The Seven Kingdoms of Audelas

(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.

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 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.

“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.

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.

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.

(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.”

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?”

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.

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.

“Get dressed. It is time for you to leave.” Deana, Queen of Coremas declared as she crossed from the bed to a large dresser and removed a bottle from its small compartment.

A beautiful young girl sat up, and the sheet covering her fell away baring her nude form. The lamps soft glow washed her in a golden veil, revealing glorious bare breasts. Deana’s eyes gleamed at the sight of each voluptuous globe angled deliciously upward. King Rymas kissed one roseate peak, and then tasted the other. Her maiden flavor eliciting a final groan of pleasure from him. “Go,” he ordered, as rolled away on his back.

“Now my darling,” Deana crooned, as she ran her fingers over a smooth green bottle, “I think Eriam wine is in order, to relax you and help you sleep.” Turning away from her husband, she was busy a few moments over the glass before handing it to him. “Drink,” she enticed, sounding like a fabled siren.

Obedient, Rymas lifted the glass to his lips and drained it. He blinked as his wife’s flamboyant beauty receded from view, and his thick lashes sank lower and lower until they closed.

“Tired,” he muttered drowsily.

“Sleep, my love,” insisted his wife softly.

Moving quietly, the sweet young maid with scorching red hair slipped away. Moments later Deana opened the door to admit a woman whose soaring height, faultless figure and hard, perfectly black eyes demanded instant respect.

“Glad you could come so quickly,” said Deana by way of greeting.

“Where is the diamond?” Trirea asked, casting a raised eyebrow around the candlelit room.

With one graceful movement Deana set aside a cloth covering a sparkling white jewel.

Trirea drew in her breath sharply, and then let it out slowly, “You’ve really outdone yourself this time.” Her luminous coal eyes sparkled as she rubbed her hands together.” The sixth Seal... ” Trirea whispered favorably.

“Did you replace it?” queried Trirea, becoming short and businesslike.

“It’s done; he will never know that this isn’t the original diamond.” Deana placed her husbands diadem carefully away.

Satisfied Trirea nod as she made to leave through a secret passage hidden behind a pale green wall panel. “Payment will be waiting at the Black Garter.”

~~~

The rest of Malagen’s entourage formed in the wide, obsidian pillared hallway at the end of his father’s residence. Lord Hydont a venerated Savion Knight joined the party and led the way to the first level, his long stiffly gathered cloak conical around his legs, his sword skimming the floor in an arc behind him. “I was told that the first council session went exceptionally long and that you, Your Majesty, in particular were greatly admired for the way you conducted yourself.” Filled with pride Lord Hydont strode out in front. “I have attended these assemblies for years, since your father was a young man and his father King. It has never been easy. I commend you my Lord—but still—you must be very careful.” Through narrowed eyes, Hydont took in the crowded plaza outside and gauged the risks to Malagen—to his king. “Your safety is paramount, at all times.” A barb of uneasiness he’d felt many times in the past re-emerge and rippled along the hair at the nape of his neck.

“The palace seems secure enough,” Malagen insisted.

Lord Hydont objected, “It is never truly secure Your Majesty, look at the crowds.”

Malagen stood before the west wing gates that lead back into the central courtyard; he indicated that they should be opened. But before his order could be carried out, Lord Hydont stopped the guard from flinging wide the high wrought doors.

“Hold!” He demanded. A harsh wind whistled through the thick iron lattice and groaned down the palace hallways. “I must make sure it is safe.” He slipped through the narrow opening and crossed the broad colonnade at the top of the onyx-colored steps leading down to the expansive square. He wasn’t shocked by the amount of people even in this bitter cold. The annual meeting was important to everyone, it was no surprise that Tigan would turn out in such multitudes, but the hype—it never ceased to amaze the veteran knight. From the crowd there emanated a constant low-level roar. If the halls of the palace were as packed as this domain, the path back to Malagen’s residence would be a nightmare. A Cenyth Monk embellished in bright red robes waited at the foot of the jet black steps. The crowd around the Monk was a noisy one, but it appeared peaceful.

Hydont signaled the guard to release the gates. Although he had his back to the doors he knew exactly the moment when Malagen became visible to the mass in the square—the young women at the front of the mob reacted brazenly. “How attractive the King is? Is there anything I can do for you Your Majesty, anything your heart desires,” one yelled out.

She was pushed aside by a woman with matted blond hair. “I’ll take you home and keep you company, My Lord. I promise you, you will never be lonely again.”

“I saw him first! “

The blond attacked the first woman and the crowd around them broke into a raucous of cheers and excitement, urging on a cat fight.

“Forgive them your Majesty,” pleaded the Monk who had pressed forward in an attempt to shield the unruly pair. “There is always some who get out of control on these occasions.”

Malagen turned to meet him, working hard to dispel the anger he felt rushing up from his neck at the vulgar comments of the women. The Monk was old, spindly with no hair. He stood straight and tall, holding himself well for his age. Malagen recognized the him as the High Monk and sole survivor of the grisly wyrm massacre in Ciamar. He nod his head and turned his gaze out to the crowded court, the masses broke into frenzy, praising the King, they expressed their approval. Malagen stood like a grand bronze at the top of the steps. Cool, he raised his outstretched hands to the crowd, which reacted by shouting their acclaim still louder—a boisterous roar swept through the square with the force of a whirlwind.

Lord Hydont felt it was time to move on. “Your Majesty...”

“There is another way,” the Monk exclaimed, his very dark eyes became round and bright with anticipation. Lifting his pale, drawn face to Lord Hydont, the Monk raised his voice and repeated his claim. “My Lord, I know of another way.”

Known to the King and posing no visible threat Lord Hydont permitted the High Monk to approach.

It was the closest the Monk would ever come to a smile—his brow furrowed—his mouth creased as he climbed the first step picked up his heavy red-colored robes and knelt. “Will you allow me to show you,” the Cenythian asked.

“Yes... yes lead the way,” Malagen said hastily, gesturing for his personal guard to follow.

“Through here,” the monk urged, quickly slamming and latching a nearby door behind them just in time, for the crowd pounded on the thick wood causing the door to quake on their side of the threshold. Lit wall scones lined the way, leading them deeper into the palace. A gentle glow beckoned faraway down the narrow passage; with his guard close Malagen began the long descent.

~~~

Every nerve quivered as Lakin entered, she took a deep steadying breath and glanced speculatively around Letho’s private chambers. A movement in the corner of her eye snagged her attention. She observed as a young maid with fiery red hair descended the steps from the residences, disappearing into the hallway leading down to the servant’s station. Genth, Letho’s personal guard darted into the hallway after her, but Lakin doubted he would catch her too soon. She had quite a head start on the eager young squire. Lakin smiled as the door to the chamber closed behind her. Lifting the hem of her gown in one delicate hand, she followed Letho’s invitation and moved toward the welcoming fire. The practicality of the chamber seemed to emphasize the grandeur of two, tall backed chairs embossed with roses and fine crystal goblets set on a smooth mahogany table. She presumed from the studious surroundings, that they must have been set up for just this occasion—for her. “I have...”

“Please,” Letho interrupted, “make yourself comfortable.” He bowed formally in recognition of her presence. “I suggest we start with a glass of wine?”

“A wonderful idea,” Lakin agreed. Slipping her hand inside the lapel of her cloak she pressed the lining and a secret pocket opened. She removed a well-worn book from the hiding place and sat, her cloak fanning out like a silvery-white shell. “Why did you keep your identity from me?” She asked, peering down at the frayed and slightly torn binding of the book in her lap. Her hand gently smoothed over the soft leather cover.

Letho glanced sideways at her, “Because the diary you carry probably contains things about Kristiniel that even I did not know about. And I am not certain that I am ready for such a revelation.”

Letho poured her wine and the fragrance filled the room, reminding Lakin of the Inn in Savion and its owner Marcus Georan, the man who had entrusted her with the precious book, Kristiniel’s father.

“But it is a diary—handwritten by your wife,” Lakin pressed. She sat forward modestly gathering the cloak she wore around her. “Are you not even a little
curious?” she asked, feeling a sudden thrill of excitement in the pit of her stomach at the idea of Kristiniel’s journal brought full circle.

“You are here, are you not?” Letho responded, his eyes on her the entire time. He took a long hard drink finishing his goblet of wine in one impatient swallow. “I have my own memories of her Lakin and I was content with them,” he confided.

Lakin looked away, but when she turned her face back to Letho, his brown eyes were steady.

“I realized very quickly after meeting you that you would not be satisfied until either my son or I claimed Kristiniel’s journal.” Letho stood up, strode back to the carved wooden desk illuminated by the fire burning in hearth and poured himself another drink. ” So here you are.”

Lakin trembled a little beneath the intensity of his gaze but did not withdraw and in a deceptively calm voice persevered. “The book reveals Kristiniel as a woman who loved deeply, a woman who believed in her family and her people. It tells of a beautiful romance between a young Prince and an ordinary peasant girl who were destined to be together.” Lakin turned a page halfway through the book. “Let me read to you what she’s written.”

Watching her half-reclined, Letho nod and sighed deeply. "Fine, I suppose by this time you have read the book in its entirety."

Lakin began slowly, her heart racing strongly as she sank down in her chair only a few feet from Letho.
“He is so handsome. Tall and perfectly made, with rich brown hair and beautiful skin. His eyes are a delicious shade of brown, his full lips mouth-watering, and when he looks at me my heart beats wildly. After I served him some ale to ease his fatigue he gave a smile that shook me as if the earth moved. His hand brushed mine and it was sweet indeed...”

Throwing open the door suddenly a young maid burst in, disheveled and shaking. The abrupt, unannounced appearance brought Letho instinctively to his feet. He used the split second it took for him to react. In an instant he was standing above the intruder. At that moment the girl raised her face from her hands and Lakin recognized the tear-stained face as the redhead in the hallway.

“Oh Sir... Genth.” She burst into a storm of renewed weeping. Based on the last thing Lakin saw, it seemed that what was wrong involved Letho’s young squire.

“What has happened?” Letho growled, holding the maids heaving
shoulders. It looked as if she had been weeping on and off for sometime.

The young girl sobbed more loudly.

“Let me talk to her,” Lakin suggested, unsettled by how distressed the girl had become.

“Calm down,” Lakin urged as she wrapped her arms around the young servants shoulders to comfort her. “Take a deep breath and tell us what has happened.” It was a tremendous effort to keep the girl on her feet.

“They... he... took him away. It was horrible,” she choked out through her sobs.

“Who took him?” Lakin questioned urgently.

“I don’t know, I was too afraid to look,” the maid answered, her eyes red rimmed from weeping

“Where?”

“Down in the tunnels they use to enter the dungeons.”

“Take me there,” Letho demanded, “quickly girl!” He strode forward wearing the Audrin Sword in a thickset leather sheath across his back. He sensed Lakin’s determination to help him well ahead of time. “No way, we can’t risk it. I don’t want to have to rescue you as well.”

She sighed, understanding. “Never-the-less I am coming with you, the girl can barely stand." Lakin made to move with the trembling maid.

“It is too dangerous,” Letho explained, with a shout of anger.

Headstrong, Lakin assured the girl that everything would be alright. “We are wasting time Letho.” The sobbing stopped and the maid nodded her readiness to Letho who stood behind them.

Not accustomed to hearing Lakin use his name, Letho paused for a moment. He shook his head and lifted his hand indicating that the girl should start forward.

As they descended Lakin felt it, a chill that penetrated her skin as a steady heavy throb flowing through her veins, through her bones until the insistent pulse, dark in force reached her mind. It came like a veritable whisper, chanting and rising in volume. The black power overwhelming. Everything faded away to an eerie silence, leaving only the blackness of the hypnotic enchantment that rolled over her and the unnerving emptiness in her eyes. Lakin was helpless to turn away, once again Trirea’s essence entwined with hers—once again she was sucked into darkness. A picture of murder, Letho and the ivory-handled dagger pressed against her waist manifested in her mind.

A dark figure moved from the shadows into the wedge of light his fingers pressed to Genth’s throat. Shock and pain racked through the young squire’s body as he dangled—helpless—consciousness fading as the steel-strong digits around his neck tightened.

Letho grabbed at Lakin, he deliberately brought her to his side, although he never took his eyes off the silhouette waiting. He tensed preparing himself and stepped forward into the cold dank dungeon first.

“Kill him,” shrieked the voice boring into Lakin’s mind. It came from behind her, but no one was there. Earsplitting, it destroyed any resistance Lakin could rally. She stared emotionlessly into Letho’s back.

Surprisingly (or not) enough, the first thing that went through his mind – other than the jolt of searing pain that sliced through between his temples as the blade penetrated skin, muscle and lung – was Lothirgan. Good old Lothirgan and the good old lesson on trust. Letho remembered partially because it was quite possibly the shortest lesson the old man had ever given and partially because it befitted the current situation. “The first and only rule about trust is don’t,” his mentor had said once upon a time, when the skies were still endlessly blue, the life was simple and all was right with the world. “And that goes twice if we’re talking about a woman.”

Letho never forgot that lesson. He didn’t adhere to it strictly during his life – a person couldn’t without growing to be an utterly bitter bastard – but those words were always there, at the edge of conscious thought, reminding him of the dangers every time he’d go against this simple pearl of wisdom. But today that whispering voice had been silenced, snuffed out by the winds of time that, with the introduction of Kristiniel journal, brought back a whiff of the years long forgotten. And he wound up trusting Lakin. He wound up believing that she was this truly amicable woman whose sole purpose was to reunite him with some of the memories that had been collecting dust in the dark corners of his mind. He wound up believing that there was no ulterior motive behind those clear, azure eyes, that she travelled all those long miles just to give him some sort of a closure with his long dead wife.

Such a foolish assumption. A rookie mistake, Lothirgan would’ve chastised him, had he been in that dank basement. Only he wasn’t. Other than the hand emerging from the darkness, flailing Genth it was clinging to, the treacherous wench behind his back and his gullible self, there was nobody to see him fall. And fall he did. He shouldn’t have – the wound hadn’t been a mortal one and he should’ve been able to turn around and break the bitch’s neck – but once the blade dug into his flesh, he could feel as if all life has been drained out of him. “Dark magicks,” a distant thought passed at the forefront of his mind as he first sunk to his knees, one quivering arm reaching for the knife in his back while the other struggled to keep his bulky physique up. It turned to jelly as second afterwards, the mighty muscles refusing obedience to their master, allowing the great Letho Ravenheart to collapse.

And even as his consciousness started to depart, making room for the dark clouds that started to dim his vision, he could’ve sworn he saw a familiar face emerging from the darkness. And there was a satisfied smile stretching its aging lines.

***

Fifteen minutes later – or at least it seemed like fifteen minutes to Letho, like it seems like fifteen minutes when one oversleeps a waking call – a punch to the gut brought the Savion hero back to the world of the living. And soon enough he wished that it hadn’t. His head was throbbing with pain in rhythmic unison with the bleeding perforation in his back, his perception was all blobs and blurs, and he felt as weak as if he had walked through the desert for a week without as much as a drop of water. And then there was, of course, the beating as well. The giant black blob in front of him seemed to have a vicious jab, and he kept slamming it into Letho’s plexus. It perhaps wasn’t the worst awakening he had ever experienced, but it was cutting it pretty damn close.

“Enough for now,” a bodiless voice spoke. Cold like the wall behind his back. Cold like the sweat that dripped down his forehead. Cold as the bitch of a land they were in. “He’s coming to.”

After a concluding hook to Letho’s jaw, the violent blob moved away, leaving the man with a lot of shades of dark gray and a chance to breathe again. Letho did, or at least tried to, but wound up coughing instead, coughing like an old man with cancer. His extremities did the instinctive thing, but their attempt to move only produced the jungle of heavy chains that kept him pinned to the wall. Not that they could do any good anyways. The legendary swordsman, famous for his endless might, was feeling that even standing up without the help of the chains would’ve been an effort. But at least his vision was clearing up. And the first thing his squinted eyes were able to recognize was a familiar face.

“You snake!” he growled at the sight of Lakin Le Comte. On any given day there would’ve been enough strength in his muscles to tear free of his restrains and break her neck. But right now all he could fling at her were words, and even they sounded feeble. “I should have known that yours was a forked tongue. I should have ripped both it and your heart out. I should have...”

“What you should do, oh noble prince Ruben,” that same frigid voice from before interrupted. Only it wasn’t coming from the woman before him. In fact, once he strained his eyes a bit more, it looked as though Lakin wasn’t moving at all, her eyes staring blankly forward and through him, as if she was sleepwalking. No, the voice came from behind the treacherous woman. And soon Letho met its owner. Trirea’s face appeared just above Lakin’s shoulder, emerging from the surrounding darkness as if it was magically conjured. “is direct your curses in the right direction.”

“You? You did this?” Of course she did. Now that he wasn’t being beaten to a pulp and actually had time to think straight, he remembered that face from just after the betraying stab. Now she moved before him serenely, almost as if hovering an inch above the ground, with a smug smirk on her face. It was still a fair face, he thought as he always did, pretty in a way a royal garden was in the middle of the winter with everything trapped in ice and snow. “Why? Is it because I...”

“Because you rejected me all those years ago?” again she cut him short. “Please, don’t be ridiculous and put a leash on your vanity. This isn’t about you. You are just a puppet that needs to play his part. Just like Lakin was. And she did her task exceptionally well.” When Trirea’s hand reached towards Lakin’s face, the paralyzed woman did not move, did not even acknowledge the pale fingers tracing her cheek line.

“What do you want then?” Letho asked. With his vision back and his senses returning, he was able to put the rippling pain under some degree of control and his mind did the hero thing as Myrhia once dubbed it. In truth, what he did was no magic and had nothing to do with heroics. All the years of experience turned Letho’s mind into somewhat of a machine, a clockwork mechanism that almost acted on its own accord. In situations such as this one, it worked on ascertaining everything and anything, any detail that might help him get out of the pickle he was in. But there was little information to gather. According to the narrow barred window just above Lakin’s head, it was still night outside which most likely meant that nobody would come looking for him for quite some time. And according to the cell he was in, it would probably do no good even if they did. They were in what looked like an abandoned dungeon, where the cobwebs were so thick that they hung from the ceiling like draperies and where the dust was so thick it felt like he was standing on half an inch of it.

“Nothing you can give me,” Trirea replied, leaving the statue made of flesh that was Lakin and approaching her chained prisoner. “Nothing that can be given. What I want can only be taken from those who have it in abundance. What I want, my dear, is power. And there is so much of it amidst these walls these days.”

“The kings. You plan to murder them?”

Trirea smiled. It was a smile that made her look ugly, a tear in her visage that revealed the darkness it hid. “Possibly. But not right now. Right now I mourn for the death of my dear brother. You see, poor old Ethiep has passed away, and I simply must bring you to justice.”

“What the hell are you talking about, wench?” Letho asked, and the woman in black was more than happy to answer.

***

King Ethiep lounges on the plump silk of the pillows spread over the majestic sofa, plucking grapes from a nearby platter and finding them unsatisfying sour. He thinks it fitting, though, for this entire trip northward to the Council is turning up to be quite sour and bitter. In all truth, he doesn’t want to be here. His claims and disputes are rather trivial ones and he doesn’t plan to gain much from the Council. But he has to be here, is obliged to be here because every other king is here and it would do nobody good if he stayed home in the arms of his paramours. It would’ve sent the wrong message, he thought.

Trirea thinks it would’ve sent the right one. It would’ve discovered to everyone just how weak of a king he had become and how uninterested he is in ruling his kingdom. Age caught up with him, she thinks, and it bestowed upon him a carelessness that a kingdom in the Warlands can ill afford. Royalty here is like blood hounds; the second they smell weakness they are snapping at your throat. She knows this, but also knows of a perfect way to remedy this situation.

“Did you find the Council as utterly dull as I did, Trirea?” Ethiep asks his sister, who is busy with pouring wine at the nearby laden table. “I swear, it was more interesting when we were at war and everybody just disliked everybody. It made for interesting arguments, if I do say so myself.”

He laughs a forced laugh, but Trirea doesn’t join him in the jape. Instead she brings him a goblet of wine and sits at his side. “Well, then you should be happy to know that Audelas will be caught in the fires of war once again. Quite soon as well.”

“Oh really?” the king, still smiling, asks, taking the cup from her hands and taking a few sloppy swallows. He fails to notice the sinister tone of her voice or the disgusted look on her face as she sees the wine dripping onto his tunic. “And you know this how? Did you listen to that old prophet lady back home? Because I tell you, she’s full of...”

“No, my dear brother,” she cuts him short and this time he notices the frown on her face and the malicious sparkle in her eyes. He also notices the sudden tightening in his chest and the rising pain in his stomach, making him feel as if something was eating away through his intestines. All of this changes his expression to a befuddled one and that makes the woman before him smile at last. “I know this because I shall strike the spark that starts the fire. I shall be the wind that would make it grow until it devours entire Audelas.”

He tries to speak, to shout, to call for his guards standing on the other side of the door, but the poison she used is a tricky one. It seems to cut off his vocal cords, making him open and close his mouth like a fish on dry land. When he tries to get up, all he manages to do is fall to his knees and clutch to his stomach. By then, Trirea is towering over him with a blade in her hand. She brings it to her brother’s neck and whispers in his ear.

“Sadly enough, you won’t be around to see it all happen. Goodbye, brother.”

***

“Wretched thing! Your own brother,” Letho spat at her, but she seemed unaffected, as if no emotion could get in or out that icy shell. His arms tugged on the chains, slightly rejuvenated but still far from being able to do some serious damage. “And for what? You think others will go to war against you because you killed him?”

“No. But they will if you did.” She walked around like a prowling cat, her eyes never leaving his, her moves slow and calculated. “See, my dear Ruben, once we kill you and deliver your body to my brother’s chambers, I will make sure that everybody knows that you murdered the poor king in his sleep. And that my personal guard...” At the sound of these words, a mountain of a man stepped out from the shadows. Letho didn’t know him, but he was rather certain that those monstrously large hands are the ones that held Genth a foot above the ground. Those same hands were now wrapped around the Audrin Sword. “...arrived just in time to bring you to justice. Unfortunately, you resisted so they had to end you as well. Leaving poor old mourning me as the only witness. And I’ll make sure they proclaim war on Savion come morning.”

“A clever plan.” The voice, belonging to neither Trirea nor her barbarian, made every person in the clammy room flinch, nearly cutting the woman’s last word off. It too was cold and calculated, but in an unnerving, unnatural manner, as if whoever owned it cared for nothing whatsoever. Stepping out from behind one of the columns, king Malagen came forward with his saber drawn and a chill in his eyes that made the winter in Trirea’s feel like mild spring. “Shame it will never come to pass. Now release these two and I might let you live.”

The High Monk who had acted as a guide to Malagen had not uttered a word. He simply stood in behind the group, his lips curled in a slow calculated smile, hypnotized by a pair of black deadly eyes in a slender, porcelain face. Obediently waiting in the dappled shadows of the passageway.

“Let me live!” Trirea mocked in a hiss, the words spraying with spittle from her lips.“Do you think you are here by chance?”

Malagen had no illusions. The moment he heard Trirea’s voice emerge from the darkness he concealed the sinking feeling slowly draining his face. His body tensed, and his mind was alert. Only Letho would recognize his struggle to remain in control. Malagen was a seasoned soldier and would not display one inkling of weakness to the enemy confronting him. “I will thank your traitorous Monk at the first opportunity Trirea,” Malagen responded, his eyes flashing with spirit.

Draque moved the razor sharp edge of the Audrin sword toward Letho’s neck with one hand, and yanked Genth close, pulling him with him across the room with the other. They silhouetted as a foreboding shadow against the torch light that Malagen’s party brought into the dungeon with them. Genth’s groaned response to the iron fingers around his throat was instant and pain-wracked. He was rewarded with a clout to the head that knocked him out cold. “It is you who will lay down your weapons or I will cut your fathers throat,” Draque said in a lazy, drawling tone.

“I can not allow you to do that,” Malagen replied calmly, clenching his right hand around his saber. Leaning close, the young King spoke with Hydont, but his eyes were wholly focused on Draque. “Can you handle Trirea?”

“With pleasure,” Hydont whispered. “But to tell the truth I am a little worried about the Lady—Lakin. She has little chance of coming out of this alive.”

“I will do everything I can,” Malagen murmured, aware that events had taken a completely ill-favored turn.

“Dram filth!” Hydont raged, stepping forward so that his body protected his Kings.

Trirea grinned evilly. “His name is Draque,” she volunteered. “The last and most powerful of the Dram Lords, as you will soon come to find out.”

Malagen was silent, but his eyes narrowed and his muscles bunched and tightened in reaction to the Dram name, he stood easily inside the curved, stone doorway, his gaze fixed on the blade at his father’s throat. “You know that is not going to be the answer, because as soon as you do that we are going to be all over you,” he warned low and menacing. His attention was taken with his father’s welfare, so he wasn’t watching as a horde of unnatural darkness curled up behind the cloaked Trirea delivering four heaving wyrm beasts.

“But you will not have your precious Savior Prince, will you?” Draque snarled, pinning Malagen with a wild look, “he will be gone forever.”

~~~

In the light filtering from between the iron slats of the window, Letho could see his blood drenched shirt, the dagger and other sundry items littering the floor, indicating that Trirea’s plan was almost complete and that she had been using this dungeon as a meeting place for some time. Outside the darkness was a mantle that covered the land in a thick, black shroud and from somewhere amidst the gloom his son had found him and advanced on Trirea. Letho drew in a ragged breath; he wrestled with the iron chains and despite his struggles remained tied to the wall bound across his entire body. When he growled in protest, Trirea tore a strip of cloth and stuffed it into his mouth.

Gagged as he was, Letho was determined to fight. He bent his head and closed his eyes gathering the little strength he had—calling his power to him. This was a power of his that he seldom used, a concentration that defied the dimness of the tiny space that held him. A power that stirred kernels of life so strong, that the surroundings melted away, along with the stale smells and the dank air, leaving only the faintly familiar sense of Lakin’s presence within his reach. His attempt to help her would be short, because he couldn’t sustain the effort for long, he wasn’t even sure he’d survive when it was over. What he was sure of was that she would not end up like his Kristiniel, he could not save his wife from death at the hands of the Dram, but he damn well would save Lakin.

He brought the power to himself, condensing it all into one pulsing body of raw force in his mind, until it was so vivid, so dense that the luster burned beyond the human eye. Staring directly at Lakin, Letho sent all that manifested energy out, aiming straight as a spear at her mind. He sought her essence exactly where he thought it would be and immediately created a barrier, shielding her protectively from Trirea.

After a moment Letho opened his eyes and drew in a deep breath, which made a muffled sound deep in his throat.

~~~

Out of nowhere, illumination burst through the dark mist hovering over Lakin’s mind. It was like a stream of energy flowed straight from Letho into the heart of Trirea’s now fading black possession. At first nothing happened, then waves of light rippled out—it’s radiance intensifying, and in a whisper Letho’s voice came from beyond the brilliance. Instantly, Lakin could discern shapes and substance around her. Her eyes that held a deathlike glance, flickered, and the thin black veins that streaked her forehead revealing the bold tracks of Trirea’s poisonous influence, faded. Her pale drawn skin and expressionless face glowed and the carven, lifeless figure she once was in the prison of Trirea’s enthrall, diminished.

Stiff with cold, she forced herself to stay on her feet, her legs felt leaden but she knew her life depended on her ability to move. Her soft white gown was torn and stained with grime and in a few places with blood—Letho’s blood. She shivered thinking about the long shocked look in Letho’s eyes when she’d stabbed him in the back. The most horrific part was the fact that the entire time she was caught in Trirea’s pitiless enchantment, she was fully aware, unable to resist, unable to protest. A moan of exhausted anger shuddered through her. She had no real idea of how long she’d been down here. The chore of calculating was beyond her in her present state, her mind was still a haze—all she knew was that she had to do something, anything. Hoping to distract Draque and Trirea long enough for Malagen to strike, Lakin lunged forward for the dagger lying on floor in front of her.

Trirea whirled around just as she opened her mouth to speak, catching Lakin out of the corner of her eye. “Stop her,” cried Trirea, shattering the tomblike silence of the dungeon

In two giant bounds a wyrm devil was there. Lakin heard the screech of something; she felt its claws bite deeply into her flesh, the glacial chill of its breath on her skin and its crushing grip as it hauled her up by the neck suspended in the air above its head. Emptiness above her, below her, to either side of her. Pain closing in.

Compelled by survival she swiftly raised her hands above her head and plunged downward with the dagger (she’d barely snatched up) lodging the blade deep in the creature’s weak spot, at the back of the neck. The beast roared in pain. It dropped back on its haunches, shoulders slumped, and at that moment, it did not look like a vicious living thing, it just looked like a tired old soldier.

Commotion caused by Lakin and her newfound vigor was all the distraction Malagen needed to make his move. Draque's eyes darted sideways. Trirea's locked on her renegade thrall and the vanquished wyrm. Lakin's stared blankly at her own hands as if they failed to recognize them for what they were. Only Letho's saw the lightning fast advance of the Savion King. Malagen swept down on Draque like a hawk unleashed, smooth and fast and almost soundless, a blurry shadow in a theater of shadows. His thrust was perfect, his saber moving almost like an extension of his arm, sliding in the minimal space between the threatening Audrin Sword and Letho's defenseless throat. It was more than enough to draw Draque's attention back to the task at hand, but before the Dram got the chance to execute his prisoner, Malagen bounced his blade away with what looked like no more than a flick of his swordarm, then followed it up by slamming his shoulder into the barbarian's chest. The strike would've sent a lesser man sprawling, but Draque only stumbled back a couple of steps, more surprised than harmed.

Malagen positioned himself between his chained father and the Dram warrior, his pale face as still as if it was chiseled out of stone. “Dram Lord you are not, lout,” he chastised Draque in an icy cold voice, swiping his blade sideways before bringing it to a complete halt. His words seemed to strike his opponent harder than any sword, causing the hulking man to tighten his grip on his blade, stubbornly defying the truth. The Dram Lords had perished many a century ago, they both knew, victims to their own combative nature and endless conquests. But the stories of their might remained, tales to which no warrior of today could live up to, not even the legendary ones such as Letho Ravenheart. “A true Lord of the North meets his opponents in an open field of battle, not some dank cellar. A true Lord buys his steel with blood, not by bedding whores and backstabbers.” Trirea's jaw clenched a bit tighter as Malagen's pale eyes stabbed at her own with an almost lazy glare. “A true Lord fights for honor, not power.”

Draque spat, a faintest trace of a grin appearing on his unshaven face. “And that is why there are none of them left,” the savage replied, giving his newly acquired sword a twirl. “I shall take the whores and the cellars and the power. You can keep your stinking honor, oh great king.”

He came at Malagen like an avalanche, a hunk of mountain that broke off and came tumbling straight at him, swinging his weapon in a wide, chest-high horizontal arc. Such was the might behind the blow that it probably would've cleaved Malagen in half had he not dropped under it. His saber didn't rise to meet the savage blow, though; instead Malagen struck at the flat side of the Audrin Sword from below, sending it further upwards. The blade missed Letho's head by less than an inch before it clanged against the shackles that kept his left hand chained to the wall, shattering the iron links. And before Draque managed to get his bearings, Malagen was on him again, springing from below and tacking the large man. This time they both went down against the hard stone, but even as they did Draque shoved one knee upwards, flipping Malagen over with what seemed like no effort at all.

Despite the tumble, Malagen never really lost footing. He landed in a roll, then rose as calm as still water. Not even his hair seemed to move, the long black threads coming down around his face like a perfect black curtain. Draque did a rising handspring, his own hair as wild as a forest, and just in time to fend of a barrage of strikes from his opponent. Steel met steel over and over again as Malagen pushed the larger swordsman back with a fury of blows, each strike faster than the last one, forcing him to defend.

“Beasts!” Trirea shouted, her voice a deep echo in the clangor amidst the dungeon walls. The three wyrm warriors, keen on tearing Lakin apart for ending the life of one of the kin, reluctantly turned their heads to the black-haired aristocrat. “You two, help your master,” she commanded, sounding more a battle commander and less a lady of the court. “You, bring me the head of the stubborn bitch!”

“Not bloody likely, whore,” a gruff voice said, heralding Lord Hydont who came in between the scaled beast and the awoken beauty. His longsword was drawn, his cloak tossed over his shoulder, his eyes full of aged wisdom looking down at Lakin. “Go! Help lord Letho, get him out.” Lakin hesitated for a moment, still struggling with the surge of power that pulsed throughout her every muscle, but then the claws came at them and the old knight met them with his longsword and she knew better than to linger.

She dashed across the room, giving the center a wide berth and doing her best not to get caught in Malagen's struggle against Draque and his two bestial lackeys. The Savion King seemed so small in comparison that she feared every crush could be the end of him, but he could move. It was as if he could predict every movement, as if this was all a dance to him and he knew the steps by heart, never missing a beat. Looking at him at that moment, Lakin thought him invincible. Letho knew better. Nobody was faultless. His son was the best swordsman he ever met, but he was still just a man. His calculated mind might be able to keep the pace, but the body had its limits, and once that line is crossed he would fall.

With so many things going on around her, it seemed to Lakin that it took minutes for her to reach Letho when it was only seconds. “My lord? Letho?” she asked, half-fearing that he would regard with the cold blank stare of the dead and half-fearing that she would find fury there, just before his free hand snapped her neck. “I am sorry, Letho. I am so sorry. I... I did not know... I could not...” she tried feebly to apologize for something she had no control over, her fingers fumbling with the shackle around his right wrist. When his left hand moved she gasped, certain he would wrap his fingers around her throat. Instead he merely placed it on her shoulder, the weight of her body pressing her down. The poison and the beating took a toll on him, and the outburst of power he sent Lakin made him more fatigued than he ever felt, making even standing upright an effort. His world was filled with pain and struggle against unconsciousness. The fighting just beyond Lakin seemed in an another dimension right now.

The cuffs refused to give in no matter how hard she jammed her dagger into the keyhole, but the chains were rusty, ancient things, probably of the same age as the dungeon itself. She pushed her blade into one of the links closest to the wall, the tip scrapping against the stone as she used it as a lever. It took a few tries, but eventually the iron gave way. Without the chain supporting him, Letho's weight pressed down on her even more, so much so that she almost felt her knees bucking beneath their combined weight. She held on, though, Letho's own power giving her strength to push him back against the wall while she freed his ankles.

By the time she was done, Malagen was saying: “Get out of here” and Hydont echoed his liege with “We shall hold them” and other things that couldn't be heard in the midst of all the fighting. But it was no use. She couldn't carry Letho. And even if she could, where would they go? By know Trirea probably had them all labeled as traitors and the entire castle guard would be searching for them.

“Where? Where should we go?” She was desperate, inching away from the battle with Letho leaning heavily on her shoulder.

“Two rooms back,” Malagen managed to utter in between a parry and a pivoting spin. Draque seemed in a blood craze, growling as furiously as the beasts that fought at his sides. The barbarian himself didn't seem harmed, but the two wyrms bled from several places across their scaled bodies. They came at him doubly hard it seemed to her, so much so that their shouts and curses nearly drowned his own voice. All she could hear was: “grate... back....... room... sewers...” and then a clawed fist punched him in the stomach, sending him stumbling backwards. “GO!” was the last thing she heard, a vibrant shout uncharacteristic for the composed Savion King. And then they were alone in the darkness of the dungeon.

It took some searching and backtracking and stubbed toes and a lot of tapping in the dark, but eventually they came upon what Malagen had tried to direct them to. Letho was still with her, his voice growling into her ear that they should go back, that they should help his son, that they should bring Trirea to justice. But even if his mind was stubborn, his body seemed to know better, his feet following Lakin's lead willingly enough. The iron grate that covered the hole in the stone tiles was half eaten by rust, surely a trap for anybody who would step onto it in the dark. It took a couple of firm kicks of Lakin's foot before it went clanking trough the sewage chute, splashing in a river of waste a moment later. They both knelt before the opening, readying themselves for the plunge.

“We came here as lords and ladies,” Letho said, suddenly sounding fully awake and himself again. “And we leave as traitors and murderers. Fate, such a fickle thing.” And then he went tumbling down like a sack of apples, headfirst.

Neither of them was aware for how long they were carried by the current that coursed through the intricate pipework beneath the castle. Several times they found themselves shoved against the stone as the canal forked, but by the time they were spewed out into the harbor with the rest of the waste it was still dark and the moon still dominated the skyline. Letho floated in the dirty water like flotsam, his eyes gazing at the stars above as his bruises throbbed and his cuts stung from the salty water. The water was ice cold, wrapping him in a blanket of glass that stabbed at him with its cool jagged edges, and yet he was so jaded that he was almost content to remain right there until he either drowned or froze. But soon enough Lakin was at this side, looking almost as miserable as he with her wet hair clinging to her face in thick black locks. Together they managed to make their way to the shore, Letho a little more than dead weight she had to lug in her wake. By the time they struck shore, they were both wet and spent and shivering, their drenched clothes so cold it made them hurt all over.

They probably would've died right then and there, turned into human icicles by the harsh winter night, had not a familiar face appear above them, hovering like an apparition. “Boy, how many times do I have to snatch you from the hands of death?” the gray-haired man asked, tossing his cape over Letho's shirtless body. The rough woolen cloak felt as soft and warm as if it was made out of sunbeams. Other faces appeared as well, some Letho recognized as those of his own men, others he couldn't link with correct names (though he suspected one of them was Baltham, Lakin's guard).

“Lothirgan,” he tried to say as he was picked up by two pairs of hands. “Malagen... We must...WE MUST AID HIM!” he shouted, but whether he actually gave voice to those last words he couldn't say with certainty. Because reality finally slipped away from his eyes, replaced by the darkness, warm and hollow and inviting, like the embrace of a seductress.

In his dreams, a great direwolf stood alone in the middle of a clearing. The forest was dark around it, the night descending like a foreboding mist that threatened to erase the world. But there were things in that blackness that were darker still, shadows made corporeal, nightmares with crimson eyes that prowled in the night. The proud beast sensed their approach, dropping its head low and barring its razor-sharp fangs, but the threatening growl of the wolf did nothing to scare off the demons. "Flee!" Letho wanted to shout at the solitary beast, but only his mind's eye made it into the dream world and his voice couldn't be heard. But even if it did, Letho knew it would make little difference. This was a Savion wolf, a creature too proud to tuck tail and run, too stubborn to yield to its enemies. It would emerge victorious or it would perish in the attempt.

When the monsters finally closed in on the lone wolf and swooped towards it, however, Letho knew there could be no victory against them. The beast bit and pounced, but the claws made of inky darkness tore more of its flesh with each deadly pass they made. And for every shadow the wolf tore apart, two more sprang to life. The dark grey fur was soon black with blood, the wolf limping as it turned towards the next attacker, but still it growled, still it was defiant. Though little more than a disembodied presence, Letho tried to will himself to move and aid the beast. And to his surprise, he did move forwards, gliding as if he had wheels instead of feet. But when he looked down toward his own hands, he could see they were not hands at all. He stared at the claws made of night itself, and when he charged at the wolf, those claws did their vicious work and tore through fur and flesh as if they weren't even there. The beast finally lost ground and stumbled, its clear blue eyes staring at the monster that dealt the deathblow. There was no fury in those eyes anymore, no pain, not even sadness. Only... regret?

The wolf lifted its head one last time and howled at the sky, its wail low and mighty and somehow terrible, and then closed its eyes for the last time.

***

Letho woke up with a startle, sitting up in his cot and shouting his son's name. His mighty fists were curled around something, squeezing it tight, and for a brief moment a scare passed over him that he would look at his own hands and see those black claws again, digging into the fur of the wolf from his dreams. But when his eyes dropped down and his vision came into focus, the swordsman could see only his old calloused hands, clenching for the rags that might've been the bed sheets once. He shook his head once, then immediately regretted doing so when a spear of pain stabbed through his temples. Still, despite the horrendous headache, he swung his legs sideways and pushed himself up, pausing for the world around him to stop rocking back and forth. It failed to do so and after a brief inspection, Letho understood why. He was on a boat, somewhere below deck, and the sea was anything but calm around them, sending wave after wave crashing against the hull of the ship.

"Back amongst the living?" Lothirgan said, drawing Letho's attention. His old mentor was sitting in the far corner of the room, with an oily cloth in one hand and a sword hilt in the other. The blade that rested on his lap Letho recognized even in the dim light of flickering candles. It was his own.

"Where are we?" Letho asked.

"On a boat," the gray veteran replied. When Letho cast a piercing glare at him, the one that warned the old man not to be coy with him, Lothirgan elaborated. "We are on a course back to Savion. It appears we wore out our welcome in Tigan."

The groggy swordsman wasn't surprised, not after the mess they've gotten themselves into. "Is the king safe?" was his next question, spoken as he moved towards a pitcher and a basin. When he splashed some water on his hand and the answer didn't come, he wasn't worried; Lothirgan was never a hasty man. He talked slowly and thought slowly and read slowly. But when he was done washing his face and Lothirgan still remained silence, a sliver of fear appeared. "Where is he, old man? Where is your king?"

"Savion has a king no more," he said dryly, dropping his eyes back to the adamantine blade. The silence that ensued was almost palpable, a wicked, hanging thing, like a corpse on the gallows.

"What? Has he been captured?" Letho demanded, hoping beyond hope for a positive answer, refusing to acknowledge the most obvious explanation. Lothirgan said nothing. "Surely he cannot be... Not by the likes of them. Answer me, damn you? Where is my son?!"

Still Lothirgan said nothing. His hand kept sliding down the length of the blade, his wrinkled hands shivering minutely. Only when Letho grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up did he speak again. "Savion has a king no more," he repeated.

"To hells with you!" the legendary swordsman shouted, dropping the man back in the seat. He went towards the door, struggling against the constant motion of the floor beneath him, but reaching the hallway nonetheless. To the yeoman that stood next to the entrance of the room he said: "Go to the captain. Tell him to turn us around! We are going back to..."

"Belay that order!" came a shout from the room.

"Back to Cenyth," Letho concluded.

"I said, belay that order!" Lothirgan again, this time from just behind Letho, his commanding voice so powerful that it made the green seaman reel backwards in an instant.

"Give me my sword, Lothirgan," Letho said to the veteran, his hand outstretched. Lothirgan eyed it, then the sword, then finally Letho, his eyes never sharper, never more incisive.

"To what end? There are no enemies aboard."

"Unless you turn this ship about, I have one in this very room."

The words stung the ancient weaponmaster more than Letho could possibly imagine. Lothirgan had sworn to serve the Ravenheart family the moment he was knighted, sworn an oath that confined him to the lifelong servitude. And never in those long years has he done anything to bring harm to the Ravenheart family. He had sacrificed everything for their protection, dedicated his entire life to serve as a shield against the enemies of Savion. And even now, despite what Letho thought about him, he was protecting the Ravenhearts. He was protecting Letho from himself.

He sheathed the sword in a single smooth motion and offered it to his prince, hilt first. But even as Letho wrapped his fingers around the blade, Lothirgan's hands grabbed at him, his left locking on Letho's wrist while his right dipped beneath his arm. In one spry move, he spun and lifted Letho over his back, tossing him across the full length of the room. The bulky warrior landed back on his cot, crashing the supports with his weight. And when his eyes reopened, Lothirgan was towering over him. But his old mentor looked down at him not with eyes filled with wrath or self-righteousness.; instead there was a look of compassion. A look of remorse. He understood loss as well as anybody. Two kings he had outlived now, two kings and most of his family and friends. Yes, he understood grief, for it seemed to be the theme of his life.

"Listen to me, boy." The old man knelt next to Letho's sprawled figure, the eyes beneath his bushy eyebrows brimming with tears, an occurrence so rare that Letho witnessed it for the first time in all his years. "You are all that is left now, the last Ravenheart. I cannot lose you as well. Savion cannot lose you as well." His hand, still fast enough to surprise even the likes of Letho Ravenheart, now rested calmly on Letho's shoulder. "You have two choices now. You can cut me down and go seek death in Tigan, or you can grieve with me and lead Savion to victory against its enemies."

For the briefest of moments, Letho actually considered the first option; it would've been so easy to go on a mad rampage and die on foolish quest for vengeance. There were certainly worse ways to perish. But it was the selfish choice, he knew, a coward's choice. And while Letho was many things, coward he was not. So when Lothirgan offered an open hand, Letho accepted it. "Aye, let us grieve, and plot the downfall of our enemies."

***

Standing at the stern of the ship with hands crossed before his chest, Letho gazed at the wake their vessel made in the black sea below. The storm had finally quieted down, the black clouds blown off their course by a strong southern wind, leaving them to relatively smooth sailing. Every once in a while his eyes would lift upwards, directed where the horizon was supposed to be, staring into the benighted distance. Somewhere in that direction, beyond the veil of darkness, his son has died. The king of Savion was burned at the stake, as was Tigan custom, which meant that they were robbed of even a proper funeral. There was some comfort to be found in Lothirgan confession which stated that Malagen never screamed, never even registered his executioners, refused them the pleasure of hearing him cry out. It wasn't much of a comfort, that stoic bravery, but it was a step in the right direction, one which didn't lead to immediate doom.

"Letho?" a coy voice inquired, and the swordsman recognized it without turning around. Last time he heard it, he had been chained to a wall, she was trying to set him free and Malagen was still alive. Alive and magnificent in his battle with the wyrms. He greeted Lakin with a courtesy nod and a dry "my lady", then returned his gaze to sea. For several moments the two just stood there in silence, gazing at the emptiness around them, with only the sloshing of the waves and the low whistle of the wind to accompany them. Lakin Le Comte knew that she was probably the last person Letho wanted to see right now, but she felt the need to say something, to apologize, to do anything to rectify the situation. And so she was the first one to break the silence.

"I... I am sorry. About Malagen. Lothirgan, he told me what happened," she started, her voice unsure, breaking up, closer to tears with each word spoken. "It’s all my fault," she finally said, turning away from him and seeking some solace in the sea. She found none, nothing that could take this burden off of her heart, this weight that threatened to crush her very soul.

Letho wanted to blame the woman. It would've been so easy to do so, to lay the responsibility for the death of his son on someone else, to reach for the sword at his waist and end her right then and there. But easy and right seldom coincided, and he knew that even if he did that, he would find no justice there. Lakin might've been at the center of it all, but she was but a pawn, Trirea's way of getting what she wanted. Her only fault was trying to do something for him, and he couldn't blame her for that. Not even if her doing so led to the death of his own son.

"No," he said after a silence so long and heavy that she almost decided to depart from his side. "The blame for Malagen's death rests not on you, Lakin Le Comte, for you are probably the only one faultless in all of this. I can no more blame you than I can blame a sword for being a sword. Trirea used you, and if you had not come along, she would have used someone else."

Lakin didn't know what to say to that. She couldn't even imagine how difficult it must've been for him to say those words that eased some of the guilt that threatened to crush her, and thus couldn't find a way to respond to that. How exactly were you supposed to respond to someone forgiving you for getting their son killed?

"What are we going to do?" the woman asked, barely even aware of the pronoun she used that implied they were in this together.

"I am going to destroy them," he responded.

"But the other kingdoms... What if they join Tigan and Trirea?"

"They killed my son," Letho said, his eyes meeting hers. And though his tone was calm and his posture relaxed, there was such anger in his eyes that she felt as if the storm was raging around them still. "I shall slay them all."

The Seven Kingdoms of Audelas :: As requested, commentary where necessary for both of you. Also, I took note that your thread is only 15 posts, but each post is much longer due to the way it was written. I’ll take that into effect when rewarding exp. No other rewards were requested, so as to gain something bigger in the next one, and that’s fine.

Continuity 8

Setting 8

Pacing 6

Dialogue 7

:: At times the dialogue was somewhat difficult to figure out who was talking, because it was one line followed by someone else speaking one line, and again. Sometimes it was easy, such as when two people were talking obviously a while before that. At other times, I thought two people were talking, but there was about three lines of dialogue that would make me wonder if one person said two different single lines and there was a response… or if there were two people talking and one other responded. Be careful to keep things clear.

Action 7.5

Persona 8

Technique 7

Mechanics 7

:: Lakin :: Be careful with your overuse or missing comma’s, they’re prevalent through your writing. For example; from the first post; “she moved restlessly in her seat and pondered on, just how hard her journey out to the Kingdom of Tigan would really be.” – after and pondered on you shouldn’t have a comma, because then it reads like two clauses that don’t fit together. “She moved restlessly in her seat and pondered on just how hard…” flows much better than “She moved restlessly in her seat and pondered on [pause] just how hard…”

Clarity 6

:: Lakin :: From Post 1; “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.” – This is one of the sentences that you have scattered here and there in your writing. It’s a bit difficult to understand, as it is not grammatically incorrect on Word, but it is definitely an incomplete sentence. First thing that would make it clearer would be removing the “and” before “she flew”. Also, “that she had been encouraged” and that clause doesn’t fit in. I tried to think of how to re-work it so that it would make sense, but can’t seem to. Maybe “, [in the way] that she had been…” but not sure, that’s about the only thing I could think because it’s unclear as to the intent of the clause.

Wild Card 7


Score: 71.5


Rewards:
Letho :: 6,019 exp | 0 gold and no spoils as requested.

Lakin of DpN :: 1,028 exp | 0 gold and no spoils as requested.

Exp and GP added.

Lakin is now level 1!