-Prologue-
The Winds of Change
It is said among the ancient ones in Ethoes that the trees
know the goddess’ secrets. Toward the
clouds their branches stretch, and into the depths of the earth their roots
reach, so how can they not? They do,
however, keep these secrets close, revealing them to no one, for Ethoes
understands her creation would not be able to accept most truths. Despite their loyalty and silence, the
secrets the trees keep do not always stay with them. Where the trees guard confidences, the wind
shares them. Laughing, crying,
singing. The wind does not know the
meaning of silence. Rising from the
seas, coursing down the valleys, rolling through the grassy plains, dancing
over the dry deserts, climbing the mountain peaks. The winds of Ethoes comb through the boughs
of oak, pine, beech and fir, tickling their thoughts from their leaves and
branches, carrying them across the lands for anyone to hear, so long as they
know how to interpret the trees’ language.
However,
the breath of the earth carries not only the secrets of Ethoes, but also bears
the voices of those holding dominion over others. For those who know how to control and
manipulate it, the winds can be very useful in conveying messages across
continents. And, depending on the time
of year, those loquacious gusts can prove useful to anyone wishing to
communicate over a vast stretch of land.
In the Hrunahn
Mountains of the west, during the thawing weather of early spring, one is
likely to find an abundance of wind, fresh and cool and eager to spread its
gossip. And it just so happened someone was waiting to take advantage of its
garrulous nature …
Boriahs
wrapped his threadbare cloak closer to his body and cursed the relentless
breeze. Not only did it bite at his
exposed skin and cause his eyes to water, but it also worked to draw
information from him. Far to the east,
his Master awaited news of his exploits, and he would not be surprised if the
wind had already tattled on him.
Shaking
aside his concerns, he continued his search for a small pool of water that
wasn’t frozen over. He longed to be out
of these accursed mountains, to be moving east again back to his desolate
homeland of Ghorium. But he wasn’t too
eager. The biting cold would be worse
there, and he had yet to accomplish something to appease his merciless
Master. Twice in Oescienne, he had
failed to capture the human child, and then once again in Lidien. He had been mere hours from making his most
recent move, a strike which would have been successful. Yet, that accursed Tanaan dragon had somehow
discovered his plan, fleeing the city with the girl right under his nose. They were still moving, even now as he
stumbled around in the forest, heading north toward the realm of the
Creecemind. If it were up to him, Boriahs
would have gone after them right away.
But to change his plans without informing his Master would be
suicidal. And it had already been
several days since their last conversation.
Boriahs
cursed, a long, nasty string of barbed words laced with magic. A cluster of small saplings nearby shriveled
and turned black, the result of his careless language. The man sneered in perverse
satisfaction. He did not like trees, and
being in the tree-infested mountains of the west was only turning his mood
fouler. But he knew the true reason for
his anger and fear: his inability to capture the human child his Master so
desired and the repercussions of that failure.
Yes, Boriahs was frustrated, but more than that, he was afraid. The Crimson King had been patient for five
hundred years, surely he could be patient for a bit longer. Boriahs, however, didn’t want to be the one
to test that patience.
He kicked
aside the ashen ruins of the trees which had played victim to his ire and
ascended a few dozen feet more through a thick carpet of pine needle detritus,
making it past one last rocky outcropping.
He stumbled upon an empty glade a minute later, his heart clenching and
giving a relieved flutter in the same beat.
Several pools of frozen snowmelt littered the ground like icy
mirrors. Boriahs was glad the strenuous
hike was over, but he feared what awaited him.
Seeking out the largest puddle, he trudged over, the muddy ground
pulling at his boots. To his great
relief, the pool had only a thin layer of ice covering the top.
This is the best you are going to get, he told himself as he picked up a rock and
smashed away the film of frost. Cool,
black water soaked into his gloves, and once the liquid settled, his reflection
stared back at him, glowering. Stark
eyes, unkempt hair and a slightly crooked nose suggested a life of hardship,
but the most distinguishing, and telling, feature was the scar on one side of
his face. Boriahs lifted a hand and
brushed at the brand that marked him as the Crimson King’s slave. Years of suppressed memories and suffering
rushed forth, almost stealing Boriahs’ breath away. He had joined the king’s army when he was
young, his heart torn asunder for the loss of all those he loved. He had willingly given up his mortality and
free will for the promise of vengeance.
His father
had tried resisting the Crimson King when he’d first come to power. A simple tradesman in one of the coastal
cities of Ghorium, he had helped lead a rebellion against the Tyrant in the
north. But they would never gain their
chance to challenge the king of Ghorium.
Boriahs’ father and his companions were discovered and brought to
ruin. The townsfolk had uncovered the
men’s plot and had recognized it for what it was: a risky venture that would
only result in angering the Tyrant who ruled over them. Boriahs’ father and his companions were
captured and tortured.
Every
single rebel was killed that terrible day, their dismembered bodies strewn
throughout the town, a warning to those who still wished to draw attention to
their city by provoking the Tyrant King.
To make certain the townspeople never took it upon themselves to revolt
again, the families of the usurpers were also dealt with, many burned to death
within their own homes. Boriahs managed
to escape, but not his mother and sisters.
He had been sixteen years of age when he fled, and on the anniversary of
the slaughter of his entire family, he’d returned to that sleepy little port
with a contingency of the Crimson King’s army and a fresh scar burned into his
cheek. He had watched in cold satisfaction
as the men who had caused so much harm and pain succumbed to the same fate as
his parents and siblings.
He had
enjoyed seeing their suffering, but when the Crimson King’s men continued to
burn and kill and raid their way through the entire town, Boriahs learned the
terrible mistake he had made. For one
single moment of revenge, he had forfeited his soul, pledging it to a madman
controlled by the god of death and chaos.
He understood, as he and the army left the ruined city behind to return
to their new Master, that his life was bound to that of the king’s. So long as the Tyrant lived, so would he.
Taking a
deep breath of the biting air, Boriahs tried to clear his thoughts so that he
might get through his task. But the
past’s dark memories clung tightly to him, their claws buried deep, and by the
time he was in control of his own mind once again, the sun had broken free of
the horizon.
Cursing a
second time, Boriahs used his numb fingers to dig out his dagger. He had best hurry. His men would be waking soon, and he needed
his next set of orders from his Master.
Removing the glove from his left hand proved tricky, but he didn’t even
feel the cold steel as he pressed it against his palm. One swift movement reopened the wound that
could never quite heal. Fresh blood,
dark red and tainted with poisonous magic, welled up. Boriahs released the dagger and used his free
hand to pull a cord from around his neck.
The pendant hanging from it was the color of yellowed ivory, a bloodrose
carved from bone. According to the
Crimson King, it was bone taken from the last king of the Tanaan before his
people and descendants were transformed into dragons. Boriahs believed it was bone, but he had his
doubts about where it had come from.
Human, perhaps, or more likely bone from one of the Tanaan dragons his
Master had captured and killed over the years.
Regardless, Boriahs wrapped his bleeding hand around the talisman and
held it over the pool of water. He
gripped it tight, forcing the blood to bead and drip from his clenched
fist. As the dark droplets met the
surface of the water, he muttered ancient words of dark magic under his breath. His concentration was absolute, and soon the
dark puddle was swirling and rippling, even though the wind had finally ceased
its endless barrage.
Boriahs
called upon his Master, both in mind and aloud.
The undulating water began to churn, then bubble and froth. Putrid smoke rose from its surface and curled
over the muddy earth. It was as if Ethoes
herself knew who he conjured and fought against his vile presence.
Boriahs
gritted his teeth and fought the ache in his head. The connection was a distant one, making it
all the more difficult. Gradually, the
water simmered down and smoothed out, the acrid smoke hissing against the
ground. The puddle no longer resembled
the muddy water it was composed of, but a window into another land, a cold,
dark land. A face appeared out of the
gloom, and Boriahs drew in a breath of relief.
It was Cierryon, in his human form, not the demon god who controlled
him. That meant Ciarrohn was at rest,
and perhaps, he would avoid the god’s wrath today.
As the
magic worked and the picture grew clearer, Boriahs took the time to study his
king’s features. Golden brown hair,
sprinkled with some gray, covered his head and fell to his shoulders. He looked to be approaching middle age, but
the Crimson King’s servant knew better.
Cierryon had stopped aging the day he’d struck that terrible bargain
with the god of hatred. He had become
immortal, a link, a puppet, for the god of death and despair. Without Cierryon’s consent, Ciarrohn would
never have been able to consume him, to channel his vast power through the
human king’s soul. Because of Cierryon’s
greed and ambition, half the world had fallen to the dark god’s malice.
The water
settled, and Boriahs shook himself free of his treasonous thoughts. If the Crimson King discovered how much his
servant despised him, then Boriahs would be dead. Instead, he looked his Master in the eye,
eyes that reflected the black pit where his soul used to be, the place where
the demon god now lived.
“You have
news for me, Boriahs,” the Tyrant said, his voice quiet, but resonant
nonetheless.
It always
made Boriahs shiver, for his king’s voice reflected everything he hid
within. If anyone were to encounter
Cierryon in his human form, they might not be able to discern just what he was
if he remained silent. The moment he
spoke, or the moment one looked him in the eye, however, would let them know
what they dealt with. Boriahs had seen
warrior elves and centaurs alike brought to their knees by a mere whisper from
his Master’s lips.
Boriahs
shook his head again and cleared his throat.
“I have,”
he answered.
“Very
well. You have kept me waiting long
enough. I will hear what you have to
report.”
And
without any further delay, Boriahs told King Cierryon everything that had taken
place since his last reporting. He told
him of his attack and eradication of the dragon Hroombramantu and the
interference of the dragon Jaax in the kidnapping of the human girl. He spoke of the corruption within the
Coalition and his dealings with the dragon Shiroxx. He told him about the rumor that had been
spread about the girl’s questionable heritage and how the same rumor had called
the dragon Jaax’s competence into question.
And reluctantly, he divulged how the girl and her dragon guardian had,
once again, slipped through his fingers.
Boriahs
finished his tale with his head bowed and his eyes closed, anticipating the
blast of angry magic that would most assuredly come. He waited, and waited a few seconds longer,
but there was no reaction. When he dared
to open his eyes, what he saw terrified him to the point of utter
speechlessness. The human face had
changed, warping into the skeletal visage of a demon. Burning red eyes regarded him under a forest
of wicked, black horns.
“You try
my patience, slave,” Ciarrohn hissed, this voice deeper, harsher than
Cierryon’s.
“Forgive
me, my lord,” Boriahs rasped, lowering his gaze once again. “There are spies I know nothing of aiding the
girl and the dragon. They were warned
before I could move. My men and I were
gathered around the outskirts of Lidien.
A day more, two at the most, and we would have had them.”
The
demon’s ire burned with rage, his slit nostrils flaring as black smoke poured
from them. Boriahs felt his bare hands
dig into the mud, his fingers curling into fists, trying to grab hold of
something to keep from shaking. Frozen
air drifted up from the puddle and curled around his body like a giant
hand. The icy breath passed through his
clothes and seeped into his skin, closing in on his heart. Boriahs gulped for breath and his heart sped
up, fear and frost waging war on his senses.
“You are
too valuable to me to kill,” Cierryon growled, the last traces of the demon god
fading from his visage, “but do not think anything less than capturing the girl
and that dragon will garner my forgiveness.”
Boriahs
shook his head, his eyes wide with terror.
“N-no, your Majesty. I would
think not.”
Slowly,
the ice receded only to be replaced with the prickling pain of warmth returning
to his body.
“Do not
report to me again until you have accomplished something worthy of my
attention. That you did away with that
bothersome dragon in Oescienne will grant you my peace for only so long, Boriahs,”
the dark voice murmured as it faded away, the resonant tones echoing in Boriahs’
mind.
Gritting
his teeth and taking deep, ragged breaths, the Tyrant’s slave fought against
the intense nausea that resulted in these magical exchanges. He fought it, but lost out in the end. On wobbly legs, he stumbled over to a cluster
of rocks and retched behind them. Once
he was done with the unpleasant episode, Boriahs gathered some of the chilly
water into his hands and cleaned his face.
It would do him no good to return to his awaiting men looking like a
beaten drunkard.
By the
time he rejoined his small army in the wide meadow they’d camped in the night
before, Boriahs was much more presentable.
He had managed to scrape most of the mud from his uniform, and even his
churning stomach and the pounding in his head had eased. Boriahs hesitated on announcing his
return. Instead, he stood behind a
screen of fir trees and simply observed the men below. All of them had pledged their souls to
Ciarrohn and shared a level of combat skill which elevated them above the
thousands of others who had joined under the Crimson King’s banner. But he was their high commander. He held power over all of them.
Boriahs
almost snorted at the thought. Yes, he
may be their superior, but it came at such a high price. Not one of them had any idea what it cost him
to speak with their common Master. In
fact, he envied them all, going about the morning in such a normal way:
starting fires, brewing coffee and tea, cooking porridge and telling bawdy
jokes. Some of them tended to the quahna, the fierce beasts they rode instead of
horses. With the teeth of carnivores,
sharp, cloven hooves and large, powerful bodies, these animals provided
transportation as well as an aggressive edge over their equine cousins. It also meant they posed a danger to those
who handled them as well.
As Boriahs
studied the creatures, two pulled free of their handlers and lunged toward one
another, screaming their violent rage. The
Tyrant’s favored servant wrinkled his nose in disgust. It took ten of his men to pull them apart,
and even then, he counted no less than seven of them clutching arms or abdomens
where the monsters had managed a bite or a kick. Yes, having such creatures was hazardous, but
it also meant no one stood in their way.
The small legion had been very successful raiding towns and settlements
as they headed north up the coast. Yet, not
once did they stumble upon the dragon and the girl, nor find any evidence of
their passing.
Boriahs
curled his lip in irritation. For a
year, the human girl and her dragon had hidden behind the magical barrier
surrounding the City of Light. Even now,
after receiving vital information from that red she-dragon and with the help of
his dark mages, he could not find a way into the city. No matter.
The dragon and the girl were gone, so it was time for him and his men to
move on as well. They would clear out as
soon as he gave the order, this time splitting into groups to comb the wilds
more thoroughly. No more wandering
aimlessly through the endless mountain chains of the west. Not now.
The dragon Raejaaxorix and his ward were heading for Nimbronia, and
there were only so many roads that led to the great city of the Creecemind. The girl and her companion had a few days
head start, but they were traveling on foot and if Boriahs could keep his men
moving at a steady pace, then they would catch up to them sooner rather than
later.
Setting
his jaw in determination, the Crimson King’s assassin peeled himself away from
the trees and continued down into the clearing.
Those who saw him right away stopped what they were doing and offered
him a salute. He nodded, but kept
walking. When he reached the center of
the campground, he climbed atop the trunk of an old fallen tree and raised his
arms, his black cloak billowing out behind him.
By this time everyone had seen him, their attention now trained on their
commander.
“Listen,
all of you,” Boriahs called out, his deep voice ringing through the
meadow. “I have spoken with our Master,
and he is not pleased with our failure with regards to the Tanaan scum and that
girl.”
A low,
worried murmur spread through the crowd, but Boriahs kept one hand lifted high
above his head. “Fret not, for he has
given us another chance. He is pleased
with those of us who took the initiative and eradicated the old Korli vermin in
Oescienne,” he paused and nodded his head to those of his troupe who had been
present for that honor. “So, we fall
still within his favor.”
A small
round of relieved sighs and short laughs arose from the crowd, but Boriahs
shouted, “Silence! Any failure, no
matter how minute, is not something to be celebrated. Yes, we managed to rid the world of one more
filthy dragon, but that is a minor detail compared to the prize he seeks above
all. We will not rest, nor will we
rejoice, until the girl and the dragon are quivering at the feet of our
Master!”
Silent
nods met his words this time.
Better. He took one long look at
those standing below him before going on.
Ten groups of fifteen, plus one commander to keep them in order as well
as a dark mage for each faction to take care of that which sixteen ruthless
killers couldn’t accomplish. And, he was
the Master of them all. Boriahs savored
the sense of smug satisfaction unfurling within him, but not for the first
time, the feeling was quickly replaced by the sting of his Master’s
presence. A reminder to him that he was
still a slave.
“We must
move quickly, if we wish to overtake them,” he called out. “They are headed for Nimbronia, and we must
capture them before they reach their final destination.”
He knew,
just as every single one of his men did, that if the dragon and the human
should move within the boundaries of Nimbronia, they would be untouchable. The magic that surrounded the city of the
Creecemind was even more powerful than the magic guarding Lidien.
“Let us
not waste another minute. We will break
camp and be on the road in half an hour.”
The men,
most of them descended from the mixed races of humans and elves, gave shouts of
agreement, all of them thirsty once again for battle and bloodshed. As they scattered about, taking heed of their
commander’s words, Boriahs was joined by a waif of a man dressed head to foot
in brilliant crimson robes. Like Boriahs,
he sported the brand of the Tyrant on one cheek. Unlike Boriahs, he was a wielder of black
magic, the sort that required a blood sacrifice.
“Armauld,”
Boriahs growled under his breath.
The dark
sorcerer grinned, revealing his decaying teeth, and hissed, “The dragon and the
girl are not alone in their quest.”
Boriahs
turned cold eyes onto the dark mage.
“Who travels with them?”
Armauld
shook his head, his grin fading. “One
whom I cannot detect.”
Boriahs
cursed. “Then how do you know of his
presence?”
The mage
held up a hand and moved his fingers in a small dance. An orb of white light floated above his
fingertips and within its center floated two bright sparks, one green and one
blue.
“The
dragon and the girl,” the mage whispered, indicating the two sparks.
Boriahs
was about to strike the mage for wasting his time when something odd caught his
attention. It wasn’t so much the
presence of anything, but the fact that the two sparks came to a standstill,
and in the next breath, the blue dot winked out for a split second before
flaring back to life again. Then, the
two dots began moving once more.
“Why did
the spark blot out?” the high commander demanded.
“A third
companion,” the mage sneered. “Someone
capable of using very powerful cloaking magic.”
Boriahs
gave him a look of impatience, so the mage continued on. “This person who travels with them is an
extremely powerful mage. And he is using
magic I’ve not seen in several hundred years.”
This time,
Boriahs swore loud enough to startle the closest soldiers scurrying around
him. He glared at them and barked a
reminder that what they didn’t have packed in twenty minutes would be left
behind.
“What does
this mean, Armauld? Who is this phantom
mage?”
This time,
the dark sorcerer had the decency to forego his smug expression and replace it
with a worried one. “I do not know, High
Commander. But, we best not
underestimate this dragon and the human girl.
Or, the company they keep.”
Grinding
his teeth together, Boriahs dismissed Armauld and continued walking briskly to
the makeshift stables. His quahna was saddled and waiting for him, the largest
of the beasts and as black as soot. The
animal, naturally excitable and giving the men holding him as much trouble as a
herd of enraged boars, flared its nostrils and calmed upon Boriahs’ approach.
Murmuring
soothing words, the army’s high commander rubbed the animal’s forehead
affectionately. Funny how he had so much
trouble connecting with others of his kind, but this vicious beast behaved so
well for him.
“There
now, Andor,” he crooned. “I know you are
eager to seek out your prey, but you must allow me to get settled on your back
first.”
The beast
squealed and snorted, slashing its hoof at the ground. Everyone, save for Boriahs, backed away. Taking the reins firmly, the squadron’s
leader placed a boot in the stirrup and gracefully mounted the beast, throwing
his dark cloak over the quahna’s
hindquarters. The animal only protested
a bit before Boriahs had him under control.
“To your
own steeds!” he shouted.
Everyone
scrambled to follow his orders, and soon, all one hundred and seventy of them
were moving, their quahna
screaming and snapping their sharp teeth at the excitement of a new hunt.
Boriahs
waited for all of his men to move out before following after them. Armauld, as well as a few of the other
squadron leaders and mages, fell back with him as their sights pointed
north. A gust of frigid spring wind
curled down the mountainside as they left the meadow in their wake. Boriahs shivered at the cool air moving
through his hair and sending his cloak billowing out behind him. But the wind’s icy bite failed to bother him
as he led his troops deeper into the mountains, their will set on capturing a
Tanaan dragon and the young woman who, with the simple power of her existence,
sought to change the world.
