PROLOGUE

The Second Age: Year 231, Tres 24

Throne Room, The Northern Wall; Fiths, Carvington

The light in the throne room is dim; the small clan of remaining soldiers surround their King, putting themselves between him and the door. Between him and the enemy. The room thunders with every pound of the door. The enemy is just outside. They will be upon them soon. There is no escape. The men know this. The fear in their eyes shows that they aren't ready for death. Battered and bruised they wait, knowing that death is near. Every man holding his blade to the door and his shield in front of the King. They know this a losing battle. They know they cannot win. They fight for the glory of the land of Carvington and the glory of her King. His pale face, ragged and worn aged by many years and almost as many battles. His grey eyes, deep and filled with a wisdom that few men can achieve in a lifetime. His silver armor, stained with the blood of his enemies and that of his own men. His strong gaze stretches across the small band of soldiers. Fear, not for himself but the men before him, filling his eyes with tears. He is King.

The throne room quakes with fury as the door blasts apart sending a barrage of splintering wood into the soldiers. A volley of arrows soars through the open doorway as the enemy fills the room like a flood. The soldiers lift their shields to the hail of arrows and raise their blades to the never-ending horde. Blood is spilt, flesh is torn, limbs pierced, men fall, their lives no more. The soldiers of Carvington fall before their King, giving their unready lives to protect him.

His body goes numb, his mind cutting him off from the pain around him, as he throws himself into the storm of soldiers. The blade of Carvington slices the air, held by her King, sending men unwillingly falling before her glory. With his blade in his right hand, his shield in his left, he carves his way through the horde, his own men collapsing among the slain enemies dropping at his feet. And then, he feels. No pain. Just force. Hurling him onto his back, blood seeping through the crack in his breastplate. Sprawled on the ground he lets go of his blade, gripping the arrow and breaking the shaft, sending a spike of pain down his spine. Forcing himself to his feet, he catches up his blade. And again, he feels pain. A blade pierces the crack in his breastplate and tears deep into his chest. He feels it coming up his throat; he can taste its bitter flavor in his mouth. He drops his sword and shield and clutches the blade that is slowly tearing deeper into his gut. Looking up, his eyes meet those of the one who is stealing his life. He is King Vincent the Third. And he finally feels fear. And then, nothing.