Chapter One

I wrote this a while back, and have some of chapter two done.

The sun had barely risen.

                                    The wind had barely picked up.

                                               The day had barely begun.

            

And yet, a man’s hurried footsteps sounded on the cobblestone paths of the Castle of Jetril. There was urgent news, so the out-of-breath, sleep-deprived messenger had said. He had all but fallen from his horse, after three days and nights of nonstop riding, through the worst storm the north had seen in months. There, collapsed on the floor, nearing unconsciousness, he had handed his charge to the first man standing by. That man had been Harel Karslin. And now, Harel Karslin was walking briskly towards the throne room, where he hoped the King would be. It was early enough that he could very well be still in bed, but his Majesty had always been an early riser. With luck, he would not have to wake the his Majesty…himself.

            Harel Karslin was a simple man, from a simple family. He didn’t think too much of himself, a good quality for a simple servant, dressed in the blue and silver livery of Jetril. Yet, even the simplest of men could have seen the anxiety, the fear, and the near panic in the messenger’s eyes, and recognized it for what it was. Harel Karslin did not know what tidings the letter contained; but turning the letter over in his hands as he walked, he thought he recognized, barely recognized, but recognized nonetheless, the seal it bore. The Kingdom of Havithon. There was nothing but bad news from that Godforsaken place nowadays; nothing but ghost stories, superstitious old wives tales. Many wondered, though, if not all of them were tales.

            It was not long before Harel Karslin came to rest before the great doors of the throne room. He drew in a deep breath, nodded to the guards at each side, and entered the gleaming blue and silver throne room of the Castle of Jetril. The bare stone floor below his boots, inlaid with the occasional piece of onyx and sapphires, threw forth the sounds of each step.  The stained glass windows, catching what little light there was in the sky, caught the tension in his face, amid the pale colors they rained upon him. The King, dressed richly in blue velvet and black and silver fur, taking his morning glass of white wine. As he neared, the King looked up.

            “What news shall we have to start the day?” Harel Karslin bowed before his King and held the letter before him.    

            “My Liege, we have received a letter from Havithon.”

            “From where?” The King asked, leaning forwards just a little.

            “From the King of Havithon, in the Trewy Mountains,” Harel clarified.

            “Well, we haven’t heard anything from them in ages. Let us see what they have to say, shall we?” The King held out his hand, and Harel ascended the steps to place the unopened letter in it.

            “The rider who brought this imparted, several times, that the news it held was of the most important rank. It was also extremely urgent that it was read, understood, and replied to, as quickly as Your Highness could do so.” Harel informed the King, head bowed as he retreated from the steps.

            “Is that so?” The King murmured, “Well, it mustn’t wait then.” Harel peeked at the King from under his hair and cleared his throat.

            “If I may speak freely…” The King raised an eyebrow, his finger at the side of the seal. He appeared amused, but nodded nonetheless. Harel stood up, to gaze upon his Kings visage. “The man who handed me this letter nearly died with the effort of bringing it here. I shudder to think about sending him out immediately, but he said that he must; that he would do it, for his Kingdom, for his people. A man such as this, I believe, is to be commended, not condemned with a suicide run. My Liege, I don’t know the contents of this letter, but it must be graver tidings than we have right to suspect. We have heard stories about them, from everywhere, for some time now. If even the riders wish to bring back a reply so soon…what hardships they have borne over the years have been enough to make the strongest nations gasp. If what they face now is any worse, it is nearly unimaginable. I ask that, should they ask for aid, we decide upon a course of action immediately. It must be well thought out, so the man has time to rest, else he kills his horse, and himself, in the process of returning the reply to his King.”

            A smile played upon the lips of the King, and he turned his head as he studied the man before him. “For a simple servant, you really do have a brilliant mind. Your capacity for compassion is unparalleled,” The King said at length. Harsel bowed his head, hiding his smile. It was well known that Harel Karslin was a simple man; he boasted about it weekly. Yet, simple as he was, it was no secret that he was an intelligent man, and well loved by the council members. There were quite a few who requested him, from time to time, just to chat. Some even asked that he attend their meetings, most of which were purely business. It was said he was even a personal favorite of the King himself. Still, Harel Karslin let it be known that he was a simple man, with no political intentions or schemes; simply a peculiar sense of moral duty, and abounding common sense. Sometimes, only the simplest mind could discern the truth.

            “Thank you, My Liege.” Seeing Harel about to leave, the King was struck by a thought.

            “You may stay with us as we read it. If you wish.”

            “If it pleases you, My Liege,” Harel replied, smiling to himself. The King saw him, ready to stand there, and laughed.

            “Here,” The King said, motioning to a chair at his right, “Have a seat.”

            “I am honored, My Liege.” Harel said as he sat down. Their banter was an old game they played, from the days when the King had been young, and Harel had been the one in charge of him, barely a young man himself. Smiling as well, the King, Paterik the Fifth, from the noble family of the Sermin, settled into his throne more comfortably and broke the seal on the letter.

            Harel watched his Kings expressions carefully, as the letter was read. He was good at that, reading emotions in the face. That was one of the things the old King, Gods bless his soul, and the current valued in him. It had kept both of them out of hot water on many occasions. Today was different. There was only one man for him to read. What he witnessed alarmed him. It began with a smile. No doubt the King of Havithon, a distant cousin of sorts, was beginning quite formally. However, as the Kings eyes scanned from line to line, a look of worry and pain crossed his countenance. A frown began to develop. It grew, and his eyes grew wide. As he began to come to the close of the letter, it seemed as though he was holding his breath, his eyes moving with a feverish intensity.

            “Oh my,” the King muttered under his breath, “this is not what we had expected at all.”  

            “Can I be of any assistance, My Liege?”

            “In all our years of dealing with one another, we have never known Johlen to lie. If this is truly the state of his Kingdom, he is more than right to ask for assistance; especially with such dark reports as these.” The King, pale and shaken, looked upon Harel for the first time since reading he letter. “Read this last bit,” he said, proffering the letter to the man, “Once done, tell us what you think.”  Harel took the letter, and scanned down to the end of the page.

                        ...forgetting. The letter I speak of is from that prison. Or rather, from the leader of the criminals of that prison, who calls himself Geretche Ralda. Yes, I too recognize the name. If this is true, think about how many other lines have survived without our knowing! What monsters have we inadvertently created? Who knows how many have flocked there over the years. I could not have protected every border of the forest, even if I had known! I should have demanded the eradication of that prison the moment I sensed something wrong. But there was so much wrong in the world at the time that I didn’t think it pressing enough to warrant too much attention. Now, I see the error I have made, perhaps the gravest in the history of my Kingdom; and, very well, the last. You see, they plan to attack. From the tone of this letter, I believe we can assume that they do not mean Havithon alone. They mean to rule the world that imprisoned them. If we are to survive, we will be in need of men, of supplies. Yet, I know, that not even that will defeat them. I wish I had some final wisdom to impart upon you in this hour of crises, but it is a wonder that we have made it even thus far. I urge you to act quickly. Plan accordingly and gather your men without delay. Even if you cannot aid us in time, you will be far better prepared then we.

                                     Johlen Garle, King of Havithon

            “My Liege,” Harel said, returning his gaze to his King, unable to say more, He had already felt the blood drain from his face.

            “We know,” the King said, nodding slowly, as if a great weight had just been shifted to his shoulders. “We must call up a council immediately. Every councilman from here to the Valley of Mahles, to the Ocean of Xoty; every king, every man, who can possibly help us decide.”

            “My Liege,” Harel said, scanning the letter again. “You don’t believe that he is truly the descendant of…”

            “We are not sure. Let us pray that it is not so.”

            “But it is said that Rynor Relot Ralda was never caught.” The Kings eyes slowly became less clouded, his forehead momentarily smoothed. “But what if he found his way there, and began teaching, using his name as the ultimate prize?” The King once more sunk into deep thoughts.

            “I will get messengers right on it, My Liege. What shall I have them write?” The King stood.

            “No, Karslin. This is a message only we can dictate.” He strode down the hall, back straight, head held high, and Harel had to smile. That was his King. If any man was going to deal with this shadowy issue, it would be him. He followed behind, as they descended a stone stairway to the lower level, and into the scribe’s chambers.  The smell of parchment and ink permeated the perpetual candle smoke scent in the air. The scribes were always awake, ready to take down messages. The three not already hard at work snapped to attention.

            “How can we be of service this morning, My Liege,” the elder scribe asked. The younger one at his side stifled a yawn, and the other smiled grimly.

            “We have an urgent message we need copied down. It is to be distributed to all the towns and cities of this Kingdom.” The elder scribe took his spectacles from his pocket and looked at the King.

            “Is it as serious as that?”

            “We are afraid so.” The King admitted.

            “Then there is little time to waste,” the man replied, and took a seat at a bench. The two younger scribes unrolled parchment for him, before getting their stations ready.

            “At your leisure, My Liege,” The elder scribe said, hand on pen.

            “To the Councilmen of Jetril; I, King Paterik the Fifth, Ruler of Jetril, Eastwood, and SeastPort, call an immediate council session. Convene at Jetril Castle with all haste.”

            “This is to be repeated eight and eighty times?” The elder scribe asked, before blowing the ink dry.

            “Yes, one for each of them,” The King replied with a nod.

            “I am happy that it is such a simple message.” The elder scribe said with a short laugh, “We will get to work immediately.”

            “Excellent.” The King smiled, a grave, but grateful smile, “Scribe master Pohlt, you have yet to fail us.”

            “I live to see the day,” the elder scribe said with a bow, “and to die upon it.” The King patted the old man on the back, and left him to work. Harel, who had finally arrived, sighed and turned to walk with him.

            “Don’t feel so bad, my old friend,” the King said, “You are getting on in your years. Not as much as our dear Scribe master, of course, but enough. You did not miss much, we assure you.” Harel, through labored breathing, managed to laugh. The King was consoling him.

            “Yes,” he replied, trailing behind, “he was wizened even before my time.” The King laughed and waited at the entrance to the courtyard for him. The stepped into the sunlight, and followed the path at a slower pace.

            “Today will be a beautiful day,” the King remarked.

            “So it will,” Harel replied, breathing deeply in the wonderful scents of the spring buds beginning to blossom.

            “It is a shame that the flowers only bloom for such a short time,” The King mused, lifting a vine to his nose.

            “Short as it may be, the scent is worth the wait, not?” Harel said, smiling as he too caught the aroma on the light breeze.

            “Will they strike during the summer?” The King asked as they moved around a growing dalir bush. Harel thought, his smile grim. There was no need to explain who the King was referring to. Harel and he had been having conversations like this for quite some time. The King knew that there were times for pleasure, and times for business, but sometimes, like now, it was best to mix them.

            “I can only say this much,” Harel said, leaning in the shade of a tree, “if they plan on causing the most havoc, they will take their time. They will not dash here immediately; they will carve a path of ruin. They very may well strike soon. They could wait until winter, when supplies will be scarce. We had best be prepared wither way.”  

            “But how, Harel, how can we prepare?”

            “I don’t know, but we have to. More than just our lives depend upon it. As surely as fall follows summer, these plants will die; we have to save the seeds. They must be protected, so that they may grow again. Thus it is with the Kingdom, and with all life. We must stop this onslaught, before it stops us. The world they will create…” Harel began, shuddering, “Will be no place for green.” The King walked over to him, and rested a hand on the older man’s shoulder.

            “We will have to ensure that we never see that day.”

            “But how?” Harel said; head bowed in the shade, he echoed the King question.

            “It doesn’t matter; we will find a way.”

            “Yes, we will.”

            “I haven’t known many men capable of such mental tasks as you are, Harel. I doubt, in all my dealings, I ever will. I will have need of you in the coming months.” Karslin, eyes still closed, smiled, a tear hidden behind his lids. The King had dropped the royal we, and addressed Karslin man to man. This was an unparalleled honor; though the two had had many occasions like this, it was a breathtaking moment.

            “You honor me far beyond my position, My Liege.”

            “Please Harel. In this courtyard, let it be Paterik.”

            “Thank you, Paterik.” The two men smiled in the shade. It had been a long time since circumstances had allowed a moment like this. The trade negotiations with surrounding nations had been on edge lately. Why was yet to be determined. The feeling of respect and friendship lingered for a few moments, until…

            “My Liege!” Another messenger walked into the courtyard. From their vantage point, the King and Harel could see the man, but he could not spot them.

            “Well, it was nice while it lasted,” The King said with a sigh. “Back to business.” Harel nodded and composed himself.

            “Yes?” The King replied, stepping around the tree.

            “There is a rider from the Holy Nation of Ojrelo.” The messenger answered.

            “Have we forgotten our tithes?” The King joked.

            “I fear the news is of a more serious matter, My Liege. The messenger is most anxious o see you.”

            “Tell him we are coming.” The messenger ran off, and the King turned to Harel.

            “We may need you sooner than we thought.” Harel nodded, and the two proceeded within. They were soon met by a strange sight; a man in the gold, white, and red of the Holy Kingdom of Ojrelo, was slumped in a chair, gulping down a cool cup of water. He looked worried, that was the strange part. There was little that worried the people of Ojrelo. They were a nation of intellectuals. They kept to themselves; they traded only when necessary; they made excellent counselors, if you could get them out of their capital, Zarfurst.

            Here were kept the relics and holy shrines of the religions of the world. Each city housed a Gods Quarter, a segment of the city devoted to the Kingdom’s religious shrines, but the first of these, the original shrines, were housed in Zarfurst. There was no King; there was a God chosen council, each member devote to their religion, a figure of power, but able to see the grey area between their religion and another. To be chosen, you had to prove yourself to the Gods, all of them. You had to prove your knowledge and understanding of each religion to be considered.

            The oath was another matter entirely: one had to swear an oath that one believed that there was one God and one Goddess, and that they chose to show themselves in different forms. Some religions believed that there were multiple Gods and Goddesses; some that there was some unnamable higher power. There were always disputes over the views, and there had been many small wars over these beliefs. The Council had been brought into being by these powers to stop a war that could, and would, should it begin, consume the world.

            “The Kingdom of Jetril welcomes a messenger of Ojrelo into its halls,” the King said, standing before the man.

            “The Holy Nation of Ojrelo thanks Jetril for its hospitality.” The man replied with a nod, before gulping down more water.

            “What have you for us?” The King asked. The messenger stood and saluted the King.

            “The High Priestess of Jetril has not made it to Ojrelo. She was due to arrive a week ago. She has not been seen inside the walls yet.”

            “We are glad that Ojrelo has informed us that…” The King began, but his smile froze as the words began to sink in. “Has not made it?” The visage of the King clouded, but only for a moment. “We will begin the search right away. What is Ojrelo prepared to do?”

            “We will pray for her return, and keep a look out for her along our walls.”

            “That is all?” The King asked coldly. He had dealt with the Ojrelan people before; they were not known for their human bonds. Many believed that they were too cold, too indifferent towards other human beings. They cared only for things above and beyond this realm of existence. Knowledge was their passion; people were just tools to gaining it. This, of course, was a stereotype, but one that was well reinforced by their behavior.

            “You know the policies; Ojrelo will wait and see what the Gods decide.”

            “Waiting is not always an option,” The King seethed. Harel placed a hand on the Kings elbow, out of sight of the others. The King sighed, drawing comfort and peace through Harel’s presence.

            “Jetril thanks Ojrelo for its contribution.” The messenger nodded, and, turning sharply, left the hall.

            “Send word to Horse Master Equenso; we require a search party.” The King said to Harel, and he knew that today was going to be a long day.

                        *******************************************************

            Daylight shone on The Tumbler, and a few rays crept into the stable. The man’s eyes snapped open. With a swiftness born of practice and instinct, he grabbed his small pouch, gripped the cloak around him, and jumped from the loft. Rolling into an empty stall, he moved behind the beam, and glanced around. On a road such as this, many would have left by now. He should have been up earlier. This was hardly thte time or place to let himself slip up. There was little time to consider the implications; he had to be on his way.

            Climbing out the back of the stable, he avoided bottles with care. Where there was no sound, there was no interest; where there was no interest, there was no trouble. Pulling the cowl down lower over his face, he moved around the edge of the tavern, and onto the road. The closest sign read To Fyrle, the other arrow pointed back, and To Sartyl. He hadn’t come from Sartyl; he hadn’t come from anywhere. At least, not that he knew of. As far back as he could remember, he had been on the run.  He smiled ruthlessly as he walked down the road and amended his memory; there had been a time when he had been safe. A long time ago.

            As a young child, he had been found on the side of the road, outside Varslin, the final battle site of the Weyrs Conflict, by Johan Targinson, a farmer. He had been leaving the city, also named Varslin, when he had spotted a bundle in the ditch. Finding a child wrapped within, he faced a moral dilemma; should he finds the child’s parents, or take the child in. He had decided to take the child home to his wife, who had been able to have only one child, a daughter. Here, the child was raised by the farming family, until he was seven years old, and his heritage had begun to show in his face. The family quickly realized that to keep the child with them was a death wish.

            The final omen came when the barn burned down. The family never kept a lantern there. The daughter, age twelve, was killed. The child was found, crouching over her remains, in the morning. The town came out for the burial; the barn was rebuilt; not once was the child in sight. The family kept him hidden; they knew what he had done; by the tears that continually racked his body, they knew that it had been an accident, a horrible accident, but an accident nonetheless. They knew what torments awaited him should the town see him. Should the town come to realize what they too had realized.

            Then came the night the barn was finished; Johan took the child by the shoulders, and explained to him the powers behind the accident. The child quailed in fear. He didn’t understand. He hadn’t meant to. His father understood; he was compassionate, even in the face of his daughter’s death. Only then did he reveal the reason why he had had to keep the child out of sight. The child had been found with nothing but the cloth he had been wrapped in, but the make was undeniable. It was a common cloth from Raldaron; which, at first made them hesitant. It was a common cloth; after all, any mother could have purchased it. But as they watched, he began to grow, and to show his lineage in his eyes and facial structure. This, undoubtedly, made the child not just from Raldaron, but of the ruling family, a Ralda. The child shuddered, and a light entered his eyes. The man was wary, but the child smiled. He explained that something felt right now. He knew who he was.

            Hesitant to ruin the child’s joy, he explained that this was not necessarily a good thing. He had a surname that was cursed. As the man explained, the child grew fearful. He confessed that at times, there seemed to be some drive in him to do something, something that part of him, the part nurtured by the family, told him was wrong. This was, as the man explained, his darker instincts; traits passed down from father to son, mother to daughter, in his family. It took immense strength to deny them, but the child did. In a final act of compassionate sacrifice, the child left the only home he knew.

            “Watch where you’re walking!” A Wagoner yelled down to the man as he swerved into the center of the road. The man nodded, keeping his face in the shadow of the cowl, and shook his head to clear his thoughts. Reminiscing was dangerous; he had learned that the hard way. One evening, as he had walked off a dock, he had been careless with his thoughts, and had stumbled into a sailor. He had been recognized. The sailor shouted out, and the man had been forced to run, as he was pursued by rocks and arrows. He had to focus on getting to Fyrle, and getting on the first ship southbound. He didn’t know why, but he felt like going south.

Reviews

[Jules]

Intriguing, though I thought it might be interesting to start your story with the child and the fire. It has intense action, and it would bring out our sympathies as a reader to experience what the boy went through. Hope you write more soon!

[Website of a Writer as a Young Man]

Thank you! I was looking for a new way to introduce the main character, you'll see what i'm planning as it comes along.