting on the windowsill, his broad back turned to the half open window and the chilly night outside it. Despite the whistling draft that seemed to creep under Letho’s skin, gnawing on his bones, his son sat in just his tunic, the cold wind tossing his long black hair around like a set of curtains. Raised in the frozen north, Malagen felt the bite of the chill not at all.

Unlike him, Letho was raised in the mild lands of Savion and he was freezing. Squatted before the fireplace, he started arranging the kindling. The room around him looked like it used to be a study of sorts, with shelves upon shelves of books lined up against most of the walls, spreading the dusty, ancient smell around. It was decently refurnished, though. A thick, burgundy carpet softened their every step, even under the heavy desk and a cushioned chair behind it. The only door that didn’t lead to the main hallway outside was opened to the small bedroom and the immaculately neat bed. It was no king’s quarter – Letho was certain that Malagen’s room was far more lavish than his own – but it served its purpose.

“Aye, if you like that kind of entertainment,” Letho responded. He wasn’t quite sure whether Malagen wanted to start a conversation or just make a statement; such was the flatness of his voice. Save for their voices, the only sounds in the room were the screech of the wind and the grinding of the stone against metal. Once the wood was prepared, Letho struck two flints together only to see his sparks snuffed out by the draft. “Close that damn window. I will never get the fire started.”

Malagen didn’t seem to hear the window remark, continuing with the recap of the Council meeting. “Your betrothed seems to be up to something. I noticed her exchanging looks with at least four different councilors.”

“You saw that too, huh?” Letho said, striking the stones again. This time, a billow of smoke rose from the cone of wood, and when he blew against it, it developed into a tiny tongue of fire. “That woman is like a spider; she spins her web everywhere.”

“But to what end? Surely she does not want to spark another war. Not that I think she would be able to. The kings are vain and proud, but they are not harebrained. It would take something like an assassination to start another conflict,” the young king said, sliding his thumb over the edge of his blade with calculated gentleness. Seeing the edge slicing of the thinnest layer of his skin brought a satisfying smirk to his expressionless visage. He sheathed his sword and finally closed the window.

“Well, whatever it is, it cannot be good. I shall tell Lothirgan to open his eyes and ears. If there is something to be found, he shall sniff it out.”

“Perhaps,” was all that Malagen said. There always seemed to be some discomfort between the father and the son, always something they held back in their conversations. It was as if, despite being in the same room, they were still miles apart, as if there was a fortification between them, its bricks made of all the years the two were apart. Sometimes it seemed that that wall would never crumble.

Luckily for both, the uncomfortable silence was broken by a knock on the door and the wrinkled face of Lothirgan. “Your Majesty,” he bowed to the king who dismissed him with a flick of a wrist, then turned to Letho. “Lady Lakin De Conte is here to see you.”

“Ah, your nightly entertainment. I should probably leave you to it, Letho,” Malagen jested, though his face barely cracked into a smile. The aged swordsman just shook his head. “We shall talk more in the morning, before the meeting.”

Exiting the room, the bland-faced king looked down towards Lakin who made a courteous bow. “My lady, I hope the old man satisfies your need for amusement. But I must warn you, he seems to be in a sour mood.” And with that final shot at his father, Malagen disappeared down the hallway, his honor guard quick to follow.