Of Darkest Valor

Of Darkest Valor

Thomas Storm

Books by Thomas Storm

The Order of Acrium Trilogy

Of Darkest Valor

Blood of the Gods*

The Prince of War*

Dawn of Heroes* (prequel)

*forthcoming

Of Darkest Valor is an ambitious first offering with excellent potential for a new fantasy action series! Highly recommended.

-The Columbia Review.

Dotted with magical surprises and streaks of blood [Of Darkest Valor] provides a swift journey through a land of kings, warriors, and a populace struggling to make sense of it all.

-Kirkus Review

This fantasy epic created by author Thomas Storm, is marvelously constructed and detailed, action-packed, and rivals Game of Thrones and The Hobbit trilogy. Excellent first outing! I look forward to reading more of Cifichiello’s work.

-Roger Reece, author of

Ascended: The Omega Nexus.

Copyright © 2017 Thomas Storm

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2017

ISBN 978-1-63417-131-1 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63417-132-8 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Dedications and Acknowledgments

Of Darkest Valor is dedicated with love and affection to the memory of my grandfather, Paul Braun. You inspired me at a young age to dare to dream, to follow my heart, and helped shape me into the man I am today. I hope you’re smiling up in heaven, Poppy. This one is for you.

Acknowledgments

I want to convey a special thanks to my test readers, Jeff Cifichiello, who inspired me in a time when I needed inspiring; Shantel Taylor, who listened to my constant ramblings about plot twists and character threads and never once complained; Kai-Yen Cheung, who I could not write fast enough for; and Joanne Braun, the greatest godmother a godson could ask for. My thanks, as always, goes out to my parents and siblings, who supported me from beginning to completion. I wouldn’t be standing where I am today if it wasn’t for all of you. I also want to thank my editors, Sam Severn and Sally Reboul, as well as my illustrator, Kip Ayers, also known as the Clairvoyant Illustrator. Lastly; I would like to thank Noel Jones and Stephen Matthews over at Page Publishing for giving me a chance when so many others wouldn’t. Each and every one of you has my gratitude.

Prologue

Ominous clouds obscured the crescent moon overhead as Lord Randell wound his way through the warren of back alleyways that made up the eastern port city of Sura. A bitter wind blew through the narrow passageway, forcing the stocky lord to wrap his fur-trimmed cloak tightly around his frame. The last remnants of winter making its presence known , thought Randell. Muttering a curse, he increased his pace.

Cutting left out of the alleyway, he glanced up. The sharp wind was causing an overhanging sign to clatter against its establishment. The sign showed the name of the tavern he was traveling to: The Triumphant Lion. Approaching the entrance, Randell blew warmth into his callused hands, rubbing them together. Winter weather did not agree with him, and he was looking forward to the warmer temperament of spring. Coming to the tavern door, he gave two quick rasps, paused, and then gave two long knocks. He stamped his feet impatiently as the locking bar of the door lifted.

As the door swung inward, Randell was met with the darkest eyes he had ever seen. Lord Drogos, the ruler of the eastern city-state of Yursa, met Randell’s steady gaze. Lord Randell, we have been expecting you. Please enter, my dear friend.

Randell merely nodded, brushing past his fellow eastern lord into the warmth of the tavern beyond. Drogos peered into the darkness, making sure Randell was not followed. Satisfied, he shut the door once more, setting the locking bar back into place. Randell shook off his fleeced-line hood, scratching at his thick red beard while he took in his surroundings. Other than the two men seated at a round table of pitted oak, the tavern was utterly empty. He took his place at one of the vacant chairs, greeting each man there with a nod of his head.

Here at this table sat the four lords of the city-states of the mountainous terrain of the east. Very rarely did all four gather together for banquets or other social gatherings. It was even rarer for them to meet in privacy, for none of them were close friends. Never before had they met in such secrecy. Each lord had gone through painstaking efforts to make sure their presence wouldn’t be noticed in Sura tonight, for each man at the table knew what this meeting would be about.

War.

Lord Drogos took his seat, flashing a smile to the other eastern lords. The smile reminded Randell of white tombstones. Everything about Drogos oozed a slimy falseness and deceit. His skin was pasty white, his black hair waxed back over his ears. Even his apparel spoke of his character, a black doublet with serpents expertly sewed along the lengths of the sleeves and dark gray leggings. Randell despised the man though he was wise enough to keep his thoughts to himself. Those that fell out of favor with Drogos did not see the end of the week. Rumors began to circulate around the east that Drogos had personally funded the building of an assassin’s guild in his own city-state. Randell had covertly sent agents into Yursa to find out the truth of the matter. Only one man returned of the three he had sent, reporting of a brotherhood of assassins calling themselves the Sons of Vikundo. Vikundo was the God of War, and Randell did not need to guess as to the nature of this brotherhood. It appeared the rumors were true, and he feared that he had sent the other two agents to their deaths.

It was Drogos who addressed the other lords. My lords and friends, I greet each of you as a brother. Our careful years of planning have finally come to fruition. The rich, fertile lands of Varkuvia are in turmoil, and through our careful maneuvering, the greatest fighting force in known history has been disbanded. The five kings look at one another with wary eyes, each more skeptical than the next. The reaving Argarians of the Storm Islands have joined our cause as have the barbaric tribes of the Northern Woods. Come spring, we must mobilize our forces and crush these arrogant kings, finished Drogos, leaning back in his chair, studying the other lords’ reactions.

Randell found himself leaning back as well, allowing the words to sink in. Varkuvia, more commonly known as the Realms of the Five Kings. The continent was to the west of the city-states and was, without a doubt, the richest of the known lands. The very thought of the name was like sweetened honey on the tongue. Lord Dorian cleared his throat, causing Randell to glance his way. Dorian was the lord of Sura, the port city in which the meeting was being held. Sura was the closest city-state to Varkuvia, resting in the Gulf of Ramel, just to the south of King Stefanos’s realm, the Horse Realm, and much of the information they received went through the port city first. The man was borderline obese, his eyes close set, and his nose short. He reminded Randell of a pig.

We are sure that the Order of Acrium will not be a concern of ours? Dorian asked. His voice was shrill and spoke of a coward.

A momentary flash of annoyance crossed Drogos’s face. It was immediately hidden behind the prominent smile that was a weapon in his arsenal of deceit. My lords, the Order of Acrium was disbanded over six months ago. We were able to accomplish this through our many agents stationed throughout Varkuvia. Not only were we able to convince the Five Kings that the Order was no longer needed, but that given time, they would rise up and rebel against them. Lord Drogos laughed softly, the hollow sound sending a shiver up Randell’s spine. How easily the fools were deceived. Only King Markos, ruler of the Stone Realm, argued on behalf of the Order. His protests were heated and went long into the night, but he was finally overruled by the other kings. The Order is no longer a factor. Trust me.

Randell allowed the words to soak in. Every person in the known world understood the reputation of the Order of Acrium. They had been formed close to three centuries ago when Varkuvia had been all but overrun by barbarians and named after the ancient city in which the Order was formed. The kings of the time had banded together the last remnants of their forces and were able to drive the savage invaders from their lands. The cost had been appalling, Varkuvia all but in ruins, and the death toll catastrophic. That’s when the Order of Acrium had been formed with one sole purpose in mind: to defend against foreign invasion. It was also around this time that a prophet predicted a coming evil, the likes of which these lands had never seen before. The kings of old also kept this in mind and knew the Order would be needed not only for themselves, but for the well-being of future generations. Since that time, they had established themselves as a deadly and formidable fighting force.

Only one out every hundred applicants was admitted into their ranks. Both nobles and peasants alike were allowed to join from all over Varkuvia with no distinction being made between birthrights. Sons of powerful lords and even kings had been turned away before. Only the best were allowed to don the cloaks of the Order of Acrium. Their fighting force always numbered three thousand, and each man practiced daily in the art of war. More importantly, since the Order had been formed, they had not lost a single battle.

In the last decade, the Order had become increasingly useless. With the peace treaties signed with the eastern city-states, the Order’s only foes remained in the north. The tribesmen of the vast Northern Woods were broken up into close to thirty different tribes, each with their own customs and values. The tribes were constantly at war with one another, and only the most foolish of tribal chieftains would attempt a full-scale invasion on the Realms of the Five Kings. The last chieftain to make such an attempt had been close to five years ago, and the Order had crushed him in one decisive battle.

Then there were the Argarians who lived on the Storm Islands, just off the coast of King Eryk’s realm, the Wood Realm, which jutted out into the frigid Okhelm Sea. Even here, there was no immediate threat, for the Argarians under the reign of King Ragnar’s leadership rarely landed with a force large enough to be a threat. The last large raiding force had been almost three years ago, and the Order wasn’t even needed. The raiders had been devastated by the deadly prowess of King Eryk’s famed long bowmen. This only added to the ineptness of the Order, the Five Kings proving they could protect themselves easily enough without them.

Even though no one at the table would voice their opinions aloud, each feared that once an invasion began, the Order would reform. Randell glanced across the table at Lord Nikolaos. Lord Nikolaos controlled the southernmost Eastern city-state of Seren and had a consistent tan due to the warm weather year-round. Of the eastern lords, Randell liked Nikolaos the most. The lord of Seren’s somber brown eyes met Randell’s arctic blue gaze, the slightest of smiles crossing his tanned face.

When Nikolaos spoke, his voice rang with power. My lords, it would seem that regardless of the Order, we are in far too deep to turn back. How long do any of you think it will be before one of the Five Kings realizes all of the scheming we have been doing behind their backs? Then we will have a united Varkuvia knocking on our doorsteps. He shook his head. This I will not allow. As things stand, King Lucan, the most powerful and westernmost king, is looking at his neighboring kings with hungry eyes. Through Lord Drogos’s agents, as well as my own, we have learned some interesting things about King Lucan. The esteemed king’s father passed away a decade ago, leaving Prince Lucan the throne at the young age of nineteen. Now, almost thirty, the man is the youngest of the Five Kings and extremely ambitious. He dreams of ruling a united Varkuvia, one that does not include the other four kings. At the moment, he is not nearly powerful enough to move against the combined forces of the other rulers. It is my belief, along with Lord Drogos, that Lucan will sit in the shadows during the beginning stages of the war, hoping for us to eliminate some of the other kings, if not all of them. By the time Lucan realizes his folly, it will be too late. Then we will crush him, with an iron fist, along with any of the other kings remaining. Nikolaos slammed his fist into the table for emphasis.

As Nikolaos finished his speech, Randell noted the gleam in Dorian’s eyes. The fat lord’s doubts had vanished like morning mist before the rising sun. Lord Drogos noticed it as well and pounced upon it as a lion would a gazelle. It would seem that we are all in agreement. And have no fear, My lords, we still have our man amongst the Order should they reform. Now with all of us in agreement, let us plan a war.

The talks went long into the night, and throughout the discussions, a persistent wind made the wooden structure of the tavern creak and groan. Randell found himself detesting the thought of going back outside once more. Much of the talk focused around supplies. The eastern lords and their allies to the north would be mustering an army the likes of which this world had not seen in well over a century. This would require a constant supply line. No matter how valiant an army was, if they weren’t properly fed, the battle would be lost before it began. As Randell’s late father always used to say, A starved army is a lost army. Randell also made sure that a large supply of grain for the horses would be available, for he would be providing the majority of the horses, not only for the cavalry, but also to pull the supply wagons. Lord Randell took personal pride in the fact that his city-state of Cabalo was famed for its horses.

Cabalo’s verdant pastures up in the high mountains raised some of the finest horses in the eastern lands, and Randell spent much of his free time there. He maintained that his joy for raising horses was passed down by his ancestors, along with his extensive knowledge; for Lord Randell was by birth and by right a king of Varkuvia. That birthright had been stripped from him by the ancestors of King Stefanos. King Stefanos’s ancestors were lords in service of Randell’s forefathers yet rebelled against them, claiming the throne for themselves. Randell had sworn several oaths upon the various altars of the gods, vowing he would have King Stefanos’s head on a pike for his ancestor’s betrayal. It was common knowledge that King Stefanos raised some of the best horses in the world, and Randell looked forward to meeting him on the field of battle.

The other lords each had their own roles to play. Lord Dorian, despite his grotesque appearance, was quite adept at making money. His port city exported some of the finest textiles, silks, and spices. Traders from the Northern Woods traveled to Sura with fur pelts from timber wolves, red foxes, and even the rare white bears. Merchants from all over the east migrated to Sura in the hopes of becoming wealthy, and most did, for there was always plenty of coin to be found for those ambitious enough. Dorian would be funding most of the venture. Already his granaries were overflowing with purchased food, and hired mercenaries prowled the streets of his city.

Nikolaos and Drogos would be providing the bulk of the infantry. The eastern lords’ tribal allies to the north would consist of mostly infantry as well. However, the tribesmen relied on ferocity and sheer weight of numbers to overwhelm their enemies, lacking any sense of the word discipline. Nikolaos’s infantry was well disciplined, well trained, and far better equipped than their allies in the north. They would be much more suited to sieges and pitched battles while the tribesmen would devastate the surrounding countryside, bringing havoc and fear to the populace.

Drogos would be providing the cream of the eastern fighting force. The Legion of the Rising Sun was modeled around the Order of Acrium. Whereas the Order was famed for its codes of honor, the Legion was known for its utter brutality. Knowing the man who formed the Legion, Randell did not doubt that for a second. The Legion had its uses though. Their fighting force, unlike the Order, always numbered five thousand. It would be the Legion that would be brought in to break an army’s spirits and turn the tide of battle if it was going sour.

Lord Drogos’s other qualities didn’t need to be voiced at the table, for each man there was well aware of what else he brought to this venture: sabotage, espionage, and assassination. Randell had seen the gleam that appeared in Drogos’s eyes when he spoke of the Order no longer being a factor. Randell knew with certainty that the lord of Yursa had already taken steps to ensure this was true. The man was dangerous, and each lord of the east knew it.

The mountainous terrain of the eastern lands prevented the city-states from uniting into one cohesive nation. To the east of Randell’s city-state lay miles upon miles of swamplands while to the south of Nikolaos’s city-state lay nothing but inhospitable rocky terrain. Beyond this rocky terrain, a desert stretched as far as the eye could see. They called it the Eternal Desert, for any that were foolish enough to wander into the desert dunes did not return. There was no hope of conquest these ways. To the west lay rich deposits of ore, multiple gold and silver mines, fertile lands for farming, some of the finest timber, and high quality stone quarries. Drogos maintained that once Varkuvia was taken and the tyrants were overthrown, they would form a leading council for the people and bring peace and stability to the realm. Randell saw right through the snake.

For the time being, Drogos needed every man present in this tavern, but what would happen once Varkuvia was taken? During the preparations, Drogos had symbolized the east as a pack of wolves while the lands of the Five Kings were a herd of sheep ripe for the slaughter. He had said that the Order of Acrium had been the shepherd, and without them, the wolves would fall upon the helpless sheep, rending their flesh. But what would happen once all the sheep were gone? The wolves would turn on each other for survival, devouring one another. And Randell knew who would be the vulture sitting in the background, waiting until the wolves had killed one another, feasting on the remains. Drogos.

The sly lord was playing his own game, and for the time being, Randell had no choice but to go along with it. Without Drogos’s many agents throughout Varkuvia, the invasion would certainly fail. One day there will be a reckoning, thought Randell, and I will be damned if I am on the wrong side of the dagger plunging toward my back. Better me plunging the blade into Drogos’s black heart. Randell’s mind was dragged back to the present when he felt Drogos’s soulless eyes drilling into him. The jet black eyes nearly merged perfectly with the pupils. The piercing gaze seemed to look right into the depths of his soul. Randell shivered despite himself. Could the man read minds?

Still looking Randell in the eye, Drogos spoke. I fear that the hour is growing late, and if we are all agreed upon what needs to be done, then I do believe I hear my bed beckoning me. He rose, signaling the end of the meeting. Until the spring, my lords.

The other eastern lords followed Drogos’s lead, rising and saying their farewells. Drogos and Dorian retired to the upstairs of the tavern while Nikolaos and Randell drew the hoods of their cloaks tightly around their faces, moving toward the entrance. Each man had gone through careful precautions to make sure nobody knew they were in Sura. All it would take was one Varkuvian agent catching a glimpse of all of the eastern lords gathered together for their plans to come to naught. Nikolaos lifted the locking bar off the door and opened it.

Randell braced himself against the bitter wind that was sure to follow. He was relieved when a refreshing breeze brushed against his skin. Winter was finally coming to a close; spring just on the horizon. Stepping outside, Randell saw the sun of predawn had painted the sky a pink hue. For a moment, the lord of Cabalo’s weariness was forgotten in the majesty of the approaching sunrise.

A light snow had fallen during the night, coating the cobblestoned streets of Sura. Randell could already see that the snow was beginning to melt with the coming of the dawn. Glancing toward the sky, he saw the last of the previous night’s snow clouds moving toward the west. Randell smiled to himself at the irony of the moment. Dawn was rising on the eastern city-states, a storm sweeping toward the Five Kings. Spring was fast approaching, and Randell relished the thought that King Stefanos would see his last winter. The stout lord drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the sweet-tasting morning air. He nodded his farewells to Nikolaos.

Sloshing through the melting snow, Randell began the walk back to the stables where his prized stallion had been kept for the night. Exhaustion began to creep into his soul; the night’s planning finally taking its toll. Randell was approaching his late forties and had not stayed up to see the sunrise since the days of his youth. Knowing his tired body needed to rest, he contemplated catching a quick nap at an inn before returning to Cabalo. Almost immediately, he dismissed the idea. He couldn’t take the risk of someone recognizing him.

Randell’s most loyal advisor, Kleitos, was camped in a stand of woods not two miles from Sura. Randell would merely have to wait before he could rest. However, the thought of sleeping on a hard-packed ground filled him with no joy. The old spear wound in his left shoulder was already beginning to bother him. A souvenir he received from a northern tribesman in the arrogant days of his youth when he believed himself invulnerable to harm. The wound always bothered him when the weather turned wet or cold. Randell knew that once he was back in the sanctuary of Cabalo, he would need to have his shoulder tended to, and most likely rest for the remainder of the day.

Randell and Kleitos had informed their wives, along with the remainder of Randell’s advisors, that they were going hunting. The rouse had been believed, Randell’s subjects seeing how stressed his duties were making him. The lord of Cabalo knew it was far more than his duties that caused his stress. A constant pit remained in his stomach, and he would never voice aloud the cause of it, not even to Kleitos, who was not just his advisor, but his most trusted friend as well. If truth be told, Randell did not like this venture into Varkuvia.

His reasons for joining the other eastern lords were purely selfish. If he could kill King Stefanos and reclaim his birthright without the other kings getting involved, he would do so. However, to reach Stefanos, Randell would have to cross the Stone Realm, ruled by King Markos. Markos, a loyal friend to Stefanos since they were children, would never allow this. Randell sighed aloud to himself.

King Markos was the only king whom Randell had met before. The Stone Realm was the closest to the eastern lands, and King Markos would need to be conquered first for an invasion to have any hope of success. Six years earlier when the planning had begun in earnest, Randell decided to travel to Markos’s three-walled fortress capital of Karalis. Randell was renegotiating trade agreements with the king to allow for more wool and grain to be imported to his city. Instead of allowing his merchants to handle the agreement, Randell had written that he would personally travel to Karalis to deal with the negotiations. It would give Randell a perfect opportunity to assess the defenses himself.

Markos had graciously written back that he was honored Randell would take the time out of his busy schedule for such a trip. Choosing twenty men as an escort, Randell and his wife, Lady Myra, traveled to Karalis. Despite Randell’s objections, Myra had been quite persistent she come along with him. It took weeks to finally reach the city, and Randell noted the mountain ranges they traveled between to reach the fortress city. Most of the terrain leading through the Stone Realm was impassable, and an approaching army would have to besiege Karalis to gain access to the rest of Varkuvia. After taking the fortress-city, an army could flood into the plains beyond the city and have a clear path to any other realm in Varkuvia. The only other land route lay far to the north, and even if an army took this path, they would have to take the Haraliam Wall, which stretched from the northern Bale Mountains to the Okhelm Sea. Even if this formidable wall was taken, they would have to worry about an army sallying forth from Karalis to attack its rear flanks.

They passed several villages nestled in the nook of the mountains, for the most part mining and farming communities, and had only passed two forts made of stone on the way to Karalis. Randell noted the walls of the forts weren’t overly maintained, and he saw many handholds in the stone that a besieging force could climb easily enough. This lack of maintenance only emphasized that King Markos held the eastern lords, along with the northern tribes, in contempt. Randell found his irritation growing.

Approaching the fortress city, he remembered his mission, studying the immense fortifications. The walls were close to fifteen feet thick, standing over fifty feet high, with square towers positioned every fifty paces. Randell scanned the walls, looking for any weaknesses or cracks in the foundations, just like the forts they had passed. It appeared the stonemasons had done their jobs well, and he noted sourly that he could find no immediate weaknesses in the wall. Glancing to his left and right, Randell saw that the wall merged perfectly with the Bale Mountains to the north, and the Amarro Mountains to the south. A besieging army would be forced to attack from the front, the mountain ranges preventing an encircling maneuver. Passing underneath the gatehouse of wall one, Randell had spotted murder holes above him. These would allow the defenders to pour boiling pitch, heavy stones, or molten lead down upon any foolish enough attempting to breach the gates. It would take a massive army combined with well-made siege equipment to take these walls.

Emerging from under the gatehouse, Randell was horrified to see no buildings lay between walls one and two. Only open ground with a steep gradient met Randell’s eyes for over two hundred yards. An attacking force would not only take fearful losses taking wall one, but they would also have to endure another gauntlet of arrows to besiege the second wall. As a student of war, Randell knew this would dishearten any besieging army, lowering their morale and tenacity. And just like the first wall, the second merged with the mountain ranges, allowing for only a frontal assault. Randell was beginning to understand why the fortress was said to be impregnable.

Passing through the second gatehouse, he had finally found a modicum of relief. Here the buildings of the city had spread, eliminating the killing ground between walls two and three. These buildings that ensured economic growth for Karalis would provide cover all the way to wall three for an attacking army. And unlike the first two walls, the third wall did not merge with the mountains, but instead encircled the mighty Keep of Karalis like a protective ring of stone. A besieging army would finally be able to encircle this wall, burning the buildings of the city in the process. Feeling slightly better, Randell continued on his way to the keep where King Markos resided. He was unsure of the reception he would receive from the king, for every person of power knew of Randell’s past and of the vengeful oaths he had proclaimed. He was surprised to find King Markos, along with his wife, the beautiful Queen Lorain, awaiting him in the courtyard in front of the keep. He was even more surprised when Markos openly embraced him in front of everyone, thumping him on the back as if he were greeting an old comrade.

A lavish banquet consisting of roasted boar, venison, duck, and fine wines was held in Lord Randell’s honor. The celebrations went long into the night, the wine flowing freely. Despite his best efforts, Randell found himself warming to the black-haired king with eyes the color of a winter storm cloud. He was a man who put the well-being of his people before his own personal gain, an uncommon trait in this day and age. The king constantly spoke of his two sons throughout the banquet, notably mentioning his soaring pride when both of them had been initiated into the illustrious ranks of the Order of Acrium. Having a son of his own, Randell could relate with Markos’s happiness at his son’s accomplishments.

Randell also noted with pleasure that Myra, usually shy at events such as these, seemed to be making best of friends with Queen Lorain. As the night wore on, and the more wine Randell consumed, he found his joy being replaced with a sense of melancholy. If Randell hadn’t had his birthright stolen from him, it would’ve been he, and not King Stefanos, who would’ve been lifelong friends with King Markos. After this bitter thought, Randell had excused himself from the raucous celebrations, retiring to his bed. Sleep was hard to come by that night; Randell’s thoughts were teeming.

The following morning Lord Randell shook hands with King Markos over a successful trade agreement. The king was even gracious enough to present a casket of wine from his personal collection, a clear gift to promote further dealings. He then requested that Randell come out hunting with him that day. Randell respectfully declined, saying he had to return to his own city-state on urgent business. Markos’s disappointment had been genuine, and Randell almost reconsidered. Almost.

As Randell said his farewells to Markos, the king insisted he return soon. This offer was bolstered by Queen Lorain’s and his Lady Myra’s gleeful agreements to return as soon as possible. Despite Myra’s constant insisting, Randell never returned to Karalis. Every time Markos sent a letter requesting Randell to go hunting or to be his guest at a banquet, Randell always made up an excuse to not attend and would politely decline. One day he would be forced to watch Markos humbled, and he decided close ties with the king would not be advisable. Still, Randell hoped he wasn’t present when Karalis was overrun.

Forcing his mind back to the present, Randell tried unsuccessfully to push Markos’s impending demise from his mind. It appeared the day to humble the king was now at hand. Weaving and ducking his way through the back alleyways of Sura, Randell had a sudden urge to no longer be in the choking confines of the port city. He knew that he should stick to the back ways of Sura and keep his face hidden, but to his left was the Market Square, and a shorter route to the stables he was heading to. Exhaustion and bitter memories clouded Randell’s judgment.

Cutting to his left, Randell moved across the Market Square. Even with the sun barely cresting the eastern horizon, merchants were already starting to set up shop, getting ready to ply their wares for another day. A group of whores at the edge of the Market Square stood as Randell went to walk by them. Their flimsy dresses hid little, their practiced smiles full of dark promises. Randell ignored the whispered promises of pleasure and caressing hands running down his body as he passed them by. Once it was obvious their potential client wasn’t interested, the whores went back to chatting amongst themselves.

As Randell fought down his uncomfortable ardor, he contemplated allowing whores to openly operate in his own city-state of Cabalo. The revenue prostitution could bring in would be prodigious. Chuckling to himself, he dismissed the idea immediately. Whores might warm the beds of many a men, but Myra would make sure his remained cold. Unlike his other eastern lords, Randell had taken only one wife. He loved Myra unconditionally and took her wise words of council to heart. When his wife flashed her smile, he forgave her anything.

Momentarily distracted, Randell didn’t notice the slender young man that walked into his path. Bumping into the man, Randell’s hood fell out of place, exposing his thick fiery red beard.

My apologies, muttered Randell, pulling his hood back into place. Cursing himself a fool, he hastily walked away. A momentary lapse of judgment could’ve just ruined everything. Thankfully, the moment had only been fleeting.

Arriving at the stables, he asked the stable hand, a scrappy boy of nine or ten, to fetch his horse. Bringing his mount out, Randell admired his prized possession. Just under sixteen hands, the black stallion was sleek, powerful, and had incredible stamina. Seeing how well tended his mount had been kept, Randell slipped the stable hand an extra full silver piece. Seeing the sum, the boy’s eyes widened in disbelief, and he sprinted away, most likely to show someone his prize.

Randell chuckled as he mounted his horse. Steering the stallion toward the north, he cantered the horse to where Kleitos awaited him. The coming months would test Randell like never before, and he hoped he had the nerve to do what needed to be done. The world was about to change, whether it was for better or for worse, Randell could not say. Lord Nikolaos was in the most part a good man, and Randell hoped he also fell under that category. Lord Dorian was a cowardly man and left to his own devices was completely harmless. But was giving a man the likes of Drogos even more power a good idea? Pushing such somber thoughts from his mind, he decided to enjoy the horse ride for the time being.

In the shadows of the stables, the young man whom Randell had bumped into emerged into the gathering sunlight. His eyes squinted as he observed the eastern lord’s graceful riding style, noting the lavish horse the man rode. A horse meant for a king. He watched Randell until he rode from sight. The slender man subconsciously rubbed at the pale scar upon his cheek then slipped into a side alleyway.

Chapter One

Trystan was bone weary as his gray mare plodded through the Harrowing Woods, situated at the northern border of King Stefanos’s realm. It had been over six months since the Order of Acrium had been disbanded, and the almost twenty-five-year-old was unused to being in a saddle for such an extended period of time. Stretching his lower back, Trystan gazed up through the bare branches of the gnarled oak trees surrounding him. Dusk was fast approaching, and he began scouting around for a good campsite for the night.

Spotting a small hollow to his right, Trystan guided his tired mount toward where he would rest. Emerging into the clearing, he saw a large boulder that formed an overhanging shelf. A perfect spot to escape the chilling wind once the weather begins to plummet, he observed. Dismounting, Trystan secured the reins of his horse on a low-hanging branch. After feeding and brushing his mount, he threw a woolen blanket over the mare’s back. With the mare properly tended to, he began preparing a fire for himself.

Spreading a pile of shredded leaves beneath a stack of small twigs, he sparked file and flint together to get the blaze started. His fingertips were starting to grow numb from the dropping cold, making his first attempt clumsy. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself and tried once more. This time the flint sparked and the beginnings of a fire glowed. After tossing on more twigs to get the fire going, the young man gathered his feet and stood. Then he moved off into the shadowy woods to find suitable firewood. Darkness had fully descended by the time he returned, an ample bundle of wood cradled in his arms, which would see him warmly through the night.

As he approached his meager campsite, he was happy to note that the boulder face hid most of the glow from his fire. The Harrowing Woods had become increasingly known for marauding outlaws over the last few months, and the last thing Trystan needed was someone creeping into his camp and slitting his throat while he slept. Sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, he drew an oatcake from his pack and began to eat. It was stale and far from his liking. To take his mind off his disappointing meal, Trystan flew back in his mind’s eye to the months before the disbandment of the Order of Acrium.

For the Five Kings to sign the decree that sent the finest warriors in all of Varkuvia back home was a stupidity beyond Trystan’s comprehension. Every report the Order had received over the last few years pointed toward a joint eastern invasion. Lord Randell and Lord Nikolaos of the east had steadily increased the power of their military over the last year. They maintained this was to counterbalance an increased threat from the tribesmen of the Northern Woods. This was so false that Trystan had almost laughed aloud when he heard the news. Lord Nikolaos’s city-state of Seren lay far to the south, out of harm’s way from the tribesmen, and everyone knew of the oaths Lord Randell had sworn to reclaim the throne from King Stefanos.

Trystan had been in utter disbelief when he discovered the Five Kings weren’t going to take any action against the east. Instead, they had reached an agreement with the eastern lords, requesting that they maneuver their troops far from Varkuvian borders. Lord Randell and Lord Nikolaos had graciously accepted, saying they had no intentions of bringing their soldiers onto Varkuvian soil. Trystan shook his head as he took another bite of his oatcake. The armies of the east had always been more than adequate in dealing with even the boldest of chieftains in the north. If he, a lowly member of the Order, could see that, how couldn’t the Five Kings who were meant to protect the welfare and well-being of their people?

Even with an increased eastern presence, the people of Varkuvia still slept soundly at night for they had the finest military force in history to spearhead their armies if an invasion were to occur. Then disaster struck. Just as the leaves were beginning to fall from the trees, a herald had arrived at the Fortress of the Van, the home of the Order. All training had stopped as every member of the Order was summoned to the main courtyard. Men milled around confused; no one knowing what was going on. Then the herald had emerged from the main hall, sweat shining from his balding head. He had appeared nervous as he walked onto a platform that overlooked the gathered warriors. Silence fell as he unrolled a scroll of parchment.

I have a royal decree signed by each of the Five Kings of Varkuvia. His shaky voice carried out over the silent courtyard. By unanimous decision, the rulers of these realms have decided that the Order of Acrium is both too costly to maintain and is no longer necessary in bringing peace to these lands. By command of the Five Kings, you are all hereby disbanded and ordered to return to your homes immediately. A huge uproar met these words. I have here the five signatures and royal seals from each of the Five Kings, finished the herald, screaming over the noise. He faced the decree toward the outraged warriors, showing them all.

After finishing what he came there to do, the herald, sweating profusely, got on his horse and galloped from the fortress. How nobody in the crowd had killed the man, or at least attempted to stop him, Trystan still did not know. Perhaps everyone was just as shocked as he was at the news. Everybody was still talking in angry voices when First Master Roderic, the head of the Order, stepped onto the platform to address his students and fellow members.

Roderic had been a noted warrior in his youth; the man’s very name striking fear into the hearts of his enemy. Now, close to seventy, he was undisputedly the most respected member of the Order, despite advanced arthritis making his sword arm all but useless. Roderic’s heroics and deeds while younger had assured him a life of ideal luxury in any major city of his choosing. Instead, he had opted to stay a part of the Order to teach and train future generations. Raising his one good arm, Roderic called for silence. It took several minutes, but finally the courtyard remained quiet once more.

My dear brothers in arms, this must be a mistake our gracious kings have made, Roderic said, his voice still ringing with accustomed authority despite his physical frailty. On the morrow, I will personally lead an envoy to the gathered kings at Karalis and plead with them to listen to reason. I have fought for this Order for most of my life. In my youth, I even fought beside some of you. And I will continue to fight for this Order until my final breath leaves my body. Tomorrow I leave at first light to fight for the right of this Order to be preserved. For the time being, go about your training and your duties. In a week’s time, when I return, we will put this foolish business behind us.

Finished with his speech, Roderic stepped down from the platform, signaling for the four other masters and leaders of the Order to follow him. The most respected living members of the Order filed in behind the shuffling figure of Roderic. The following morning, Roderic stayed true to his word and emerged from the great hall to mount his white stallion. Trystan saw him don a white cloak lined with white wolves’ fur with five interlocking silver circles expertly stitched in a circular motion at the center, the symbol of the Order of Acrium. Only the first master of the Order was allowed to wear the white fur-lined cloak while the rest of the members, both teachers and students alike, wore black cloaks. Roderic, along with a majority of the leaders of the Order, departed for Karalis. Only Layne, the Master of Sword, remained behind to maintain the Order.

Each day that passed after Roderic’s departure saw the inner fears of each member increase. Every man thought about what they would do if they truly were to be disbanded. For the members of noble birth, it would mean dishonor to their families. None of them wanted to be remembered in the history books as being part of the Order when it was disbanded due to its uselessness. For the members of peasant stock, it would mean a life of hard work and labor once again. Many amongst them knew no other occupation than being a soldier. What would they do if the Order was disbanded? Would any of the Five Kings allow them into the ranks of their armies after being dishonored in such a way? What was certain was that each man there simply wanted closure. Patience was not a virtue shared by any of them in this matter. Ten days after Roderic’s departure, the warriors would get the closure they had fervently waited for.

A single horn note blasted through the morning air, signaling the arrival of riders. Trystan remembered the dreary day. A light rain had been falling, soaking the members as they began to assemble in the main courtyard