by Philip Smith
Philip M. Smith
Prologue
The sound of steel-heeled boots clicking on polished stone echoed down the corridor as the prince strode towards the throne room. Twenty-four guards stood steadfast at each of the twenty-four stone pillars lining the hallway. Each of the men snapped to attention as he passed, their chainmail jingling like the bells hung out at Winter Solstice. The prince scowled as an unkempt soldier tried to adjust his poorly wrapped turban mid-salute. Had he been in less of a hurry, Feridar might have had the guard flogged for this, but he had no time to waste. He marched towards the large set of doors at the end of the hallway. The massive beams of oak were riddled with iron studs in intricate designs and were held to the castle’s stone walls with iron hinges nearly as long as a horse. The prince surged forward, his leather gloves creaking as he flexed and unflexed his hands in anxious annoyance.
The two guards standing on either side of the doorway straightened uncomfortably; one of them grasped the thick iron ring bolted to one of the doors. He heaved against the weight of the oak beams, and the prince strode into the throne room without breaking his pace. The door slammed shut with a cavernous boom echoing down the hallway behind him.
“Father!” he shouted, marching into the circular room with vaulted ceilings of carved granite. He made his way to the steps of the black-marble dais, his spurs continuing to jingle and echo through the room with each step. The stone gave the hall an almost dungeon-like appearance, save where the fast-fading light of sunset crept through the stained glass windows. When the Sharadhen Court was in session, this room would be filled with nearly three hundred governors of the various provinces ruled in the kingdom, but now it sat barren and brooding.
Feridar took the steps of the dais two at a time to join his father, the king, emperor, and Great Shahir of the Shauds. His father turned from his place at the table that stood beside his gilded throne. On the opposite side of the table from his father stood three middle-aged men dressed in the white robes and wearing brass helmets of the Shaud’s mighty army.
“Feridar, welcome,” the Shahir muttered, his tone as dry as desert sand. “We’ve been expecting you.”
He returned his attention to the table as Feridar reached the top of the staircase. The Shahir wore robes of silk bound by a golden sash. His russet eyes surveyed the prince with contempt from beneath his scarlet turban, but he motioned for him to approach the table, his many gold rings clicking against each other.
“What is this about?” the prince snapped, ripping off the leather gloves and slapping them on the table. “I was in the middle of prepping for the tournament when your monkeys pulled me off the training field.”
“So sorry to interrupt, Your Highness, but there is men’s work to be done,” one of the officers snipped. The Shahir turned his glare from the prince to the aide-de-camp.
“General Valhaura, you are not addressing your stable hand in this room. That is my son, and Prince Feridar will be granted every honor and courtesy you would owe me. Am I clear?”
“Apologies, Your Eminence, for my subordinate’s misguided words,” the second general, General Ducast, said smoothly, giving a sly, knowing look at Valhaura. “After all these months, the good general seems to have left his courtesy in the Wild.”
The Shahir ignored him, choosing to look instead at the many parchments spread in front of him. Feridar looked down at the table to see a large map of the continent of Eirensgarth. It was a sorry looking collection of scribbled rivers, mountains, and cities. The only real details showed the Shauden Empire as it currently stood, stretching from their coastal capital of Telesan to the five outpost castles on their western borders. Beyond that, there were only a few scrawled territory names along the tributaries of the Great River. The nearly impregnable Ohlmar mountains bordered the northwest quadrant of the map, and within those mountains, a vast pocket of forest was labeled, simply, “The Wild.”
“A trip well worth the time and insolence, Your Majesty, I assure you,” the third officer, General Haife, piped up. The stocky man’s jet black beard quivered with the tremble in his voice. “As I’m sure you’ll agree.”
“What of it, General? All you did was cut a road from Aschin to Franghal. Or do you need me to win that campaign for you too?” The prince smirked, looking to the farthest western outpost on the map. The small black dot represented six years of hard frontier fighting, but it was the shining achievement in the young prince’s short military career. Aschin was his crown jewel, among over a dozen forts that dotted the empire’s borderland holdings. A similar small dot to the northwest of the fortress was scribbled in iron gall ink, marking the latest acquisition, thanks to a long six-month campaign. On the outside, Franghall was only a simple mining village at the rim of the Ohlmars. Although Feridar knew his father’s interests in the mines lay deeper than diamonds, Franghal did give the empire another source of revenue to fund further campaigns across the continent.
“Not at all, My Prince,” Ducast muttered. “There is now a clear road to the northlands cut through the mountain forests.”
“Wonderful,” the prince said dryly. “And you couldn’t send me a written report for that?”
“My son, it is not significant because of what they did,” the Shahir said coyly. “It is significant because of what they found.”
The king pulled something small and metallic out of the pocket of his royal robes and tossed it onto the table. The prince felt a sudden prick in his chest, like a hot knife had been slipped between his ribs and was searing the bottom of his heart. Feridar stared down at a large gold signet ring that landed in the middle of the map and an image of a face flashed through his mind; a face he hadn’t seen in almost twenty years. The circlet was carved to look like a coiled serpent, with the head resting atop Feridar’s own heraldic crest. An anger he had been caging for almost two decades came rushing back, coursing through his veins like liquid fire. His temples throbbed like the echoing drumbeat of his now racing pulse. His knuckles cracked against the table where he’d been leaning on them; an identical ring on his own finger pressed deep into his skin. Feridar snapped his gaze to General Valhaura, his cold brown eyes flashing.
“Where did you get this?” he demanded, maintaining his composure with great effort.
“We took it off a travelling merchant our pickets detained four months ago,” General Valhaura said, annoyance seeping into his words. “As soon we finished construction on the road, we pulled three divisions out and headed straight back to Telesan.”
“You fools!” the prince screamed, sweeping his arms across the table and scattering maps towards the three generals in a shower of parchment. The Shahir didn’t move, his sly expression betraying what might have been perceived as a hint of amusement. The generals were shocked at this venomous detonation of rage.
“One thousand apologies, Your Highness,” the bearded general blubbered. “We came as soon as it was prudent to do so!”
“Your prudence is a poor excuse for incompetence, General Haife!” the prince bellowed, the thunder of his voice echoing off the smooth marble arches that made up the massive throne room. “Now, by the gods, he could be anywhere, and you lost what could have been a warm trail!”
“He has been gone for over seventeen years, my lord,” General Valhaura snapped, indignant. “No trail would have been hot or even warm had we dropped everything and left our post to chase after some no-account bastard who made off with your-”
He looked like he was about to say more, but General Valhaura’s face quite suddenly went from red to a sickly shade of white. He stuttered, trying to speak, but the words were failing to co
me together comprehensively. He grasped the table for support as he choked on his own tongue, straining to get breath into his lungs. The other generals leaped back from the table, expressions of confusion and horror on their faces. Feridar’s eyes whipped back to his father; a cruel sneer curled the emperor’s thin lip. His left hand rested on his side while his wrist twisted in a circular motion, fingers clenching and relaxing in a smooth rhythm. General Valhaura turned a deep shade of purple; his eyes were bloodshot and panicked.
“General Valhaura,” the Shahir hissed through clenched teeth. “How dare you address my heir in such a manner. It would appear the Wild has made a wild dog of you.” He clicked his tongue with mocking disapproval, then shoved his hand high with a quick thrust. General Valhaura shot backwards and upwards as if moved by an invisible puppeteer. The Shahir bent his ringed fingers like talons gripping prey. Valhaura kicked and thrashed, gasping for breath and trying to scream.
“I thought I had been quite clear, General,” the Shahir bellowed, his eyes flashing as he raised Valhaura even higher, almost to the top of the vaulted ceiling, “and unfortunately, I hate repeating myself!”
General Valhaura forced out a violent scream as the Shahir clenched his fist. The other men could hear the sounds of bone cracking as the general crumpled like he was being crushed in a vise. His helmet slid off his grey-streaked hair and fell to the floor below with a deafening clang. The Shahir ripped his fist back and thrust it forward, sending the general’s broken body hurling towards one of the windows to the far left of the throne room. The old soldier shouted in agony as his body went smashing through the glass and fell a hundred feet to the ground below.
Generals Haife and Ducast cringed as the sound of an armor hitting the stone courtyard echoed into the room seconds later. They stared in disbelief at the Shahir, wide-eyed with pure terror. Feridar smirked. It was no secret to the prince that his father disdained the very sight of him, but these men were still less than noblemen, let alone equals to the royal family. The Shahir was not one to let such blatant disregard for status go by unchecked.
“Now,” the Shahir heaved, straightening his crimson turban and stooping to pick up the signet ring from where it had landed during Feridar’s outburst. “Does anyone have anything constructive to add to the discussion?”
Both generals gulped.
“I do hope that isn’t a no, gentlemen.”
“With your permission, Sire,” Ducast said in a quivering voice, picking up the map off the floor with shaking hands. He spread it out on the table before them, the parchment sticking slightly to his now sweaty palms. “We picked up the trader here.”
Ducast pointed to a spot not too far west of Franghal, in the dense forest lands labeled “the Wild.” Feridar snarled.
“You found him on the edge of the Wild and somehow that is helpful? There’s hundreds of miles in that barbaric forest. Surely that isn’t all you’re bring us to work with?”
“H-h-he said a chieftain traded him for a supply of linen and parchment for his wife,” Haife stammered, glancing a fearful look at his king. “The merchant said th-th-that was about a year ago, but he swore he got it while visiting a village in the northlands o-o-of the Wild!”
“Did you happen to find out what this chieftain looked like?”
“Eh...well, not exactly...no, Your Highness,” Haife muttered. The Shahir raised an eyebrow at the commander.
“Wait! My lord, he didn’t say what the chieftain looked like but he did say he was missing a finger!” Ducast assured.
The Shahir’s other eyebrow went up. “A missing finger, you say?”
“Indeed.”
“How interesting,” the Shahir muttered, fidgeting with the signet ring on his own hand with his thumb. “And did you think to fulfill the other part of your mission, general?”
“Yes, Great Shahir.”
Haife looked to Ducast, who took a small bag from a clip on his belt, handing it to Feridar. The prince opened the pouch and pulled out a small glass vial. He held it up to the last remaining light of the sun fast sinking in the eastern sky over the edge of the Great Sea. Small clumps of brown, heavy earth jittered about inside as he shook the vial. The word “Franghal” was scribbled on a brown paper label glued to the glass.
“Well done, General,” the Shahir praised, rubbing his hands together in delight. “I think we have what we need now to proceed with an effective strategy.”
“Yes, my Shahir,” both generals said in unison, bowing.
“Well, we have quite a bit of work to do, then,” the king said, ascending the marble steps to his throne. The ruler’s chair sat tall and wide, its stone seat carved from black marble and covered from top to bottom in flowing arabesque palmettes inlaid with gold. A pile of elegant purple pillows embroidered with gold and silver threads cushioned the cold stone. The old king sat down, poised like one of his queen’s cats. “Go. Assemble your divisions and prepare General Valhaura’s former command. Be ready to move out in three days.”
“Yes, my Shahir,” they both said again in chorus. The pair snapped to attention, bowed, and exited the throne room without another word. As soon as the door shut, Feridar whirled to face his father’s throne.
“His wife?” Feridar bellowed. “So they did both escape alive!”
“It would appear so, my son,” the Shahir said, eyeing the signet ring the generals had brought him.
“Then what are we waiting for!? Let me go drive him to his knees and bring him back!”
“The divisions must be rested and re-equipped,” the Shahir sighed, waving his hand.
“But we’re wasting—”
“We waste nothing, you impulsive little urchin,” the Shahir snapped, taking the prince aback momentarily. Feridar glared at his father, knowing full well there was no love lost between them.
“A chieftain is not a lifestyle indicative of a man still on the run,” the king said, stroking his beard. “Ala’haran must feel quite untouchable if he’s settled down in the Wild. And if he’s missing his finger…”
The Shahir held the ring in his palm and pondered over it. He closed his eyes and concentrated, his forehead furrowed in deep meditation. Slowly, the ring lifted out of his palm, spinning in midair as the Shahir summoned all his energy into mumbling unintelligible incantations.
As he spoke, the wind kicked up through the shattered window, blowing out the torches. The blue twilight darkness enveloped them as the ring began to glow bright red, hovering inches from the Shahir’s hand. The ring sprang down the dais and hit the floor of the throne room without a single bounce. Wisps of red smoke shot out of the signet and swirled around the room, beginning to take shapes. The fog formed a tall, broad-shouldered man with long braided hair. A wild beard under high cheekbones defined his jawline. Feridar balled his fists at his sides when he recognized the man he hated more than any other being on this earth.
A second shape began to form beside him, and another till an entire scene was laid out before them in crimson smoke. The Shahir continued muttering incantations as he surveyed the scene, taking in every detail, including the three female forms that took shape beside the man. The taller of the three held his hand; the other two stood beside the first. A village made of the crimson mist surrounded them. Behind the entire scene stood two peaks of a mountain range, the two moons of the world fast rising from between them.
“So, Ala’haran. A family? Isn’t that sweet.” The Shahir looked intently on the scene and stroked his narrow beard.
Feridar glared at the figures with a hatred burning hot as a dragon’s blood. “He’s got to still have it,” he hissed.
The Shahir laughed sharply, and the entire scene fell to the floor, dissipating in a fog of smoky red mist that left them standing in the cold blue of an unlit throne room.
“Indeed. So the only question left is: are you ready to take your revenge?”
Feridar could have cracked a walnut in his jaw.
“Don’t patronize me, Father,” the princ
e growled. “This isn’t about me. It’s never been about me. The moment you have the final page of the book back in your hands, you will have forgotten all about me and Ala’haran.”
“And yet you’ll march Valhaura’s former division into the Wild without hesitation,” the Shahir said with a wicked smile. “Ala’haran is in a village in the southern edge of the Ohlmar mountains. Look for where the moons rise from between two tall peaks. There you will find your revenge waiting for you.”
“Then I’m off to win you yet another victory, my lord,” Feridar muttered, bowing slightly. Without another word, the prince turned and stomped back out of the throne room. He strode past a line of newly-adjusted turbans as he marched down the hallway and made for his chambers.
The path to the east wing of the palace took him down winding corridors and through open chambers where members of court stood about discussing the politics and gossip of the empire. As he passed, they ceased their whisperings and bent low to the ground, muttering platitudes. He paid them no mind; as he stomped towards the staircase that led to his chambers, a swelling of triumph began to bloom in his chest. Not even his father’s enduring disdain for his existence and his accomplishments could weigh him down. At last, after over eighteen years of fruitless searching, he had Ala’haran within his grasp.
