11PROLOGUE
Corfirth shores…
A thick pall of fog hung over the desolate, barren plains, enveloping the land in a gloomy and dank embrace. Only the gentle sound of the waves breaking against the shore broke the stillness of the silent night; the very rocks, stark against the white haze of the fog, screamed to the sky of loneliness and desertion… here, on the edge of the Rim where the Great Ocean met the Eastern lands, few Men had ever ventured.
It was cold that night; the bitter cold that penetrates the bones and wears down the hardiest of men; the icy cold that is the harbinger of a long and hard winter. The forlorn ground was yet brown, but it would only be a matter of time before it was covered by a white blanket of snow. Scattered over the arid land, a few flower stalks yet fluttered in the frosty wind, but it would not be long before they too, like the rest of the world, would be buried in an icy coffin.
Yet suddenly, unexpectedly, a warm breeze arose. Far over on the mighty ranges of Shaktar Donetsk it arose, traveling down to the great plains and over the grand, stone City of Hardaric… East it blew, passing over lands… scentless, yet carrying a thousand different messages for wary senses… messages of death, despair and grief. Wherever it blew, the grass and the flower stalks fluttered and bent, all pointing one way… East.
The breeze finally dies out upon the Corfirth shores but not before dispelling the fog; and as if on cue, then, hoofbeats broke the silence of the night. Faint and faraway at first, they steadily gained in volume until two riders, hooded and cloaked, burst into view, galloping hard over the rocks. Their mounts, two mighty chargers, snorted and bucked with the toil, and at the edge of the sea, they halted. With a swiftness and surety borne out of years of experience, they dismounted, landing smoothly on the sand.
Evander Maloren removed the hood from his face and deeply inhaled the tangy salt air. His weathered features revealed a life of military austerity… a life spent in the saddle had made his body lean, almost gaunt… and years of apparent blood and sweat, toil and tears seemed to lend to his features forbidding grimness. "Safe journey, My Lady Eleanor," he said softly.
The second rider removed her own hood to respond to her question, and it were her features which were remarkably the more striking of the two. The ridges and contours of her face revealed a startling aquiline beauty, and her wave of brown hair fell around her shoulders like spray from a waterfall. She carried herself firmly and with the grace of a royal Princess, yet these qualities were offset by an inherent hardness which was reflected in her stony, unmoving blue eyes and her mouth, seemingly perpetually drawn into the thinnest of lines.
"Indeed, Evander," she replied. "Bring forth the bundle now, if you may."
Evander flinched at the words, and after a moment's hesitation, turned. He removed from the back of his steed a small, wicker basket. It was covered by a tiny, white blanket, which hid an odd shape beneath it. "Bring it forth and follow me," said Eleanor crisply.
Without a word, Evander trailed her to the ocean's edge. The sand was surprisingly soft beneath his feet; and a warm breeze had just sprung up. Evander sniffed the air suspiciously. Something was wrong… it was warm… too warm…
For a few moments they stood side by side at the edge of the water, looking out to the horizon. It was yet low tide, and the waters lapped gently upon the barren, trackless miles of the virgin beach. At length Eleanor said, "Pass me the bundle."
Evander handed it to her, and Eleanor withdrew the covering blankets to reveal a tousle-haired cherry-eyed face in the blaze of infancy. Evander stared at the boy, and the twinkling eyes stared back, unafraid, yet slightly quizzical. "Rolland…" he said gently. "What tragic destiny brought you here?"
"It is time, Evander," Eleanor said sharply, setting the bundle down. "And we have no other choice."
"My Lady…" Evander replied softly. "He is your… son."
The night screamed silence in reply.
Evander felt desperation. "He is your son," he repeated. "Your first-born…"
For the briefest of instants that face set in rock seemed to break, but the moment passed so quickly that Evander was sure that he was mistaken. "It is political inevitability, Evander," continued Eleanor. "You, of all the people, should know better."
Political inevitability… there was no word dearer to the Court of Corfirth. Where the barbarians beyond the Shaktar Ranges invoked strange deities to absolve them of their crimes, in civilized Corfirth, all that was needed were those two words. Corfirth had a long and shockingly bloody history supported by the inflexible, unyielding bulwark of political ineviatibility
He tried one last time. "Do you not… love him, My Lady?"
Eleanor laughed mirthlessly. "I would prefer him alive rather than dead," she said. "If that is what you mean by love, then yes, I do love him."
Evander nodded. There was scarce else to offer. "Now do it," said Eleanor.
Evander suddenly found a wave of unwilling admiration pass over him, suppressing for a moment the deep resentment he was feeling. What woman was willing to sacrifice her own first-born son to burning political ambition? Eleanor was destined to rise high… and rise on ladders of blood, tears and hatred.
Evander bent down to look at Rolland who had just dropped off to sleep. "Farewell Prince Rolland," he whispered. "May we meet someday in a world where folly and blind conflict have not yet found their way." Gently, he pushed the basket into the welcoming arms of the waves.
Astonishingly, not a cry emanated from Rolland as the waves rapidly drew him into the unfathomable girth of the Ocean. Evander watched the basket bob on the waves, thinking of the Luminorean shirt he had secretly made for the boy… if nothing else, it would, at least keep him from drowning.
The edge of the golden orb of the sun rose up over the Eastern horizon then… and the first golden ray of light struck the waters… struck, and scattered into a thousand tiny fragments of blue, green and orange.
"Come on," said Eleanor. "We have to leave now."
She turned and walked back to her mount, as Evander silently continued gazing at the sea… gazing until the small, brown speck was finally swallowed up in the vast, unmoving blanket of turquoise.
Had Evander known then that one Luminorean shirt could, years later, be responsible for the fate of four Empires, he would have been shocked. But for now, his only thoughts rested upon that tiny basket, now somewhere far out in the ocean…
"Farewell Prince Rolland," he repeated. And then, in an almost inaudible whisper, "Good luck."
CHAPTER 1
CARLEON
Isle of Mont
15 years later
"Die Hamahand… sai nephta…" if it is written, it will happen, so they say. And it came about that on the Western shore of the isle of Mont, a boy was born to fishermen parents, and they name him Carleon, after the sea which was their source of livelihood.
At that time, the Oligarchy had just ascended to the throne of Mullinor, and no Man in all Atlantium knew, or had even guessed, what was to come. Mullinor was a defeated Empire with an overthrown King… and consequently presented no danger to neighboring realms. In any case, the Archipelago, of which Mont was a part, was far removed from the tumultuous happenings on the mainland.
So Carleon grew up in safe and happy surroundings. His love of beasts and especially birds of the air prompted his friends to name him "albatross" with which he was well content. Little did he know that the moment of his birth had coincided with the cry of the great Oracle of Delpha… "Sai Nephta… It has come to pass," and a result Men had been dispatched to the four corners of Atlantium to seek him out.
Yes, Carleon was blissfully unaware of all this. On his sixth birthday- the night his father initiated him into fishing- that night, the Mullinor war machine began to roll. In the dead of the night, a great fleet of war galleys, triremes and juggernauts left Munroe harbor for Callowton, a stopover between the mainland and the Archipelago. Callowton was a peaceful kingdom of farmers and fishermen, and was overrun without a fight. As the world slept on, Mullinor prepared its naval base and strengthened its armies. As the Council of Kings bickered and quibbled at their annual meetings in Corfirth, the shadow in the North grew long. And four years later Mullinor attacked Orsint, then the most powerful empire on the mainland. Desperate pleas for help went unanswered as the Council of Kings sat back and watched contentedly. After three long years of bitter struggle, Orsint was overcome and put to the sword. It was only then that the Council realized that they now had to contend with a far more powerful and hostile enemy than Orsint had ever been… and an enemy born and bred for a single purpose…
Vengeance!
But by then it was already too late…
Far away from all this, life continued in the sleepy villages of Mont. Sixteen years old now, Carleon preferred the life of a shepherd to that of the fisherman, and it was his task to graze the family's goats on the green hills and pastures of Mont. It was that which brought him the greatest joy… far more than the net and the trawl would ever bring.
The evening on which it began was no different from any other summer evening in Mont… pleasantly warm and tranquil, with little untoward going on to disturb the serenity of the island. On the highest hill of the area, Carleon's goats grazed contentedly, while he lay on his back in the wet grass, gazing dreamily at the crimson orb of the setting sun.
"Coming, Albatross?"
Carleon looked up. His friends were leaving, along with the goats. Another day gone uneventfully by… it was time to go home.
He got to his feet, and after calling to his sheep, set off down the hill. The other shepherds were fast disappearing out of sight, and Carleon increased his pace to catch up with them.
The fading rays twilight struck the top of the hill one last time before the Sun disappeared below the Western horizon. Night always fell this suddenly in Mont…
Suddenly, galloping hoofbeats broke the silence of the night. Carleon lifted his head in surprise… the sound was novel, yet not unfamiliar… once before he had heard it, when a parade in honor of the Governor had passed through their village… he stopped and pricked up his ears.
The sound grew louder in volume, and suddenly, out of the foliage, a single horse ridden by a black-cloaked rider burst into view. Carleon watched as the steed bore down on him… and an eagle was flying overhead…
"Whzzzt!"
An arrow suddenly flew out of the thick foliage behind the rider. Carleon watched dumbfounded as straight and true it flew, and found its mark… with a low groan, the rider tumbled off, and rolling a small way down the hill, came to rest at his feet. The eagle uttered a great cry before wheeling around and vanishing into the night sky.
Swiftly, Carleon bent down to the fallen rider, and turned back the hood. The man's eyes were glazed, and reflected the shadow of swiftly approaching death. His face was filled with an ashen pallor, and even as Carleon watched, the muscles jerked once before becoming taut, and the eyes now transfixed him, still and unmoving.
Carleon's gaze traveled down the stricken rider's torso, still covered with the black cloak. His gaze was suddenly attracted by something strange… the man's right fist was tightly clenched, and something white glistened through.
Gently, Carleon forced open the prisen fingers… it was a small piece of parchment, filled with a writing he did not understand… yet on the top right corner was something which caught his eye…
"Academy."
"The Academy…" he whispered, dumbfounded, unbelieving…
The Academy! A name both revered and feared… from the coast of Mont to the forests of Elongad… from Hardaric, great City of Stone, to the icy slopes of Mullinor… few had ever dared to set themselves against the Academy… and fewer still had lived to boast of it.
Hallowed was the name of the Academy… hallowed in circlets of both crimson and gold… crimson for the blood of thousands over the Aeons… and gold for the fragile peace which occasionally descended upon the Eastern Rim.
Yet barely had Carleon time to feel awe, or even fear, when a thunderous sound of hoofbeats filled the air. He glanced around in panic… his surroundings were unwelcomingly bare of trees to climb…
Swiftly, Carleon ran a little way from the fallen horseman, and then flung himself down face first into the tall grass, burying his body down as far as it would go…
The next moment a group of horsemen galloped out of the foliage, going at blinding speed. Two yards from the rider they pulled up expertly, and wheeled their horses around.
The company dismounted and bent to examine the rider.
"Get the paper, Sleipneir!" a light voice said.
There were some shuffling noises, and then came a growling voice. "The paper! It's gone!"
"Gone!"
"You can't have looked properly…"
"Well, you look then," the growling voice sounded very disgruntled. "I've made a through…"
"Wait, wait!" a deep voice interjected. "Arguing will take us nowhere… obviously, someone has taken the paper… and obviously someone can't be far away…"
"We'd better search for him, then," replied the lighter voice.
"Spread out! Search all the neighboring villages," the deep voice, which seemed to belong to the leader, ordered. "Put the inhabitants to fire and sword if you must… but get me that paper!"
Carleon shuddered involuntarily as the hoofbeats sounded again, and then faded away into the distance. There was a deep silence…
For five minutes, he lay still, silent and unmoving. The ensuing silence was not broken… surely they have gone now.
Warily, Carleon stood up. The hill was deserted, and far down below he could make out the swiftly moving specks which were the horsemen… and thankfully, they were not going towards his village… yet!
He drew a deep, shuddering breath. A voice inside him spoke… "or a moment there you were dicing with death…"
He had to get to his village and raise the alarm… sooner or later the horsemen would descend upon it, and then…
Our of curiosity, Carleon stepped up one last time to the lifeless corpse of the horseman before sprinting for home… one last time he bent down for a farewell look…
And felt a cold ring of steel at the back of his neck…
Carleon felt every limb in his body grow cold. Fear swept over him in waves, drowning him, nauseating him… why, oh why, hadn't he waited a trifle longer…
"Stand!" The command was preemptory, and brooked no disobedience.
Carleon obeyed. "Turn- slowly!"
He turned to face a helmeted figure, only slightly taller than himself, who was holding the sword. The voice was the same light voice which had belonged to one of the earlier speakers.
"I thought you wouldn't have gotten that far," the voice seemed to come from behind unfathomable depths… "Now hand me that paper."
Carleon stood still. Aeons seemed to pass between them… all he was conscious of was his bare, unguarded neck, and the sword point hovering so dangerously close to it.
"Did you not hear me? Give me the paper or I'll run you through and take it in any case. Now hand it over…"
Carleon backed away an inch, and suddenly felt metal beneath his feet. His eyes flickered downwards almost imperceptibly as he took it in… it was the horseman's sword, half out of its sheath… the rider had been in the act of drawing it out when the arrow had struck him.
Then, quite so suddenly that he didn't even know what was happening, a wave of madness washed over Carleon. As helmeted figure swung the sword in a vicious, loping arc, Carleon ducked under its murderous path, and seized up the sword… he thrust forward, yet the next moment the other's sword flashed… Carleon felt his own go spinning out of his grasp, and then he felt a searing pain course across his left cheek…
He backed away, unarmed and helpless, as the sword swung once more… this was the end…
And then the Rider's eagle descended upon his enemy, screeching, slashing and gouging with its claws… there was a cry as the sword dropped and the figure's hands went up to defend himself…
Before his adversary could have time to recover from the unexpected assault, Carleon took a giant leap back… and into space!
His scream was whipped from his lungs by the rushing air as the terrifying reality dawned on him… he was falling! And in some detached corner of his mind, Carleon realised that he had accidentally jumped off one of the precariously located crags which so frequently dotted the hillside.
Not for nothing though, had Carleon wandered these hills for ten years. Even as he fell his hands and legs flailed in a desperate attempt to hold on to something. Finally, one hand managed to latch on to a small rock… quickly, Carleon brought up his other hand to get a firmer grip, and his feet, searched wildly for some purchase… there was none to be had.
He looked down. The ground was still quite some distance away, and his fingers were slipping… futilely, Carleon struggled to hold on… finally, he had to let go, and then he fell…
This time there was nothing to break his fall, and he landed on the ground with terrific impact. Fortunately though, the springy grass absorbed most of it, and in a second, he was up again… winded but uninjured.
It was then that his left cheek started to throb with a stinging intensity, and Carleon brought up a hand to feel the cut. It was not too deep, but the memory of what had happened on the hilltop sprung tears to his eyes… the duel over before even it had begun… and how ignominiously he was forced to jump for his life…
There will be another day! He vowed furiously. There will be another day.
"Whoomp!"
Carleon spun around. The first of the villages was burning. Filled with a sudden panic, he dashed towards the flaming housetops with their thatched roofs, which were catching fire ever so quickly…
But even as he covered the yards, the crimson flames towered high in the blackness of the night, and Carleon realised there was nothing more he could do. Everything was imploding… everything going up…
Then suddenly a black rider crossed his vision, waving a long sharp sword which seemed oddly familiar…
Mad with terror, Carleon turned and ran for his life. He leapt over stems and streams and through bushes and briars until his breath gave out, and he collapsed on a small mound, as if never to get up again…
Merciful oblivion came to him then…