Chapter 4

“Can I help you?” came an inquisitive reply. Balii found himself staring at a man clothed in fur robes, standing in front of a fireplace. He stirred some sort of meal in a small cauldron over the fire. Balii glanced around at the simple adornment of the cabin. The man—who resembled the Magister in his appearance—cocked an eyebrow and glanced at the warrior who had sprung through the door. “What brings a visitor of your likes to my doorstep today? Do come in and warm yourself by the fire!” Balii didn’t know what to think. He glanced at the floor, the walls, and back to the fair-skinned man.

“I…uh…” Balii stumbled over his words, unsure of the situation. His eyes grew dull and dark. His heart froze as his fingers wrapped themselves around his sword. He heard the man say something, but his mind was overrun by battle lust. He forgot the kind intentions of the man, and adrenaline rushed through him as he pulled his sword from its sheathe. The sheen of the tempered steel in the firelight caught the old man’s attention. Balii strode purposefully across the room, gripping his weapon with both hands. The man’s eyes widened as the sword came flashing across his throat, and in the next moment, he dropped to the floor, dead. Balii snorted and wiped the first blood of the war onto his own shoulder. Jumai came from behind him and looked down at the first kill.

“So it begins…” Jumai stated as Balii turned. “We shall give no mercy—we are invaders and shall not take prisoners.” Balii nodded at Jumai’s judgment.

“Let us stay the night in this valley…there is wood for fires. We shall celebrate the dawn of war.” Balii ordered, exiting the cabin and calling their steeds. Jumai took a last look at the cabin. It appeared that the man was the only inhabitant of the cabin and snorted a satisfactory grunt. He followed Balii outside. He looked up to the pass where the first battalions would descend. Balii leapt upon the Masckarl and beckoned Jumai to hurry. Jumai looked once again at the cabin, wondering how much blood would be shed these next months. Balii called again and Jumai mounted his steed. After another quick glance about the valley, the two departed to rejoin the descending army.

~¤~

Terensi enjoyed his walks in the woods, especially after a fresh snow. He trudged back up the valley in his snowshoes. He adored the mountains. He felt alive up here. A squirrel scampered around a pine tree. He watched the pines grow smaller and smaller until, finally, they could not break the surface of the snow as he ascended. Higher and higher he climbed, up into the plateau and the high mountain lake. He carried some dry firewood he had managed to find in the lower valley, but the day was waning and so he hurried back up to his grandpa’s cabin. He came around the bend in the valley, beneath three enormous peaks, and started his trek out across the lake when he heard the loud clear whistles.

He looked away to the north and shaded his eyes. Across the lake bounded two giant…weasels, were they? Were his eyes playing tricks on him? The shadows of the peaks creeping over the snow-covered lake obscured the white animals, which became more difficult to see. They ran towards the cabin, over on the eastern shore. He narrowed his eyes and found two figures waiting, evidently, for the beasts. Who could be visiting? Then, at last, the figures climbed onto the creatures and rode away to the north. Why would anyone ride north…nothing but mountains existed for miles and miles? At least, that is what his Grandpa had told him.

As they faded on the other side of a ridge between two more peaks, he hustled across the lake to the cabin. As he approached the cabin, he found interesting tracks around the cabin…it looked as if someone had been crawling towards the cabin. He tromped onward as fast as he could. Within a few strides of the doorway, he called out. “Who were those people, Grandpa?” Nobody answered. He unstrapped his snowshoes and ventured inside. “Grandpa?” He couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t answer—until he saw the body laying on the floor, next to the fireplace. “Grandpa? Grandpa!” He leapt to the side of his dead friend. Tears built in his eyes as he saw the downward slash splitting his grandpa’s neck and chest open. “Oh, Grandpa!” He began to sob, his chest heaving and his throat choking. “No. Why? No! Gran…Grandpa.” Then he broke down, holding his grandpa’s cold hand and kneeling at his side. Time became meaningless. His grief consumed him and he drifted of into that suspended place of mourning.

When he awoke—or his consciousness returned—he heard a strange rumble outside. He feared the murderers were returning, so he glanced out the window to see what the commotion was. His eyes grew wide and his lips parted in astonishment. Down the pass to the north marched soldiers…thousands and thousands of soldiers. They were coming right down to the lake! He searched around the room and found his pack. He threw a few survival items in it, swung it on, and crept outside. He strapped on his snowshoes and crept behind the cabin. The marching grew louder and he slunk away to the south, taking a few strides and hiding behind a white mound. Every few moments he looked to the north, checking the progress of the approaching army. Where had they come from? And how had they crossed the mountains with such a force? He shook his head, telling himself to think later and act now. So, he crept from mound to boulder to mound. Finally, just as the army reached the lake, he reached the southern valley and trees. With a final sprint, he left the open lake and ran out of sight into the valley below. His heart was pounding within him…partly from the sprint, but mostly from the fear. He wanted to stop and to rest, but he dared not. Instead, he ran as fast as he could on his snowshoes down the valley. He knew the trail well, even if it lay covered in snow. But it would be a three-day hike in normally from the nearest outpost. If he could get there, a messenger could alert the nearest town. All he had to do was run.

~¤~

As Talibor walked the narrow streets beyond the gate, where vendors pitched their tents and babbled incessantly, he ignored pleas for his attention and shouts of various bargains. The streets were swollen with buyers and sellers arguing and bartering, and Talibor had to pick his way carefully through the crowds. While his steed snorted, trying to nudge people aside and eagerly attempting to break free onto the Plains of Silac, a jeweler’s booth caught his eye—he thought of a gift for his sister’s daughter. He had promised her a token from the journey, and so he reigned in the anxious horse and made eye contact with the peddler who sold the jewelry.

The old man with sparkling green eyes and a long white beard held up his best necklaces and raised his fading eyebrows. He understood the quality of this customer—a soldier mounted on a beautiful stallion—and would not allow his chance to slip by. Talibor dropped from his saddle and tied his steed loosely to the tent post. Before him diamonds glittered, rubies sparkled, and emeralds shone. Earrings, necklaces, bracelets, and other jewelry adorned the shelf in front of him.

“Well, tis your lucky day,” the man shouted over the din. “How about a diamond ring for a special someone? Or perhaps a pearl necklace straight from the port? If that won’t suit you,” he interjected seeing a disinterested look arise in his customer’s eyes, “this wonderful ruby ring would bring out the passion in you; yes, I see that plainly. It would complement those eyes of yours. None would argue with you, that I can see now. A fist in declaration, garnished with this jewel, would not be resisted. Don’t you think?”

“I am here to buy a gift for a young girl—my niece,” Talibor explained. The merchants eyes grew wide and his mouth opened in understanding.

“Ahh, yes. A gift for the girl—how young?”

“Eight years,” he answered, glancing at the table in front of him.

“So nothing too expensive, then?” the man inquired, reading Talibor’s intentions like a book.

“Exactly,” Talibor replied. The man stroked his beard and stared at his collection.

“She would like the aquamarine bracelet, if it will fit her wrist,” a feminine voice beside him ventured. Talibor glanced to his side to find a slender woman with deep brown eyes and long flowing dark hair pointing to the jewel on the shelf. She wore simple, white slacks, riding boots, a belted, crimson tunic, and a maroon riding cloak.

“Yes!” the man in the booth exclaimed. “That will do perfectly! And for you, my lord, I make a special price,” he offered, breathing the fresh air of another sale. His bottom eyelids slid halfway up as he raised his eyebrows. “Hmmm?” Talibor shifted his gaze from woman to merchant to woman, as if he had been double-teamed.

“And how would you know what she would like, stranger?” he wondered aloud, his temper rising.

“Because I was eight once,” she declared. Talibor locked his gaze with hers.

“And that gives you special insight?” Before she could answer he turned to the merchant. “What of that silver necklace?” he asked, nodding towards it. The peddler’s eyes flashed again.

“Yes, a pretty piece of work that is…she will doubtlessly find it appealing,” he added.

“She won’t like it as much as that bracelet,” the woman interjected. Talibor had had enough. His eyes blazed and his fists clenched.

“And why is that!” he demanded. Instead of drawing back at his angered tone, she stepped closer to him. “Because, silver is only half-best! Everyone knows that. Give her something strange and wonderful that has no comparison—even if it is cheap. That is what the bracelet will do,” she argued. Talibor clenched his jaw and reminded himself that she was simply a woman and not an enemy he could strike down with his broadsword. He released his grip on the handle of his weapon and closed his eyes briefly.

“Thank you for your advice…” he trailed off, raising his eyebrows and waiting for her to fill in her name.

“Fiora,” she replied.

“Thank you Fiora,” he acknowledged with a smile and a slight bow. Then, turning to the vendor, he asked, “How much for the silver necklace?” The man instantly read his intentions and spat out a price. In spite of Fiora’s incredulous stare, Talibor payed the man and tucked the purchase in a pocket of his tunic. He thanked the man, who smiled warmly. Fiora scowled at him as he mounted his steed, but Talibor payed no attention. Spurring his horse onward, he left the crowds of the market and began his journey back to Ashton.

~¤~

After his morning ritual outside the western gates of the city and his breakfast of eggs and bacon in the mess hall, lord Valimor received a message to consult the state of a section of the inner wall of the fortress. He hurried out to the breezeway above the inner walls and immediately spied the chief engineer who had been inspecting the fortress’ architecture to ensure maximum performance. Valimor greeted him warmly and asked about the condition of the walls.

“It seems as though they’ve about just had it—we have fractures on the baseline stone slabs. They’re old and brittle, weathered down over the years. I hate to say, but this whole thing needs rebuilding—the fortress itself is fine, newer than the rest and made from thicker slabs of granite. The outer wall is good, too—should last another century or so unless a catapult finds them first. But this here inner wall, it needs some help,” the engineer reckoned, licking his teeth repeatedly with his tongue.

“How much of the wall? Will we need to rebuild the entire breezeway and command post?” Valimor asked, weighing the cost of such an effort in labor and raw material.

“Nah, just this western wall needs it. I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to redo the whole darn thing, but this half is where the wind and rain hits the hardest. Here,” he said, bending down and pointing to a base stone, “look at this. This stone right here used come out to here.” He measured a span of nearly two inches with his finger and thumb. Valimor winced. “You see, the slabs here at the bottom are only a foot in width—it isn’t as thick as the outer walls or the fortress in the first place—now its only ten inches. All this weight on ten inches—six at the top—just cracks them after a time. Look here. See that big crack. You’re pretty much sitting on a stack of cards as far as I’m concerned. It’s just crying to be fixed, or it’ll all come down in a big crash one day.”

Valimor nodded his thanks and the engineer bowed and left. Valimor called his attendant to him and instructed him to find the chief architect and tell him to come to the base of the inner walls. The boy bowed and ran off. Valimor looked up at the fifty-foot wall. This would be no simple task to rebuild. He sat before the cracking wall and pondered the reconstruction—he would surely have to use an army division instead of hired labor. They were able-bodied enough to handle the workload and competent enough to learn from a few guildsmen. He decided the regular infantry squadron would suffice, and when his messenger returned with the architect, he sent the boy off again to call upon Falcor’s unit.

When the boy had sprinted off again, Valimor told the architect of the situation. The elderly man nodded and assured him that he would oversee the reconstruction. That taken care of, Valimor hurried back to the keep, where he would attend to any legal matters before the noon luncheon—when he was scheduled to meet with two merchants over a trade dispute. After that he would briefly check on the business of tearing down the western part of the inner walls before heading to his weekly conference with the town council. Who knew what new form of political disruption had arisen in the town? His life seemed hectic and unbearable, until his thoughts drifted to his evening he would spend with his beautiful wife and lively daughter. He smiled unconsciously as he walked to the keep.

Chapter 3

“Nobody survived the battle, did they?” Talibor asked, passively recollecting the outcome from his history lessons. Valimor leveled his eyes at him.

“No,” he confessed. Talibor nodded his head and licked his lower lip. “And that is the controversy you have plunged into head-first,” Valimor added, “a political war over the past.”

“So how do you see it?” Talibor asked, raising both eyebrows. “Was he the hero or the villain?”

Valimor glanced to the floor, dismissing the question. “It does not matter what I think. The truth of his actions is the most important thing. Sadly, I doubt this might be recovered, for the emperor has forsaken many of the precepts treasured by our past society: honor, justice, and personal sacrifice. If these values indeed live in society, Harken remains a hero of epic proportions—otherwise he was an old fool who needlessly tossed away his life and those of his followers. You must understand which values you hold, those of times past or those of your uncle. Until then, I cannot help you.”

“He fought for justice!” Talibor asserted. Valimor eyed him carefully.

“Are you sure he didn’t fight for vengeance?” he prodded.

“No! He knew his men might die as well; he wouldn’t endanger them without reason,” Talibor exclaimed. The room had become silent, with all eyes turned upon the two lords in discussion.

“Did he? He might have seen them as a tool for his own personal whims!” Valimor stated emphatically.

“I cannot believe that! Harken was a lord of his people, not some insidious politician that haunts our courts today,” Talibor declared, dropping his eyes to his plate. Valimor reached over the table and placed a hand on the young lord’s shoulder.

“You see, it a system of values you battle. If such things as honor exist, it is worth expending life to uphold it. But, if honor is interpreted as a personal lust for power, there is absolutely no justification for death in honor’s name,” Valimor explained. “But you are right, Harken was an honorable man. I know this because I met him and I tell you now it is no small privilege to be compared with Harken. The emperor will try to use this against you, but only because he fears you. Harken was a dangerous man—and a good man. You, Talibor, are a good dangerous man as well. Remember that.”

“I will try,” the young lord sighed. “I just feel like I can’t even chip the wall in front of me.” Valimor smiled.

“Keep at it my young friend. You will find a way,” he answered.

~¤~

The heat of the mid-afternoon sun warmed the two companions as they walked the cobbled streets of Harken to the eastern gates. Little conversation passed between the lords as they strolled, each enjoying the pure rays of sunlight filtering down through the clear, azure sky. A stable-hand met them with Talibor’s horse. Talibor thanked the boy and checked the straps of his saddle. Valimor stood watching the young lord mount his steed.

“You ought to find yourself a girl,” Valimor declared, feigning insignificance. Talibor’s gaze shifted quickly from his reigns to the elder lord, and he opened his mouth to speak. But no words came. At last, he shook his head and rolled his eyes. Valimor laughed out loud. “Have a safe trip, my friend.”

“Thank you, I will,” Talibor grunted, situating himself in the saddle. “Good bye.”

“Farewell,” Valimor replied and he watched the horseman turn and trot towards the massive gates. And good luck, he wished him silently and prayed that his confrontation with the emperor would not be a tragic one. His mind drifted back to Harken, the celebrated hero of his city. If only Talibor could grasp the importance of a sacrifice like that, then the future rested in good hands. The young lord knew it—but that knowledge was fragile, and had to be solidified by his own experience somehow. Valimor feared that would not come in time to hold against the emperors attacks. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. He sensed some sort of trouble rising, like the deathly silence welling before a torrential, spring thunderstorm. But he had other duties to attend to, and he had spent nearly half his day catering to Talibor. Lord Valimor spun and marched back to the fortress.

~¤~

The dawn came with a swift sunrise. Wispy clouds beamed red, purple, and yellow. Cool and crisp, the fresh mountain air accepted the warming rays of sunlight as day overcame the grasp of night. The sky grew bright and blue, leaving all other shades of grey and color behind. The clouds faded into the horizon and the sun rose steadily into the sky. Beneath the azure canopy, the mountains gleamed, coated with a fresh layer of pure snow. Expanding into the horizon in every direction, the mountain range boasted snow-capped peaks and passes, but lacked any verdant valleys. For miles the rugged mountains extended. The glistening white landscape dazzled the eyes of the Masok Captain. His steel-gray irises squinted in the bright daylight as he beheld the awesomeness of the wilderness. He was clad in leather wrappings and light, steel armor that formed to his slender, reptilian body. Inhaling the chilled air and exhaling a jet of mist, which dissipated quickly into the air, the Captain turned to face the pass he and his soldiers had just marched over.

Before him marched thousands of foot soldiers, stamping through the snow. From his vista, he could see other passes they had crossed on their journey, but ahead lay the promised land—the land prophesied by the ancient ones. The Captain spun around, taking in the awe of the frozen wonderland. These mountains, stretching into the horizon, separated him from his home. For an instant, the grey eyes softened as he thought of his wife and children who would join him in that land. But, it had to be conquered first. This was his task, and he would see it done. His clan remembered special pride in the history of conquest. It could only be fitting that its finest soldiers would march first to battle. The unending stamp of feet against the forgiving snow played behind him. This lookout earned special remembrance in his mind. A grand view, he thought to himself. Yet, there would be more. Many more.

For two weeks they had journeyed through the mountains, marching ever southward. Many of his soldiers entertained doubts of the southern plains, yet they trekked onward. They had marched over passes, beneath cliffs, across ridges, and down into high plateaus. Nature’s wintry fury surrounded them and they remained at her mercy, for a sudden early snowfall could cripple their army to pathetic proportions. He breathed another jet of mist into the clear air. Before them lay more peaks, more passes, more snow. Perhaps they had been disfavored with an ill-advised wish, nothing more than a flicker of hope.

But, the Magisters themselves traveled with him…could that be sign enough of truth? He blinked in the reflected sun and strode back to his steed—a Masckarl. Leaping upon the beast, a long slender creature resembling a weasel, and leaning forward into the saddle, the Captain ordered it forward. It smoothly bounded through the snow and took its place at the front of the line with the other Captain, breaking the snow for the troops behind. He looked forward and found the sky cloudless. A sign of hope, it was. Perhaps they would reach the southern land soon. The scouts that had returned assured them that an army could pass the mountains in the autumn months, avoiding the summer thunderstorms and the winter blizzards, but he remained apprehensive about traversing the actual distance. He remembered the arguments of the council meeting distinctly.

“…and if our armies could pass through the wilderness and come to this land you have found, what then could they do if the armies of the people there are not broken? They would be cut off, without aid of reinforcements or weapons or supplies. Does this not concern you?” The second General argued, pressing in close to the reporting scout.

“My lord, I am no strategist, but…”

“It is not his to answer but mine alone!” bellowed a voice behind the second General. The second General, highly decorated, turned and bowed to the Magister.

“Of course my liege. My apologies.”

“Then let us continue our report, shall we?” demanded the Magister. The second General stepped back and took up his seat. The wide-eyed scout continued.

“I believe that the people of this land are ill-prepared for war, and an invasion would move most swiftly if we took a northwestern entrance into the land. Most of their cities lay to the East and a northeastern approach might give too much advance warning to the land. There is a wide valley to the northwest of their capital we could take advantage of to prepare for war. Only a single city in the central mountains would stand between us and victory.” The scout finished his speech and sat down. The chamber lay dark and quiet for a moment. The candles burning overhead on the chandelier and the torches burning on the wall cast a strange light among the hall. Many leaders of the military were present, except those who had active roles. Each sat in descending order to the side of the walkway to the throne, where the two Magisters sat. Each Magister, much older than any of the others present, wore long robes trimmed with precious furs and bore long white beards. They were not of the race of the other military leaders. They were fair-skinned with soft hands and long white beards. Their eyes shone with kindness and wisdom, but most different of all, they openly expressed their emotions.

“Well done scout—what is your name?” probed the Magister on the left. A hushed gasp echoed throughout the chamber. The scout eyes grew dull and distant…the closest sign of fear a Masok could have. After a weighted silence, he mumbled his name. “Ahh, well then Mahn-sii, I can plainly see your hard work and devotedness. Your findings will surely aid us in our plans. Thank you.” The scout nodded and quickly sat back down. “As for the rest of us,” the other Magister began, “we have work to do. We must decide if we shall invade this country and conquer it as the prophets have foretold. Let us begin now—each knows what he may contribute. Make the preparations and inform us when a suitable plan has been developed. Now go!”

The Captain remembered the ensuing confusion and chaos of preparation, the endless debates, and the logistics being worked out. That happened nearly two years ago. The Magisters had approved the plan to invade the Northwestern Plain the autumn after next and attack the following spring. Military camps had been notified and training began. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers were recruited. New bases sprung up close to the mountains to serve as a launching point.

The Captain thought back on this insanity with mixed feelings. He had had his reservations. He secretly thought the plan a diversion to usurp the Magisters somehow. He held the utmost respect for the Magisters and, yet, he could see how it irritated some of the Generals to see them commanding the armies, yet not spawning from the Masok race. Indeed they were wise. Wiser upon many more levels than any of the Generals. But, something deep inside him burned when he thought of the Magisters and their rule. He had learned much, and they were old. Perhaps one day, he could lead his people. Time after time these thoughts seized him, but they were eventually quenched at the sight of the Magisters.

As the time grew nearer, the goals became clearer and the Magisters became much more confident. Their eyes were bright and almost youthful as they inspected the troops and supplies. A month before the army had set out, the empire was in an uproar. Feasts and banquets populated the nights among the clan cities. Songs of victory echoed into the stars. Then one autumn night, the orders came and the army moved out, climbing into the mountains south of their capital, Csii.

“Captain?” He woke out of his daze to hear his compatriot riding next to him call his name again. “Balii?” He shook off his thoughts and turned to his fellow Captain. He found himself riding again ever-upwards to another pass. Where had the time gone? “Balii, are you going to scout ahead or should I?” He thought for a moment and looked at the pass ahead. It rose between two great peaks, and it seemed as though they might venture further down after it.

“Yes, I will go; rest your steed, Jumai.” At that, he spurred his mount to leap forward. He flew over the snow, speeding further along the ridgeline. He arrived at the summit and glanced behind him. Like a great black river, the army marched along the white ridge and stretched past the pass he had just scouted. Still, the soldiers marched, and still the mountains yielded nothing but snow and rock. Looking in front of him, he found another high plateau guarded on the far side by more jagged peaks. Before him lay an easy path down to what appeared to be a high mountain lake. From there it appeared to be a simple march to the next pass. Perhaps they could march over the next pass by nightfall. The second division could camp in this plateau if the first lingered in passing the next ridgeline.

Just before he turned back to join the group his hawk-like eyes caught a faint irregularity in the distance. He pulled his steed back around to face the valley and he squinted. The faint swirls rising upwards over the frozen lake stood out clearly to him now—smoke! He hesitated no longer. Turning around, he bade his steed to make all haste back to the group. Like a bobbing cork in a river, the Masckarl leapt over the snowy ridge, racing back to the approaching army. “Jumai! Smoke in the next valley!” he exclaimed as he approached the head of the column. Jumai cocked his head.

“But who would make a fire out here?” Jumai questioned.

“None affiliated with our banner!” Balii replied. “All scouts have been summoned back. We are close my friend! It is one of them.” His eyes narrowed and Jumai read him. He turned to the two other sub-Captains riding with them. “Lead the troops onward. Make for the pass, but do not tire yourselves. There is no hurry now.” He looked again to Jumai. “Come my friend. Let us investigate.” They gave a shout and their steeds bounced away to the pass.

~¤~

At the top, they rested their steeds and dismounted, heading to a better viewpoint of the lake. Just as Balii had seen, Jumai stared at the small rising plume of smoke. It rose from the western shore of the lake. But as sharp as their vision was, they could not pick out the source. Jumai nodded and said, “Let us go down.” A cold fire lit in Balii’s eyes as they mounted their steeds once again. As they flew down the slope, Balii took notice of small lumps in the snow. Unsheathing his sword, Balii hacked into a mound as he sped past it. A white explosion erupted, littered with black specks. A shout of joy erupted from Jumai. “Trees! Small trees!” Balii could not believe it. He had not seen anything green for the past two weeks.

“Come, Jumai, we ride closer to forest, plain, and war. This news will hearten the soldiers,” he declared. “But, let us bring them more! Onward.” The two rode on towards the lake and, upon reaching it, stopped. Across the snow-covered ice, a small hut stood. The curling smoke wafted from its chimney and into the noonday sun. Obviously their Masckarls had caught a strange scent for they grew restless, ready to pounce and kill. The two riders crept over the ice towards the snow-coated cabin. Soft paws hit the snow without a sound, and the white fur of the steeds blended in with the frozen lake perfectly. At last, they halted their steeds and dove off them into the snow. After convincing the animals to await their masters where they lay, the two faced the cabin. Crawling towards the hut on their bellies, they kept both eyes fixed on the doorway in front of them. A gentle breeze swept over the lake, swirling the smoke and snatching snow from the rooftop. They had snuck within fifty strides of the cabin, when a metallic ring broke the silence. Balii motioned for Jumai to circle around to the southern side of the cabin, while he took to the northern side. They crept ever closer, until Balii rested at the side of the cabin. He nodded to Jumai and stood. Jumai brushed some snow over himself and lay motionless. Balii inched towards the doorway. Taking a deep breath, and closing his eyes, he relished the adrenaline rushing through him. Opening dark glazed eyes, he leapt through the doorway and released a fearsome war cry.

Chapter 2

Moving swiftly across the plains of Silac, a rider, clad in the burnished colors of Ashton’s banner, bore intensity’s rough gaze on his steadfast features. A wave of expectancy washed before him, crashing upon those travelers on the road the moment he entered their sight. A swirl of dust rose behind him, announcing his arrival to the City of the Mountains, sweet, strong Harken. The horsman’s errand, defined by the steed’s urgent gallop, clung to the realm of questions.

When the rider passed beneath the wall and through the gates, two men and a stablehand greeted him. The messenger dropped from his saddle and bowed as the stable boy led his horse to food, water, and rest. “My lord Harken,” the rider began, “the colonists were attacked. Not three days ago in the foothills of the Qara Mountians. I fear very few survive.” One of the men, wearing a crimson cape and a ruby brooch, nodded slightly and pressed his lips together. “Who attacked them?” Lord Harken asked.

“The Captain who sent me assumed they were Mollocks, my lord, as do I.” the messenger replied. Harken pondered this statement deeply. At last, he answered.

“No. It could not have been a Mollock. They have been extinct for at least fifteen hundred years,” Lord Harken mused while rubbing his thin beard and moustache and shaking his head. “And you are sure of the attack?” he questioned again.

“Had you heard the screams of innocents and the dull ringing of armor hewn as you rode away; had you remembered the blood-lusting bellows riding the wind and battle cries of the horsemen, you would have little doubt of an attack—the attack of a Mollock.” An obvious change crept over lord Harken at this—a fire lit in his eyes and his lips sealed themselves tightly together as if a suggestion had just passed into law.

“And what would you do,” he began, turning dark eyes to his advisor, “if you had been there and now had the power to summon a force to destroy that which assaulted your friends?” The man jumped, as he became unexpectedly involved in the discussion. He then wrinkled his eyebrows in thought and passively scratched his head.

“I would report the situation to the emperor. Bid for a formal investigation of the area and wait for the decision of his highness,” the man stated, his fidgeting hand now rubbing the back of his neck. Lord Harken nodded.

“That is what any man in authority bestowed by the emperor would do. In fact, it is what he should do, by the standards and laws of the empire. But, any man true to himself knows that that is not what a man ought to do.”

“My lord?” his advisor inquired, “Are you well?”

“I am fine,” Harken replied.

“Then surely you know it is what will be done,” he hissed through his teeth, squirming uneasily and shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“No. I do not,” Harken answered. “Now, let me tell you why.” He straightened his back and stretched out his shoulders, glaring at his advisor. The messenger looked on, his eyes glancing downward uncomfortably. Harken’s gaze, his twin penetrating hawk-like eyes boring deep into the soul, paralyzed his advisor. “Because I am a man like any of them. Because only by destiny am I here, living, breathing, and enjoying life; whereas they lie dead at the foot of a southwestern mountain range. Because those two reasons will not justify an apathetic two weeks of political bickering and argument while two thousand of my people rot in the soil of the Qara Mountains. That is why we shall not make an appeal to the emperor. That is why we will rally our forces and march to Kerean Post. Do you understand why?” His advisor, trembling from the sheer force of his will, bowed and rushed to assemble the army. Lord Harken nodded to the messenger, who took his leave to rest. Left alone with his thoughts, Harken stared at the afternoon sky, emptied of all its contents—clouds, moon, stars, and birds. Only the golden orb, sinking slowly in the west, remained in the atmosphere.

His mind wandered to Mollocks, the fearsome inhabitants of the ancient world. Questions, like snake bites in his mind, plagued him. He wondered if they could still be alive and if they were attempting to fight again. After only a few moments, he decided the Citadel Library in Ashton might reveal the truth about this situation, but that would take time—which was in short supply. No. He had to assume the worst and prepare for it. His thoughts drifted to his childhood and study under the scholar Aquios and the history lesson on Mollocks. He remembered dreaming of being the warrior-poet Tarkin or the hero Melos, fighting the Mollocks and leading those early pioneers, Ashton’s own ancestors, to victory. Now that it came down to it, it seemed he would relive those elder days. His heart nagged him, driving the same thought into his mind over and over: I will fight the Mollocks. The thought brought a shudder to his spine. Although no one lived who might have sketched a Mollock, the descriptions in history books painted an altogether worthy picture in his mind, and he rather wished not to meet one now. A spirited gust of wind leapt at him, awakening him from his introspection. Another wave of cool fresh air washed over him, licking at his straight brown hair and flowing red cape. Banishing the haunting questions to his sub-conscious, he turned from his spot just inside the gate and watched the city come alive as the battle horns began to sound.

~¤~

The five tedious days of marching southward irritated lord Harken. They had passed through Lenna and then journeyed between the Dalaan River and the Dunes of Alat. After crossing the river near the twin, port cities of Paneroth and Mizeroth on the coast, they now marched east, toward the Qara Mountains. Alone with his thoughts on horseback at the head of the column of his battalion, he poured over the battle formations and attack strategies that might come into use against such a fearsome foe. According to legend and the history books, the beasts harbored immense physical power—creatures resembling that of a giant toad, except bearing short, powerful legs and long muscular arms. It was said that their breath alone could knock over a phalanx division and their dark, flaming eyes would petrify with fear any who gazed into them.

Some accounts told of the massive iron swords they carried and the broad, impenetrable armor they possessed. He wondered if the long glaives his soldiers bore had any hope of piercing the armor—much less the leathery skin, weathered and thickened like their own walls of Harken. The ancient foes could not have grown less potent or battle-hardened over the centuries past; he wondered if his cavalry unit stood a chance against meeting them in the open field. In the end, he dismissed his cavalry as an effective counter and instead planned on the reliance of his archers and their longbows to take down any enemies from a distance, and figured he would have to trust his infantry could overpower any of the wounded Mollocks. His cavalry must wait to come at the last instant, in an attempt to edge the balance to their side.

He looked up from his last private thoughts to find a giant thunderhead settled over the faraway eastern horizon, like a sentry protecting the Qara Mountains. It seemed like nature warned them not to travel into that dangerous territory. Harken sat up defiantly in his saddle and stretched his weary legs against the stirrups. Whatever the next few days held, he would be up for it—he knew that if he could retain his composure in the battle, his soldiers would follow him to whatever end.

“My lord, we have reached Kerean Post,” a soldier reported, trotting on his steed towards his column. Harken nodded curtly and gazed at the outpost lying idly before the bleak range. These mountains were not those he loved. Instead of glorious peaks, snow-covered ridges, and jagged cliff faces, the Qara Mountains rolled slowly upwards, treeless mounds of rock that had been pushed together unbroken. Their dreary swells dominated the horizon and Harken felt his resolve begin to unravel. His mountains, the Kailan Range and Atep Mountians, inspired his soul and lit a fire deep within him—and somewhere much deeper, these flames helped him recollect the dim memories of his homeland far beyond the northern peaks of the Welmen Wilderness. But these bloated tumors darkened by the approaching storm bore the eminence of death. Harken shivered as a frozen breeze sank from the mountains. Patches of snow still dotted the barren hillsides like leprous sores on its skin. Looking back and away from the chill of the wind, he found the eyes of his soldiers sunken in despair and felt incapable to lift them.

The envoy at last arrived at the outpost and hurriedly made camp. The afternoon sun had long since disappeared beneath the growing thunderheads and the morale of Harken’s men had dropped into shadows before that. Campfires and small conversation sprung up quickly at Kerean Post that evening in the freezing spring winds. Harken, led to the local official’s headquarters—not much more than a canvas roof over low stone walls—faced a short, stocky fellow in a giant fur coat that flowed down to his big leather boots. The man saluted Harken clumsily, but a friendly spirit emanated from his dark eyes as he smiled.

“Welcome, my lord Harken, to Kerean Post,” he declared warmly. “My name is Pellen Oth. Come, supper is nearly prepared.” Harken acknowledged his greeting with a tip of his head and followed the man to a table. A steaming bowl of stew simmered at his place, and the rising aroma caught the lord offguard. The wild tang of the deer meat, combined with various spices and vegetables, woke Harken from the daze into which he had drifted. He began slowly at first, but the flavor of the stew excited his taste buds—soon the bowl was empty and another serving promptly delivered. Over the ripple of the wind on the canvas, the official who sat opposite Harken began to speak, the remnants of his meal trickling down his black beard. “I am glad you have come. When the scout reported the massacre, we mustered a rescue group to search for survivors immediately, but all were dead. But now, we may exact vengeance upon these demons!” Harken held up a hand and gazed into his dark eyes.

“I want to bury the dead first, if they are not patrolling the area,” the lord said softly. The official’s eyes dropped to the floor.

“Of course,” Pellen confessed. “Our scouts have reported no patrols that would hinder us—in fact, no sign of them whatsoever…” his voice trailed off into another bite of stew. Then his eyes brightened. “But after those victims’ rites have been administered, payment shall be demanded!” he remarked, holding his spoon up in determination. Harken kept himself from rolling his eyes and shaking his head. This little man knew nothing of the terrors he would face in the next few days. Instead, Harken nodded politely and finished his second helping of stew.

As the two men exited the tent, Pellen rambled about the terrible spring weather and other unimportant facts while Harken, who kept a friendly smile on his face, mused silently on his battle tactics. It was a cold night and the sweeping breeze from the mountains penetrated the cloaks the two men had wrapped themselves in. The spreading storm clouds had covered the brilliant stars in a blanket of darkness and the moon had not yet risen in the east. The shadow that enveloped the outpost was broken only by the few campfires still burning. Harken found his tent; the two guards sat by a flickering fire that promised to die soon. Pellen babbled a farewell and goodnight, leaving the lord for the night and returning to his own tent. After checking on the guards, who cheerfully accepted their duty on the night watch and wished their lord a good sleep, Harken entered his tent and collapsed into his bed. The idle chatter of the guards outside and the caress of the wind lulled him to a deep sleep easily.

When Harken awoke, the sky was tainted with a swirl of yellow and orange, but the first full rays of the sun had not fallen on the outpost. He rose and shared a scanty breakfast of oatmeal with his guards who had prepared it over the smoldering coals of the fire. Though the guards had been awake half the night, their merry faces welcomed him as he relaxed next to them. A soft chill filtered through the camp and his layers of clothing. He nodded in agreement as the guards cursed the coldest part of the day—that moment just before the sun greeted them. Harken watched the horizon brighten as the sun finally rose above the Qara Mountains while the guards reverted to their small talk. Gone were the storm clouds of the day before, and a dim blue twilight devoid of stars filled their place.

By the time the sun fully gleamed over the dark mountains, the army had broken camp and assembled in formation to the east of the outpost. Harken mounted his steed and trotted to the front lines. Pellen Oth, who had begged and pleaded to follow him into battle, rode ecstatically behind him. The lord’s face, however, was grim, and his eyes burned with passion. He slid his sword free of its scabbard and held it aloft. The blade shone in the pure sunlight and the men fell immediately silent. He stopped his horse with a tug on the reigns and faced his men. “Out there,” he began in a commanding voice and pointing his weapon eastward, “is an enemy of the empire. They slaughtered our brothers and sisters, daughters and sons, fathers and mothers. Let us go bury the dead. But, this deed shall not go unpunished, rest assured! If we are attacked, you surely know some of you will not return to your homes—if this is your end, meet it with honor and glory. Rise now and fight for your brothers! To battle!”

The army began marching forward, the infantry divisions first, followed by the archers and finally the cavalry. The river of metal-clad soldiers poured over the first of the foothills steadily, shaking the earth with the rhythm of stomping boots and hooves. Some within the ranks sung gleefully; others held their fury by a thread, waiting to unleash it on the enemy. As the cavalry passed the summit of the first hill, a shadow passed over them. Clouds built upon the mountains, blotting out the sun’s hope. The storm was coming.

The towering black thunderheads brought with them a rolling mist that blanketed the army. The fog was neither thick nor heavy, but the damp chill it brought clung to the soldiers. Harken signaled the herald to stop the advance. Through the swirling mists, the clear sound of the trumpet halted the army’s movement. Harken invited Pellen to accompany him into the next valley. His horse snorted a bit, but trotted further into the mist. The air became crisp and still, driving a new fear into the lord. When he reached the bottom of the valley, a raindrop splattered on his face. He looked at Pellen, who shrugged and shook his head. As Harken looked back forward, a steady rainfall began. He spurred his horse forward a bit, until a sharp crunch disrupted the silence. Looking down, he saw a rotting body lying face first in the mud. Then other dead human forms became apparent in the mist. He had found the massacre sight.

Harken whirled his steed around and rode past a nauseas Pellen when a bone-chilling bellow shook the valley. A chorus of nightmarish calls echoed the first and Harken sat up straight in his saddle. Pellen stared dumbly in the direction of the battle cries. The lord called his name twice before he woke from his trance and rejoined Harken. The two galloped back up the hill to the army. The various division commanders had heard the bellows and had assembled to meet Harken. The moment the lord saw them, he began issuing orders. The commanders listened intently and saluted when they had received their orders. At last Harken spun to lead his men into battle, waiting for the fabled Mollocks to show themselves.

For a moment, nothing moved, save the rain. But after that moment, a black form appeared in the valley and moved swiftly up the hill. Four other giant silhouettes dove out of the mist and followed the first. Harken heard his men lock their shields together and drop to one knee. Pikes bristled behind him, ready for the attack. The archers behind drew their bows and aimed high for a long volley. An instant of silence lingered, until the heavy footsteps of the enemy shut it out.

Then the Mollocks crested the hill. The lumbering beasts’ fiery eyes imprinted themselves on the soldiers’ minds first, forcing the infantry to look away and shudder in fear. Running on short, powerful legs, the Mollocks barreled down on the front line and lifted huge iron swords and axes in the air. After a last war cry, the Mollocks swung their weapons into the phalanx formations. “Volley!!!” Harken cried and hundreds of arrows peppered the great creatures who were hacking and smashing their way through the lines. One of the Mollocks stumbled under the volley, and the infantry leapt on it hacking and slashing wildly with their short swords. But the other beasts plowed easily through the formations, only angered by the onslaught of arrows. Men were flung hundreds of feet in a single swipe of the blades; others crushed beneath giant hammers. Harken sounded the charge for the cavalry and rode to attack the closest Mollock which had nearly broke through the formation.

Pellen Oth sat stupidly on his steed watching the wrath of the Mollocks. His eyes blinked gradually and he shivered. When he saw the Mollock that had fallen stand and shake its attackers off him and resume his destruction, Pellen turned his horse around and galloped quickly into the fog. It was unlikely that anyone had seen him leave—the soldiers were much too busy fighting. Soon, the screams, war cries, and angry bellows of the Mollocks faded into the distance, but Pellen rode wide-eyed over the hills. He cared not where he went, provided it was away from them. Their eyes—those burning, flaming eyes that had clenched his heart and frozen it instantly—were all that Pellen could remember. After riding in pure fear for what seemed eternity, his horse collapsed and refused to carry its master any further. Pellen Oth stumbled to his feet. He glanced hurriedly about, wandering in no particular. Their bellows still echoed in his head and their gaze still plagued his mind. He shook his head and held his ears fast. He didn’t see the cliff in front of him until he felt the air sweeping his soul upwards into nothing.

Chapter 1

The morning sun did not hasten into the sky, but simply and methodically spread its light to the valley. First, the white beams illuminated the snow-capped mountain peaks and then spread down the evergreen forests to the golden valley below. In the warming summer air, still retaining the leftover chill of night, a man basked. Behind him, to the east, the mountains hovered, dominating the skyline. His unseeing eyes gazed into the infinite horizon of the prairie while he reclined in the grass of a small hill just outside the city walls. Here, in the newfound daylight, he meditated—leaving the responsibilities of his life and the fears of his dreams. From the twilight hours in which he journeyed to this place to the time his servants woke and hunted him down, the man enjoyed the morning in nature, reveling in the nip of the cool night air and the straightforward beauty of a sunrise. The sunlight, painting the inside of his eyelids a deep red and its warmth caressing his back, promptly demanded more and more of the man’s attention. As he found himself relaxing in the golden rays of the sun, he grew comfortable. Turning his thoughts to his wife and daughter and stretching out on the dew-spotted grass, he yawned and smiled. And then a hand touched him on the shoulder. His eyes shot open in an instant; then closed again as he bit his lip and nodded his head. It always came when he found himself comfortable.

“My lord, you have a visitor. Lord Talibor is here to see you.” a voice prompted. “He awaits you in the courtyard.”

The man rubbed his forehead and replied, “Tell him I will be there momentarily.”

“Yes, my lord,” the servant replied and scurried away.

After rising from his natural bed, he twisted his back and swung his arms, preparing himself for the day to come and ridding himself of any stiffness that plagued his body. His armor—light and fitted as it was—hung as a bothersome weight draped around his neck and shoulders. Until this point, he had ignored it, but somehow it gave an extra effort in its annoyance as he paced back to the great walls barring any unwanted access to the empire of Ashton. Behind those magnificent walls stood the city of Harken, the key to the eastern valleys. Located at the joining of the northern Atep Mountains and the southern Kailan Range, the city had been erected on the only pass linking the east and west. Crowning the city and shining in the morning sun stood the Fortress of Caida. When he reached the gates leading to the courtyard, a familiar voice rang out.

“Lord Valimor, my old friend.”

He glanced to the gates to see the young lord, arms spread wide, rush out to welcome him. He nodded and smiled. “It’s good to see you, friend,” he replied and caught him in a strong embrace. “What brings you to the edge of the empire? It must be business, for I assuredly do not hold such a friendship that you would visit me without occasion.”

“You most certainly do…but, I do bring news and seek advice, if you will part with it.” Talibor smiled grandly and his blue eyes gleamed in the early sun. “But let us save that for a meal. How have you been?” he asked.

“Well, I do not feel young, that is for sure. My little Berea reminds me of that each day…”

“And how old is she?” Talibor interrupted.

“Nearly four years old, and an energetic four at that!” Valimor replied.

“It has been too long, for sure, my friend. Last I saw you was on your wedding day, near five years ago…a time when I would have much rather climbed upon the stone walls as a reptile than talk beside them as we do now. I have but heard of her birth and that is all. Shall I have the chance to be introduced to her properly today?” Talibor wondered aloud.

“Of course, friend. But tell me, much has happened in your life since we last met in your uncle’s hall. Besides your promotion to Captain, has anything changed? Is there a woman in your life yet?” Valimor asked, a suspicious smile crossing his lips.

“Of the promotion you are correct, but of a woman you err. I remain single and content at the moment, thank you,” Talibor replied. Valimor laughed and reached for his shoulder.

“Have you eaten yet this morning?” Valimor inquired.

“Not yet, no. And you?” Talibor replied.

“I was on my way. Join me,” declared Valimor as the two turned to head into the courtyard and then up to the keep. “Look at you, though—a strong Captain of the Imperial Army! You have grown…and matured, too, I trust. I remember a boy neglecting his schooling for the bogs and monsters north of Ashton last I visited you.”

Talibor smiled, recollecting the sometimes pointless adventures of his younger years. Now tall and handsome, the young Captain had won the respect of his troops in the recent border skirmish with the Western Ortharians, a small battle but a needed victory for Talibor. “Ahh,” he began, “the adventures of boyhood are now but a shade of the past. If only all little boys were so fortunate.” Valimor raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I know studies are necessary, but the sword and the bow are the icons of boyhood. Danger and adventure are ingredients to life, a spice many young boys miss while trapped in the schoolroom with women and old, dying men. Look, you are smiling already! Am I not right?” Talibor questioned.

Valimor grabbed his shoulder and laughed. “You will do well at your post, lord Talibor, Imperial Captain, but your arguments are built into the children. No one had to tell you to climb a tree or jump down the stairs, did they?”

“True, but when little boys are forced to remain inside and restrained from any element of risk, something bad will happen for sure,” he replied.

“Okay, okay, I hear you,” Valimor said as he reached the breeze way of the fortress. “However, I can see your political side coming out. Perhaps you ought to have been a senator?” Instead of unleashing a torment of curses, his youthful friend bowed his head and a strange silence hung about him—a silence which surprised Valimor.

After a moment of sudden tension, Talibor spoke, “So, about that meal and our discussion. Shall we begin?”

“Of course. Follow me.” Valimor conceded and motioned toward the keep.

As the two lords arrived in the meal hall, they were directed by a servant to a table with place settings arranged and two steaming bowls resting opposite each other. Several giant pillars and a half-wall above which hung several flashing tapestries, isolating them from the general population and any unintentional eavesdroppers. Above them, a small lamp burned, striving against the bright shafts of the early sunlight illuminating the room through the high eastern windows.

“Valimor, I have known you as a mentor for all of my childhood. This will be the first time we shall talk on the level as adult to adult,” the young Captain began. Valimor nodded slightly to convey understanding and respect. “I hope you will not dismiss my views as immature or unreasonable as the rest of the Senate seems to have.”

Valimor bit his lower lip slightly and scrunched an eyebrow. “That depends on the view and how objective it is,” Valimor cautioned. “But, I will listen as best I can. What’s going on in Ashton?”

“The Emperor has proposed the dissolution of the military. Not in such blatant terms, but his intentions remain just that,” Talibor lamented. Valimor scratched his chin in disbelief, one eyebrow cocked inquisitively. “It all began with the border dispute with the Ortharians. He claims my actions against them ‘unprovoked and unnecessary,’ as if he could have negotiated with those barbarians. Instead of an army, he wants diplomats, orators, to solve the problem in ‘peaceful collaboration.’” The Imperial Captain shook his head and narrowed his gaze, stirring his meal with an idle spoon.

“I am a lover of peace, believe it or not. I am not some ill-contented warmonger, yet the Ortharians, uncivilized and primitive as they are, would beat any ambassador we send to them to death. They fear our army, and so they do not cross the bridge. Simple, end of story. But now, with these talks circulating in the Senate, the Ortharians become bolder, yet no less barbaric. In the last conflict, after they openly attacked our eastern lines during the night and after we drove them back, slaying any and all who had passed the borders, orders from the emperor came that we should stand down. Stand down when we have been openly attacked! Can you believe that! For some irrational decision to save my skin, I did. I stood down. We stopped at the line and the invading Ortharians escaped. Don’t believe for a moment that they did not notice that when the banner of the emperor rode to me, I ceased pursuing them. Next time, Valimor, they will know we will not pursue them. What happens then? What happens when they roll boulders towards the bridge at us or shoot arrows from across the river? Will we be able to press the attack? No! What happens when the military has been disbanded and there are no lines to be held, but treaties instead? Who can reason with those barbarians? Not even the emperor himself. The only arguments they understand are the sword and the bow, Valimor. Those they understand well.” Talibor finally licked his lips and glanced to the bowl. He raised a steaming spoonful to his mouth and shifted his gaze back to lord Valimor, who seemed to be pondering this issue with special attention. At last he spoke, hesitation and wisdom thickening his speech.

“And what reason does the Emperor deem worthy enough to disband the Imperial Army?” he asked simply.

“The economy. That is his excuse. He would rather be rich and dead, than safe and alive,” Talibor quipped, standing and slamming a fist on the table. Valimor raised his hands in defense of ignorance. Talibor relaxed his shoulders and sat back down.

“What I mean is, if he knows that the Ortharians are a threat, why would he take away the apparent remedy for it? Why would he condemn his own citizens? Think about it. He is not the ignorant man you make of him. Somehow, he believes there is another solution to the problem of the Orthanians besides killing the whole lot of them. Now, his actions may be a bit one-sided, for it seems that disbanding the entire military would be quite a rash action, but there is a reason behind those actions, I assure you. What you need to do is discover those hidden motives and your own. This surface battle of “war or no war; army or no army” might have deeper roots than you imagine. This is not to say the emperor wrongs society by creating a vulnerability to barbaric invasions and death, but I do not want you plunging into something much deeper than you can handle. You have learned much of the art of war, Talibor, and you lead your men well, I know. But the Emperor is wise in many respects in which you lack knowledge or training, and he will lead the empire well. Listen to me, Talibor. I want you to question and learn. Defend your ideas as you do your people, but do not be afraid to venture into the unexpected. This proposal is simply that—a proposal. Go back to Ashton. Discuss it. Refine it. Or, defeat it, if there is no truth or logic in it.” Valimor placed a warm hand on the Captains shoulder and smiled. “You will find the right way, my young friend. Do not doubt that.”

Talibor looked up licking his teeth and nodding slightly. His eyes sagged a bit and the corners of his lips turned down. “It’s just that he seems to hate every thing I do or say that relates to warfare, as if he condemns my every thought. I cannot reason with that, no more than with the barbarians!” Then a faint smile crossed his mouth. “Perhaps the argument of a sword would convince him like it does the Ortharians.” Valimor shot him a quick warning glare, which faded quickly into a smile. They began to laugh simultaneously, huge grins traversing their lips. When the laughter died, Talibor shook his head and began again, “He is always comparing me to Harken, though, at the Battle of Kerean. That was nearly fifty years ago, why does it matter now?” Valimor’s face grew sullen and distant at Talibor’s words.

“It matters because Harken could be considered one of the greatest heros of our time…or one of the most despicable leaders ever known to Ashton. It all depends on your point of view. How is your history? Do you recall the Battle of Kerean?”

Upcoming Attractions

Great visions haunt me somewhere between two and three in the morning: a collection of readers anxiously awaiting the new, the revised, and the edited chapters of various novels. But let us leave those dreams behind for the moment.
I have "The Wars of Ashton" almost completely revised with nearly thirty pages of additional content (I know, generally editing is trimming, but I claim immunity for this particular novel).
I say "almost" because it is not finished at the moment. I do plan to upload the novel in its entirety in chapter-specific posts. So the next post will be the beginning chapter of "The Wars of Ashton" in its revised form.
I will allow any and all to comment. In fact, I would appreciate a comment from each person that reads the whole novel (or just a chapter--it doesn't matter) to appropriately judge the readership. And on that note, if you enjoy the novel, feel free to spread the word, for I plan to keep the novel up as long as I can--and perhaps bolster it with a few more...