Book I

The Eyes Of Myrl

Chapter One

 

The Tordon Valley

 

 

            In the realm of Tavia there are three seasons by which the inhabitants mark another winter’s passing. These seasons are known in the common tongue as the four Moons of Planting, the four Moons of Gathering and the four Moons of Ice.

 

Grey light from the last quarter of the final Gathering Moon frosted the forests and danced across the dark waters of the Gryfinskel River.  On the northern shore of that ancient river, a pyramid of logs burned brilliant in the night. Tongues of leaping flames hissed and licked greedily along the length of each timber, before reaching up towards the crescent moon above.

 

The fire’s orange glow illuminated the tattooed faces of the dozen men and one woman, who were gathered in the circle of light. The males were dressed warmly against the seasonal chill in dark green hooded robes of wool. The lone female was naked. Firelight touched the rounded hips, narrow waist and small breasts of her youthful figure as she stood, unashamed, in the cool night air. A dark blue tattoo of a flowering vine covered the left side of the woman’s face, proclaiming her rank as a priestess within the Krigan clan.

 

  Two hooded priests beat the stretched hides of their ceremonial drums in a hypnotic rhythm. A chant, which summoned the power of the war god, Athayr, joined the cadence of their music. Standing with her arms raised towards the heavens, the priestess spoke the primeval words to evoke a spell. In her hands she held the finely ground white powder of a Gryffon’s egg, which she slowly allowed to slip between her fingers. The wind gusted, causing the fire to flare, roaring like the angry breath of a dragon. The white powder swirled around the lithe female form in a tornado of enchanted energy and the contours of the silhouette within the whirlwind began to change. In a rush of steaming breath, a groan of equal parts pleasure and pain escaped the woman’s lips. The priestess’ body and legs began to grow shorter, while her arms stretched to an unnatural length. A blanket of silvery grey feathers rapidly covered the young woman’s skin, until she resembled a bird of prey.

 

            When the transformation was complete, the changeling beat her newly formed wings against the cold night air and rose steadily into the sky. She soared, circling the bon fire on the river’s shore before banking to the northeast, where she glided like a kite beneath the stars.

 

            Gyda sailed above the wooden fortress of Krigkarl, which covered an island in the center of the river below. Fires burned within the dozens of log and river rock houses, releasing grey plumes of smoke into the night. The swift currents of the Gryfinskel River shielded the fortress of Krigkarl, making the stronghold impregnable by the enemies of her tribe. A sturdy bridge of rope and wood span the treacherous waters to the adjacent shore. And although the bridge had been designed to easily support the weight of horse and rider, the thick grass rope by which it was suspended, could be quickly severed with an axe, should danger threatened.

 

The priestess had been born and raised behind the tall wooden walls of the Kriglarl fortress, safe from the advancing armies of Konal and the war which raged to the east. ‘But for how long?’ Gyda wondered, as her sharp gaze fell upon the lodge of the Krigan high king. The log and river rock house was more to Gyda than simply the house of her chieftain, it was her home, as well. For the changeling priestess was sister to the Krigan king, Brondol.

 

The king’s lodge, which sat above the village at the island’s highest point, was twice the size of any other. The roof was sharply peaked against the weight of winter snows and silent wooden gryffins stood watch at each corner.

 

Gryffins had long been worshipped in the lands of the Krigan fathers as Gods. In a tradition dating back to time forgotten, the black banners of Krig still carried the totem of a green griffin. But the mighty winged beast, half lion and half eagle, was now considered a lesser deity in the eyes of the Krigan priests. And it was the stone likeness of the War God, Athayr, which held a place of honor before the entrance of the King’s long house.

 

            Gathering speed, Gyda set a course towards the east, following the dark ribbon of the Gryfinskel River. To her right the Serpentine Mountains rose into the mists, their jagged granite slopes appearing silver in the pale light of the moon.

 

 

High in the Serpentine Mountain’s snowy peaks, dragons made their lairs. And in the distance Gyda saw the unmistakable silhouette of a huge serpent flying in the moonlight. The changeling followed the dragon as it went in search of a range steer to feast upon. A dark shape in the valley below marked a herd of considerable size and the dragon dropped suddenly, claws extended for the kill.

 

            But Gyda did not linger to watch the hunt. The spell of a shape shifter would not last until dawn. Therefore, her task must be completed before the sun broke the horizon. So the priestess stretched out her wings and flew on, soaring above the tall grasses and thick forests which bordered the river shore. For Stone Cross was her destination this night.

 

            The hamlet of Stone Cross lay in the eastern region of the Tordon Valley.  For centuries travelers had used a natural formation of boulders, at the narrowest part of the Gryfinskel River, to cross the rushing waters. In later years, a wooden bridge was erected and a small village sprang up along the edge of the western shore. A trading post and a tavern were the only commerce of Stone Cross. Although several farms dotted the outlying area, they grew only enough wheat and vegetables to be stored for the long, cold season of the Ice Moon. It was a harsh life for any who chose to live in the Tordon territories, but most of the residents of this hamlet were not there by choice. Indeed, to live in Stone Cross was to be in exile.

 

            It had been within the weathered walls of the Stone Cross Tavern that a Krigan bone trader had first heard tales of three immigrants from the western coast. A man and his wife had drawn the attentions of their impoverished neighbors with rich clothes and accents seldom heard in the eastern regions. It was rumored that this couple had a single child, a daughter, who had been born with such monstrous deformities that none had ever set eyes upon her face. The unfortunate maid was kept shrouded beneath thick robes and veils when not hidden behind the walls of her home.

 

            The folk of Stone Cross had come to believe that these strangers were either bastards of highborn Myrl royalty or fleeing slaves from that great house. None believed that they were farmers, for the strangers purchased most of their goods from the trading post with golden coins which bore the likeness of King Zarak D’Myrl.

 

            Building a home had cost the exiles from the west dearly. Every farmer and cowherd within two leagues of the hamlet had been hired to construct a mud brick house with a thatched roof for the immigrant family.  And when the odd newcomer had requested that a tall, rounded turret be added to the three room home, it had only fanned the flames of gossip to an inferno.

 

            For five winters the strangers lived in Stone Cross, doing naught which would draw the unwanted attentions of others upon them. But nevertheless, the tales had been carried down the river to the island fortress of Krigkarl. The elder priests, upon hearing the story of a family who had fled the Mryl court, dispatched Gyda to find the truth in Stone Cross.

 

 

            The changeling circled the village several times before settling upon the window sill of a cottage half a league from the trading post. The mud brick cottage of those she sought was obvious, for a rounded turret had been added to the design. This feature was unique to cottages on the western shores of Tavia, near Noircliff, giving further credence to the gossip.

 

            Entering through an open window, the Krigan priestess in the form of a bird fluttered from table to chair searching for a clue which would reveal the true identity of the owners of this house. Loud snoring emanated from the dimly lit interior of the home and Gyda quietly flew across the room to land upon the foot post of a crudely built bed.

 

            A man and woman slept back to back beneath a single woolen blanket. Gyda fluttered onto the mattress beside the man and turned her head, studying the grey haired stranger with one eye. His thinning hair and ruddy, lined face proclaimed his age to be of forty or more winters. The man Gyda sought would also be of middle age, but she knew little else about him, except for his name.

 

            Beating her wings, Gyda hovered above the bed, startling the sleeping couple with a sharp cry. The woman screamed, rolling onto her back and pulling the covers over the lower half of her face.

 

 “Davyn! Wake up!” she shrilled.

 

            The man shot up in bed, blinking in confusion as the silver grey bird circled the room. Gyda gracefully banked into a turn and glided out the same open window by which she had entered the cottage. She climbed into the night sky and flew to the northeast, seeking the war camp of her brother, the high king of the Krigan clan, Brondol. His army was encamped in the valley of Tordon, along with the Myrl troops, preparing to drive the Konal forces from their homeland.

 

Gyda flew on through the night until she saw the glow of many campfires spread across the valley below. The sun was just painting the sky with soft pink light as she descended though the morning mists to the Krigan camp.

 

            Gyda’s brother, Brondol, would be pleased that she had learned the truth about the man they called Davyn and his wife, Linna. There was much gold to be made from this knowledge. The exiled couple, from the city of Noircliff, guarded a precious and much sought after treasure.

 

            The future queen of the Myrl, Princess Jestaen D’Myrl.

 

       

 

 

 

 

           

Crouched in the pitched black of a cold, damp cellar, Jestaen D’Myrl waited. The small underground room, beneath the wooden floor of her family’s modest home, was now as much a trap as a sanctuary from the men who were invading Stone Cross. Warriors from Krigkarl had entered the village and were searching this cottage for anything of value. Jestaen could hear the cries of live stock being slaughtered in the yard and the rancid smell of burning wood and flesh choked the air around her. Plates and tea cups shattered against the floor inches above the young woman’s head. All of the precious treasures which her foster parents, Linna and Davyn, had so carefully transported from the city of Noircliff were being destroyed by a horde of murdering thieves, who had attacked without warning.

 

            Somewhere outside the building a woman screamed. Her agonized cry came to an abrupt halt, bringing another jolt of terror to Jestaen. She could hear the barbarians as they spoke to each other in deep, muted voices and then something large crashed against the wooden floor, raining a shower of dirt and debris upon her head.

 

Jestaen covered her mouth to keep from sobbing with fright as the intruders’ heavy footsteps move directly above her. She felt the contents of her stomach churning and heart pounded against her ribs like a drum. The maiden held her breath, fearing that the slightest noise would reveal her presence to the savages who were ransacking her home.

 

 

            Suddenly the small section of hinged floor, which led to the cellar, was pulled open. Light from a torch fill the confined space. The dark silhouette of a huge man crouched down to peer into Jestaen’s hiding place. She heard a chuckle rumble through the man’s chest and then a rough hand clamped around her delicate wrist like an iron manacle. Jestaen was painfully dragged out of the cellar; her white linen blouse caught on the rough edge of a wooden plank and ripped, as a scream tore from her throat.

 

            The two men crowded close to Jestaen, one holding his torch high, illuminating her terrified face and long auburn hair. The other brigand caught her upper arms in a steel grip and literally lifted her off the floor.

 

            “Gor! We share her!” the barbarian holding her arms boomed in an excited voice.

 

            “Aye.” the torch bearer tore the remains of Jestaen’s blouse from her body with his free hand and then caught a handful of her skirt and ripped it along the seam. The maiden screamed again and struggled, kicking out with her feet until they made contact with a hard shin bone. But the man holding her in a bruising grip did not even flinch. Instead, he laughed as he carried Jestaen into the back room of the cottage.

 

            The young woman was thrown down upon the straw filled mattress of her own bed with such force that it momentarily stunned her. Regaining her wits, Jestaen tried to scramble away. But the second man placed one knee upon the bed and captured both of her wrists in his dirty, calloused hands. His companion had already shed his worn leather leggings, exposing his heated lust and brutal intention for the thrashing young woman. Jestaen had never seen a fully aroused male before and realization of what these men meant to do forced another ear piercing scream from her throat. Her body bucked and rolled wildly in a futile attempt to gain release as the foul smelling savage pinned her beneath him.

           

            “Hold!” a voice thundered from behind Jestaen’s attacker. “Leave her or feel my axe in your back, Norg.”

 

            Norg and Gor released Jestaen immediately. Norg, stomped across the room to retrieve his leggings as his cohort hastened to obey with a muttered curse.

 

Shaking violently, her pale green eyes wide with terror, Jestaen stared at the man who had stopped the rape. He was a blonde giant. A leather headband crossed his broad forehead, leaving his hair to fall in uneven lengths passed his massive shoulders. A dark blue, scrolling tattoo flourished from brow to jaw line on one side of his stern face. His eyes shone silver in the torch light as he came to stand above Jestaen.

 

Reaching down, the tall Krigan took Jestaen’s chin in his hand, studying her face for a moment before letting his gaze travel over her body. The giant unsheathed a gleaming dagger and cut the remains of Jestaen’s skirt from her waist. She screamed again as the barbarian roughly turned her over, face down on the mattress. The maiden did not see the way in which the savage’s eyes lit with greed as he inspected the tattoo of a green crescent moon on the small of her back. Jestaen’s rescuer threw a blanket over her nakedness and turned towards his waiting men.

 

            “She is promised to King Zarek.” the apparent leader barked at his clansmen. “The woman is to remain unspoiled. Her value in gold is greater to me than your life will be, should you touch her again.”

 

            Wrapping Jestaen D’Myrl roughly in the blanket from her bed, Brondol of Krigkarl threw the struggling young woman over his shoulder and carried her out into the cold night air.   

 

 

 

 

 

           

 

 

The Krigan war camp was centered beneath a small cluster of pine trees in a valley shadowed by the Tallon Mountains.  An army of Myrl warriors and Orcish mercenaries were spread across the rolling hills of dried grass, sheltered from the wind by foothills to the north and east. Tomorrow the Myrl general would lead the Krigan, Orc and Myrl warriors in a final attempt to drive the Konals and their allies from the eastern territories. But tonight the army rested, secure in the strength of its numbers. None would dare to attack a force this large. Not even the Konal King.

 

 

            The moon was a huge slice of silver surrounded by hazy clouds. It hung low on the horizon and shed its light upon a dozen Krigan raiders galloping from the direction of Stone Cross.  Brondol, the Krigan king, led his warriors back to their encampment near the foothills of the Tallon Mountains. The Krigan leader rode his white stallion bareback, his long muscular legs easily controlling his mount as he balanced the burden of his captive. Skirting the cook fire in the center of the camp, Brondol drew the steed to a halt and slid to the ground, still carrying the Myrl woman wrapped in a blanket.

 

The captive had stopped struggling after she had seen the older woman’s naked, lifeless body sprawled upon the ground outside the cottage. The man, Davyn, had tried to defend his home, but was easily overpowered and locked in the barn to burn. His dying screams had echoed in the darkness as Brondol and his men galloped away from the ransacked farm.

 

            Now the red haired female Myrl was still, except for the occasional quaking of her limbs. Brondol released the traumatized woman, letting her slip to the ground. After signaling for his sister, Gyda, to attend his captive, the Krigan King handed the reins of his stallion to a bowing slave and settled near the fire. Drawing his dagger from its sheath, Brondol helped himself to the roasted venison, which dripped sizzling fat into the flames.

 

            Brondol watched the Myrl princess in the firelight as he ate. She was like a jewel; her royal breeding apparent in the perfection of her face. The young woman would bear many strong sons and flame haired daughters for her husband. And her royal blood would secure for her mate the power and wealth of the great house of Myrl. Were it not for the fortune in gold which King Zarek had offered for the woman’s safe return, Brondol would surely keep this maiden as his second wife. But a messenger had already been dispatched to broker the exchange of the maid for gold.

 

 Brondol’s silver grey eyes narrowed thoughtfully, a plan forming in his mind. Perhaps he would steal this female back and hide her from the Myrl king after payment had been made. The aging ruler of Noircliff had not left his keep since Brondol was a child. And those who Zarek had entrusted to command his legions were fools and miscreants, all.

 

Licking the grease from his fingers, Brondol thought of the wealth and power which would soon be his. Cooperation from the Myrl guard could be easily bought with the coin of their master. In the morning, Brondol planned to carry the female Myrl to the Lake of Voices, twenty leagues to the west, until the ransom had been collected. He could trust no one, save the priests in that sacred village, to hide his captive until the gold could be transported from Noircliff. Tomorrow’s battle with the Konal forces before gave him little choice but to remove the captive from the area.

 

 

 

 

            Jestaen felt numb with shock as she stared into the face of a barbarian woman. The Krigan female had the same blonde hair and piercing grey eyes as the one they called Brondol. A dark blue tattoo covered the woman’s forehead and curled around her left eyebrow, flowing onto her cheek. Her features would not be considered beautiful by Myrl standards. But her high cheek bones and small nose gave the barbarian woman’s face a distinctly feminine grace. She wore boiled leather leggings and the tunic of a warrior. But the tunic was heavily decorated with silver beads and silver earrings swung from her ears, setting her apart from the male savages of this camp.

 

Gyda dragged Jestaen to her feet, wrenching the blanket away, leaving the young woman naked to the curious stares of the Krigan men. Some of the warriors began to make a deep barking noise of approval, until Gyda gave a loud hiss of warning to silence them. The dazed captive stood passively while the Krigan woman inspected Jestaen’s body for injuries as if she were purchasing a mare at the Krig Hammer market.

 

Gyda rubbed a greasy yellow ointment over the bruising which marred Jestaen’s skin before pulling a green hooded robe around her and fastening it at her throat. After forcing Jestaen into a sitting position by the fire, Gyda knelt before her and held a wine skin to the frighten captive’s lips. An intoxicating mixture of plum wine and Kaima root would keep the Myrl female submissive until she could be ransomed.

 

“Drink!” the Krigan priestess commanded, forcing the purple liquid into Jestaen’s mouth. She choked and tried to push the skin away, but Gyda’s strength was far greater and in the end Jestaen swallowed the drugged wine.

 

“Soon you will sleep, Myrl.” Gyda assured the captive in a soothing voice.

  

Jestaen began to shiver uncontrollably despite the fire’s warmth and the hooded robe. All around her the murderers of her adopted family ate and drank as if they were celebrating at a royal feast. Across the fire, Brondol boasted to his men about the raid at Stone Cross. They had burned the house and barn, killing all except for this woman. And she was to be sold for a great sum of gold.

 

Again, there came deep barking of approval from the men of Krigkarl. Brondol, they said, was wiser than the Konal king. Wise enough to keep the great Myrl king as his ally, while selling that same foolish man his own kin.

 

The Krigan warriors who had ridden with Brondol to Stone Cross carried tokens of the night’s raid; golden goblets, a string of pearls, a wooden box inlaid with jade and a finely carved lap harp adorned with gold. The barbarian who held the harp plucked roughly at its delicate strings, bringing another round of barking approval from the horde. But Brondol’s sharp eyes did not miss the look of recognition and intense interest on Jestaen’s face, and in response, the chieftain ordered that the harp to be brought to him.

 

“Does this belong to you, lovely Myrl?” Brondol watched closely for her reaction as he held the instrument close to the crackling flames. A sudden hush came over the Krigans who were gathered by the fire.

 

“Please, my lord!” Jestaen pleaded in a trembling voice “Do not burn it.” The magic harp had been Linna’s most prized possession. To see it destroyed would be akin to watching the murder of a beloved friend.

 

Brondol chuckled with pleasure at having a member of the royal House of Myrl groveling for his favor and tossed the instrument into Jestaen’s lap “I will grant your request, for I am feeling most generous this morrow.” he informed her, and his kinsmen barked their approval for his disrespect towards Zarek’s kin. “But someday, you will play just for me, Myrl Queen.”

 

 As Jestaen’s fingers closed around the warm finely carved oak of the harp’s frame, tears filled her eyes. She hugged the harp close to her breast and hung her head in sorrow. Around her the celebration of the murdering Krigans continued, while tears fell from pale green eyes onto the golden strings of  Linna’s healing harp.       

 

 

 

 

 

Castle Myrl

The Port of Noircliff

 

 

Castle Myrl’s white towers glowed in the light of the Moon. The fortress’s four circular turrets could be seen for many leagues along the rocky coast of Noircliff. Sailors often took their bearings by the familiar site of Zarek D’Myrl palatial home when navigating the windswept waters of the Ael Tia Sea.

 

            King Zarek stood upon the balcony of the southeastern tower, gazing out at white capped waves which shimmered beneath the moon. So bright was the light from that waning orb, that the king could see the Myrl insignia of a green crescent moon on the sails of his three largest ships. The Myrl vessels were less than a league away from the deep water port of Noircliff, returning from the gold mines of Fort Kraken, in the southern regions.

 

            Zarek D’Myrl was a tall man in the sixty third winter of his life. His thinning silver hair was tied at the nape of his neck with a golden silk cord. From his broad shoulders a robe of deep green velvet draped to the stone floor. The robe was trimmed in the same golden cord which secured his hair. Zarek always wore the colors of green and gold. They were the colors of his clan. The ancient colors of the Myrl.

 

            The pale green of his eyes proclaimed his heritage. Their unnatural hue marked Zarek as a direct descendant of Myrl royalty. His line stretched back for ten generations to Noir D’Myrl, the explorer who had migrated to these lands and proclaimed himself king. Noir had built a fortress and seaport near a sheltered cove on the northern most shores of Tavia and set about harvesting lumber and mining for precious metals in the surrounding forest and hills.

 

But six centuries later, King Noir’s ancient Tavian city of Myrl lay in ruin; a moss covered pile of stone was all that remained of the once prosperous fortress. Outnumbered in battle by the conquering armies of Konal, more than five hundred winters ago, the survivors of Myrl had fled south along the western coast of Tavia to the mouth of the Gryfinskel River. There the refugees had settled along the fertile shores between the river bank and the Ael Tia Sea. Over the next decade their slaves had labored to build the port of Noircliff and Castle Myrl atop the black rock cliffs.

 

 The old king had amassed an army large enough to hold the lands surrounding the Gryfinskel delta. His territory encompassed lands as far north as the iron mines of the Tallon Mountains and south along the coastal regaions to the gold mines of Port Kraken. He had allied with the chieftains of Krigkarl, who claimed all of the lands east of Noircliff, as far as the Shadowfal pass.

 

            Hearing the familiar footsteps of his high counselor, Olaf, Zarek turned towards the wooden door leading from the balcony to his chambers. The counselor bowed as he approached the King of Myrl.

 

            “Your Grace, I have news of your granddaughter.” the stout, bald headed Olaf announced.

 

            “Has she been found?” Zarek asked; his silver brows creased together above his long thin nose. “Brondol of Krigkarl has succeeded?”

 

            “Aye, Highness.” Olaf grinned “A Krigan changeling has brought word that the servant, Davyn, was indeed hiding on a farm near Stone Cross. As the Krigan king predicted, the traitor fled across the Tordon Valley with Linna and the child.”

 

            The King of Myrl turned back to gaze at the horizon. “It has been five winters since their escape.” he said, thoughtfully. “Jestaen is no longer a child, Olaf. She is eighteen and past an age for marriage.”

 

            “She will make an excellent wife for your son, Highness.” Olaf always agreed with everything his royal highness said. It was his job. “Prince Alrick, I am sure, is ready for the responsibilities of marriage.”

 

            Zarek grunted his doubt as to the state of his son’s readiness. “Whether he is prepared or not, the day quickly approaches when he will be bound to the daughter of Lady Amaris.”

 

            “Aye, your Grace.” Olaf bowed again. He knew the king well enough not to debate the merits of his first born son. “They will, of course, be well matched.”

 

            “More to the point, Olaf, they both carry the pure blood of Myrl in their veins. And as you well know, out of seven trueborn cousins of Myrl blood, Jestaen alone survives. She the only female of pure blood, leaving very little choice of a bride for prince Alrick. My son and Lady Jestaen will continue the line after I am gone from this world.” Lord Zarek replied. The birth of a female child was rare for the royalty of Myrl. More often than not a son would be delivered; and more often than not a male child was smothered at birth by those loyal only to the king. Zarek took no chances that a male cousin or nephew would someday aspire to claim the throne from the aging king. Only the female children of his closely inbred relatives were allowed to live past the first few hours of life. And for this Zarek was feared and hated by his kin.

 

D’Myrl brushed passed a still bowing Sir Olaf and entered the lavish study of his royal apartments. The chamber, within the top floor of the southwestern turret, was circular, with tall glass windows facing out in all directions. From this lofty elevation the King watched his merchant ships entering the port to the south of Castle Myrl and enjoy the setting sun in the west.

 

But further south, on the far side of the inlet, his view was marred by the Slavyr Wharf. A shabby jumble of unpainted wood structures served as a village for the fisher folk and boatmen of Noircliff. During the building of Noircliff, the wharf and its adjacent village had served as sleeping quarters for the slave laborers of Myrl.

 

Over the centuries the community had become a haven for the lower classes of society. The hovels of Slavyr Wharf now housed those of the most meager of means. Open fish markets, Grog shops and brothels crowded together along the waterfront, while rundown boarding houses and driftwood huts lined the shell rock roads leading away from the shoreline. Slavyr Wharf had for decades been an eyesore to Zarek D’Myrl and, in his darker moments, the king had many times vowed to burn the beggars’ town to the ground.

 

The view to the north of castle Myrl was far more to Zarek’s liking. The city proper and the opulent homes of rich merchants spread along the coast for several leagues. Black tile roofs and wrought iron railings, of large grey stone houses and elegant shops were nestled around towering oaks and maples. The shaded cobblestone streets were filled with the finest carriages and purebred horses, most imported from the mainland by D’Myrl’s own ships. To satisfy the discriminating tastes of Noircliff’s citizens, silks and gold cloth, linen and brocade, from the far away ports of Tarellis, were readily available within the busy shops of the city. The sea air carried the scent of spices and the fragrance of fresh baked bread. A golden bell, in the highest tower of the marble temple of Athayr, marked each and every hour of the day and night.

 

That bell now tolled the lateness of the hour, as the king turned his attention from the panoramic view surrounding the tower to the business at hand. A large desk of finely carved oak was centered on a plush carpet in the middle of Zarek’s study. The rug’s pattern was skillfully woven in green and gold, as were the rich tapestries which covered much of the walls between windows. High backed chairs, carved to match the desk, were upholstered in green and solid gold candelabras stood like palace guards around the perimeter of the room.

 

The king braced his hands against the desk, gazing down at a parchment map of Tavia that covered its polished surface. The Tordon territories had long served as a battleground for the armies, but the vastness of the island’s central valley made it impossible to secure for any length of time. Even the barbarians of Krigkarl claimed the  Tordon territories as their own, but could not hold the lands from the forces of the Eastern Alliance. And so for centuries the fertile flatland had gone unplanted and the only herds to graze upon the sweet grasses were that of wild horses and range steer. The precious land was wasted as the opposing armies fought and died in a never ending quest to claim the valley.

 

For generations, the kings of Myrl had maintained a close alliance with the clan of Krigkarl. Not only were the warriors of Krigkarl merciless fighters, but their clever changeling holy men had become a constant source of information from the east. In the guise of a bird, the Krigan priests were Zarek D’Myrl’s eyes and ears across the vast distance of Tavia.

 

Two winters ago the Konal forces had defeated the Myrl army between Shadowfal Pass and the lake of Voices, claiming many leagues of the eastern territories. Only six moons ago, the Krigan priests had brought news that a new Konal stronghold was nearly completed within a day’s ride of Stone Cross. Zarek had immediately ordered five thousand of his personal guard to attack the Konals and force them back to the Shadowfal Pass. Orchish fighters from the fortresses of Og and Cog had been hired to reinforce the Myrl troops and the mercenaries of Krigkarl were once again called upon to trade their skills for gold.

 

The king had hoped that his niece, Jestaen, would be returned to the safety of Noircliff before his troops invaded the eastern regions of Tordon. In the event of her rescue, Zarek had given orders to his commander that five hundred guards were to be dispatched from the army as escort for the princess’ perilous journey across the wilds of Tordon. His hopes at the time had been that the Konal army would be driven back to the Shadowfal Pass before the last Gathering Moon had faded from the horizon and the loss of five hundred from the Myrl army would not hinder their success.

 

            “If your spies have returned with news from Stone Cross, then you must also have word of the army’s movements.” Zarek asked, without looking up from the map. “Have our forces curtailed the advancement of Konal on the eastern plains? Has their keep been destroyed?”

 

 

            Olaf had almost forgotten the message in his hand. “The general sends this report of his progress.” he held out the worn leather packet, but the king ignored the missive and rang a small golden bell which sat upon the corner of his desk. The door to the study opened immediately and a young male page, dress in gold livery stood at attention in the doorway.

 

            “Summon Lady Amaris.” Zarek commanded. The boy bowed his head and withdrew. King Zarek strolled from the desk to the window facing south. “Counselor, please review the message and give me the highlights.” he turned his back to Olaf, watching his ships as they entered the harbor. Zarek was pleased to see how their hulls rode low in the water; their holds filled to capacity.

 

            The high counselor was quick to obey, breaking the wax seal and silently reading the details of the campaign to defend the eastern lands of Tordon. “We encountered a large force of the Alliance, twenty five leagues west of the new Konal stronghold. The army of Konal has inflicted heavy losses upon our troops.” he looked at Zarek’s straight back and swallowed before continuing “Thirty five hundred of our number lost, your Grace.” 

           

“Myrl troops or mercenaries?” the king asked, quietly.

 

            “Gunnard did not specify, sire.”

 

            “Our brave general hides the truth.” Zarek growled, as he strode back to the map “If the losses were those of Orcs, savages and half-breeds, General Gunnard would not withhold the details.” the king’s gaze fixed upon the area of the map which depicted eastern lands of Tordon. “So, the enemy has claimed another twenty leagues of the valley?” his fists clenched with anger. The armies of Konal were as relentless as the crashing waves of the Ael Tia Sea upon the shores of Noircliff. If left unchecked it would be only a matter of time before the Konal king himself stood at the gates of Castle Myrl.

 

            At that moment there was a light tapping at the door and the king called his permission to enter. A slender woman dressed in scarlet silk swept into the room. She filled the king’s study with the scent of roses, bringing a smile to Olaf’s lips. The Lady Amaris, although of middle age, was fair of face with dark auburn hair and the pale ethereal green eyes of Myrl royalty. With a whisper of silk she glided to a halt before Zarek’s huge desk and gracefully made her curtsy to the king.

 

            “You wish to see me, my lord?” her soft voice belied the distain in her lovely eyes as she met the king’s gaze. The lady was Zarek’s cousin, yet she too lived in fear of the king’s temper.

 

She had borne three sons and a daughter for, Travon, the younger brother of the king. All but the female had been murdered within minutes after their birth. Soon after Jestaen’s birth Travon had also succumbed to a mysterious illness; and although there was little love between them, the prince’s death had only added to Lady Amaris’ hatred for the king.  Her contempt for Zarek was well known and there were few who doubted the rumored that she had actually engineered the kidnapping of her own daughter to prevent the union of Princess Jestaen to Zarek’s only son, Prince Alrick.

 

            Upon seeing the color of Amaris’s gown, Zarek’s anger gathered like a thunderhead across his face “I have asked you not to wear that garment beyond the privacy of your chambers, Amaris.”

 

            “Indeed, you have. But it pleases me to wear the color of a blood rose, cousin.” Amaris answered, her delicate hands lovingly smooth the material of her skirt as her eyes taunted Zarek “There are some things which you cannot take from me.”

 

Lady Amaris turned her back on the king, showing her disregard for his rank and strolled across the room to study a tapestry of deer being hunted in a forest of green and gold. “Do you merely crave my company, your Grace, or is there a more pressing reason, for which my presence is required?”

 

            The anger seemed to dissipate from the king’s countenance at the lady’s question. Zarek’s eyes narrowed with anticipation and he unconsciously straightened to his full height. “I summoned you here to share some news which I have just received from my Krigan spys on the eastern front. It seems they have discovered that the traitors, Davyn and Linna, along with your daughter, princess Jestaen, fled to the territories of the Tordon Valley. For the last five winters your faithless servants have hidden my niece in a village known as Stone Cross.” he stopped to savor the sight of the woman’s reaction. Her cheeks lost their glowing blush and her lips parted in a gasp.

 

“Aye, those who stole your daughter have been found, my dear. I thought you might welcome the news that Princess Jestaen will soon be returning to the bosom of her family.” the parody of a smile shadowed his thin lips “The traitors, Davyn and Linna, will be dealt with by the barbarians whom I have hired remove young Jestaen from Stone Cross. The execution of the criminals will be administered in the Krigan territories, since your servants chose to leave the safety of Myrl for the lands of Tordon. Indeed, death at the hands of Krigan savages seems a fitting end for those who would conspire against the crown of Myrl.”

 

            Amaris covered her mouth with her hands and stared, wide eyed, at Zarek. Her head moved from side to side in silent denial of the words she was hearing.

 

            “And as you well know, cousin,” Zarek continued. “Jestaen is promised to Prince Alrick. The marriage will take place as soon as Princess Jestaen is returned to my care.” The king nearly laughed at the mask of horror which distorted his cousin’s lovely face. “I hope that this information has brought you as much joy as it has given to me.”