Lord of Arradon

By Heath Aston

Centuries before, High King Arradon amassed his army against the tyranny threatened by his mortal enemy Abraxos. The victory he won that day was the birth of the Kingdom, a victory that would not have been possible without the aid of one man – Talain Dar-Khan.
In the eight hundred years since that time, the Kingdom has seen many Kings, but always the nine Lords of Arradon have remained the same. Taking the names of their forefathers in a continuing line of mighty warriors, the nine Lords of Arradon have fought and defended the Kingdom in civil wars and the catastrophic events of the Demonwars.
The Talain Dar-Khan of the time saw victory in this war, but at great personal cost – the loss of his adored Auleon. With a pyrrhic victory he exiled himself into the wilds of the South far from all he had known.
Now five years later assassins are sent to kill him. In the fight he finds that he was decieved by a man that was a brother to him. The King is missing, presumed dead. The ursurper seeks the throne for himself and incredibly, intends to marry the woman that Talain thought dead.
Now the legendary Talain Dar-Khan is compelled back to the life he walked away from. He seeks his beloved and the restoration of the line he has fought for all his life.
With friends old and new he travels towards the capital. But forces are moving against him. The ursurper wants Talain dead. But there are others making their own moves in the game, bringing forth unstoppable dark forces that would see the utter destruction of the Kingdom.
But he is Talain Dar-Khan, mightiest warrior of the age. And he will not be denied.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heath Aston
• Release date: May 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781311260857

Heath Aston

Born and raised in the fickle-weathered city of Melbourne, Australia, Heath worked in all sorts of jobs in all sorts of places, from high rise city buildings to keeping an eye out for crocodiles, french cuff shirts to tradie work gear and back again. Along the way he acquired a degree in Philosophy and Psychology as well. An avid reader all his life, he especially enjoys the works of David Gemmel, David Eddings, Ursula LeGuin, Frank Herbert, Tracy Hickman & Margaret Weis, Matthew Riley, Clive Cussler and Tom Clancy among others. Having studied Philosophy he also enjoys the works of Hume, Locke, Rousseau, Hobbes and Nietzsche. Currently writing the third book in the Arradon trilogy, he lives with his wife Jeanette in Melbourne, Australia. Also, he finds it weird writing about himself in the third person.

Book preview

LORD

OF

ARRADON

HEATH ASTON

Copyright 2012 Heath Aston

Smashwords edition

Find out more at www.heathaston.com

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Appendix

PROLOGUE

In Bodies We Number

In Spirit But One

Brothers Eternal

Paladins All

- Blood Oath of the Lords of Arradon, engraven in the stone above the west gate of the Castle of the Great Pass.

The fog had rolled in during the night, and by dawn it had covered the battlefield, limiting visibility to about twenty yards. Maftan shivered in the chill morning air as he weaved his way through the camp on his way to his master's tent. The smell of blood reeked in his nostrils, a wave of nausea coming over him and passing. The smell had been in the air for a week, but Maftan knew that he would never get used to it. A slight man, with a pinched face and too long a nose, Maftan and his family had served Clan Arradon for generations, be it as stable boy, chef, or Major Domo, as Maftan had risen to. A man proud of his achievement, given that no other of his family had managed to grasp such a prestigious position, Maftan much preferred the comforts of his home back near the mountains of the west than the tent he was currently living in. It was beyond his understanding why people always felt the need to travel to kill each other.

A raven cried out from the mist, startling him from his thoughts. Looking around nervously, he could see nought but the few tents near his Lord's and then the rest faded into the fog. Barring the occasional guard walking through the camp the army was still. Strange how they could sleep with the enemy only a few miles from here.

Arriving at his liege's tent, he paused for a moment at the doorway. Quickly straightening his clothing and taking a deep breath (even though the pungent scent of blood stank in the air as much as ever), Maftan entered.

In contrast to the cold and grey morning outside, the tent of Arradon, Lord and Mage of his Clan, was warm and well lit. Braziers stood in the corners giving heat that warmed Maftan even as he entered. Fine rugs lay on the ground, gathered from across the lands. Oddly out of place was the bed in the corner. It was little more than a pallet on a wooden frame. Maftan could never understand his master's preference for such a bed, much preferring the down stuffed mattress of his own.

Central in the tent stood a large circular table, strewn across it maps and charts of the area. The maps were covered in man-like figurines of all colours, representing the different factions of Arradon's army and that of Abraxos, the Clan that sat little more than two miles to the east of their position.

Standing around the table was six men. They looked up briefly as Maftan walked in and upon recognising him they went back to studying the maps. Apart from one man, all wore swords and armour, emblazoned with a fiery sun, the standard and Clan symbol of Arradon. They discussed their plans in quiet voices, making it hard for Maftan to hear what they were saying despite his proximity.

Not that it interested him anyway - he had enough to worry about without learning battle strategy as well. Maftan's interest lay in the only man not in armour, but who was wearing woollen pants and a loose fitting shirt. He appeared to have thrown them on, indifferent to his appearance. His hair was shoulder length, in contrast to the current fashion of neat, close-cropped locks, and his beard was short and well trimmed. His face was weathered by years of sun and wind and rain, yet still looked young enough to be handsome, the effect helped by the strength evident in his green eyes. The deference given him by the others showed him to be the leader here, with the soldiers listening intently to everything that he said.

Maftan walked over to a table laid with refreshments and poured a cup of cha, a hot, dark drink from Kolum, a city to the south. It was expensive, but his master liked it, once commenting that it was his only vice. So every month riders brought packages of the powdered leaves used to make it, a trip of some twelve hundred miles. Maftan thought it outrageous, all that time spent getting a drink, but who was he to question his Lord?

The steaming cup was warm on his hands as he carried it to the blond man. As he came to his side, Maftan bowed slightly.

‘Good morning, my Lord.’ said Maftan, holding out the cup of cha. ‘How goes the planning?’

‘Now Maftan, we both know that you don't give a damn about battles, don't we?’ said Arradon.

Maftan blushed to the roots of his hair and stared intently at the ground. The smile Arradon gave him as he looked back up was quick, given purely as a gesture that he meant no harm or insult to his major domo. While spirit still showed in his eyes, Arradon looked tired and a little haggard. The years of battle had culminated in what they faced now and the pressure was beginning to tell. Arradon's brow furrowed and his face took on a serious look.

‘Yes, the planning goes well and it is today that I expect to crush Abraxos' army like ants. Too long have they preyed upon the people of Ralin. They are sick of it. I am sick of it. Was it not enough that he had half the lands to himself - Everything east of the Great River? No, he had to keep taking and taking, always trying to get more. It has become unbearable and now we have hunted him down and will kill him like the vermin he is.’

Maftan took a step back at seeing the anger in his Lord's eyes. Arradon was normally a man who, like all good generals, showed vast amounts of patience, never letting his temper take control and cloud his judgement. Displays like this were few and far between, and Maftan knew that when Arradon was like this, he was not a man to be around. Maftan wished that he could think of some excuse to leave the tent, but nothing came to mind.

Arradon stood there, staring intently at the plans before him, saying nothing. The generals began to look uncomfortable, glancing sideways at each other for a sign as to what to do.

‘My Lord -’ began one of them, only to stop when silenced from a stare from Arradon.

‘Enough planning! Now is the time to fight.’ He raised one hand in front of the faces of the men standing around the table and clenched it into a fist. The knuckles whitened and as Maftan watched, small tendrils of blue energy arced in a nimbus around his hand, crackling and filling the tent with the smell of ozone.

‘By dusk tonight I will have his head on a pole outside this tent.’ Slamming his fist onto the table, Arradon turned and strode from the tent to suit up for the days' battle, his face dark with anger. His generals followed quickly behind him.

Left in the tent alone, Maftan stood holding the cooling cup of cha. Looking down at the map table, he saw the black mark where his liege's hand had struck it, and watched as the smoke from the singed maps rose lazily to the roof. ‘I don't doubt it, your highness.’ he said to himself and sipped the cha.

Near noon Arradon regrouped his forces beneath his standard. His numbers were severely diminished, the fighting had been fierce and both sides had suffered huge losses. As Arradon sat talking to his advisers, a runner came up and asked to speak with the clan leader. Arradon bade him to do so.

‘My Lord.’ the man began breathlessly, ‘There is a group of men here that wish to join your army.’

‘So?’ replied Arradon, angry at having been bothered for such a petty matter. ‘Give them swords and tell them to join Serat's mercenary unit. He will take care of them.’ Arradon turned back to talk to the others, ending the conversation.

‘But Your Majesty! They are from Darkheim!’

Arradon turned back to the man, surprise clearly evident on his face. ‘Darkheim? Get them here immediately!’

The Northern Steppes had for centuries been home to a wild and proud people, who travelled about the dangerous lands in clans. They roamed far to the north, farther than any lowlander would dare to go, and had skills that allowed them to survive in the tundra that surrounded their homes. Their cities were few, mostly being small communities of clans that had tired of moving all the time and attempted to settle down. These places had become meeting points for the clans, where both business and pleasure were handled. Out in the mountains clans may have fought each other over long standing blood feuds, but in the towns all agreed to keep the peace. The number and types of weapons clansmen carried would have made for a very ugly scene had they decided to launch into a fight in the middle of market day. The largest of these towns was Darkheim. It was big enough to be called a city, and boasted a population of about twelve thousand, huge by northern standards. Peopled by a combination of lowlanders and highlanders (and be sure to know the difference), it thrived on the trade between that which the northerners needed to survive and what the southerners wished to indulge themselves with. However, as the Highlands were never a place that could be called safe Darkheim had been built to withstand the might of an army. Massive walls surrounded it, built on the plinth to ensure sappers could not undermine them. Towers built at each corner kept a vigilant watch upon the surrounding lands and the mountains to the rear of the city. Northerners had little trust for others and this was reflected in the construction of their city. Darkheim was as eternal as the bedrock it was built upon, and ensured that the only city the northerners had was one that was going to stay.

A group of men now made their way forward towards Arradon, the crowd parting for them as word spread of where they had come from. They were a motley group, dressed in all sorts of clothing and armour pieces and carrying a variety of weapons. The man at the front of the troop was obviously their leader, Arradon could see. He was clearly exhausted, but unlike the others he refused to show it. He stood about six feet even, shorter than Arradon, but was more solidly built. His hair was dark, ragged and unkempt and had obviously been cut by hacking it with a knife. But beneath the grime and mud of the road his steel grey eyes were clear and showed intelligence. And to Arradon's way of thinking, something else - cold, hard, hatred.

As he came before Arradon, one of the guards came forward and stopped him. The stranger glanced at the guard and shoved him away. The guard looked startled, then angry and began to draw his sword. However, before he could do so, the stranger had drawn his short sword and stood holding the blade at the guard's throat, less than an inch from his jugular.

‘Stay away little man, lest you get hurt.’ the stranger spoke in a husky whisper, his voice thickly accented. ‘I have come too far to be bothered with the likes of you.’

Arradon saw the situation quickly getting out of control and standing from his seat, moved to settle it.

‘Boras put away your sword. I think there will be no need of it.’ Boras hesitated. ‘Now Boras.’ repeated Arradon firmly. Grudgingly, Boras complied and stepped to the side.

‘I do not know who you are stranger, but put away your sword and tell me how you came to be here. I have been told that you are from Darkheim. Is that true?’

‘Yes, Sire.’ replied the stranger as he cautiously sheathed his sword, keeping an eye on Boras.

Arradon sat down again. ‘Abraxos sought to have Darkheim for himself.’ began Arradon, ‘Thinking to use it as a base for his armies in the north. This would have enabled him to move south confidently, with the knowledge that his rearguard was secure.’

The stranger nodded in agreement with what Arradon was saying as Arradon continued, ‘But when Abraxos got there he found that the northern clans had sealed off their cities, Darkheim being the largest, and left the outlying villages ruined so no supplies were available for the army. He lay siege to Darkheim for a month, trying to get to you. During that time you harassed him continually, causing havoc upon his troops and stalling his movements south, tying up many of his men that would have otherwise been able to fight here. You finally forced Abraxos to unleash his magic, using it to obliterate the walls of Darkheim rather than against my army as had no doubt been his plan.’

‘Your spies are very good, sire.’ commented the stranger.

Arradon nodded. ‘From what I understand, the guerrilla tactics used during the siege were nothing short of brilliant to say the least. It was due to your efforts that I was given enough time to assemble an army to destroy him. And with him expending most of his magic in destroying Darkheim, it limited his use of it against my army. So if you are who you say you are, I am in your debt. But what I want to know now is: How in the names of the Gods did you survive?’

The stranger adjusted an arm guard and spoke. ‘Your highness, it was I who organised the fighting amongst our people. We have bowed to no ruler in the past, as they have been little more than robber barons intent on personal gain, regardless of the well being of the populace. But as the years passed, with each of these baronies taken either by yourself or that worm Abraxos, it was realised that you were the best for all of us. We were tired of fighting. The northern highlands are harsh and unforgiving, and are a difficult place to raise a family without the added risks involved with being controlled by unscrupulous lords. It was decided that we would make our way south, leaving the highlands and joining your army to aid you against the enemy. Many of our families did escape, but before we could get everyone out, Abraxos arrived.’ the stranger spat the name as if it were poison on his tongue. ‘We knew then that he would kill us if we tried to leave, wiping all our clans from the earth with no one left to sing of our names. Knowing that you needed the time to amass an army, we decided to fight. In small numbers we secreted as many of our people out during the night as we could, while during the day we fought. We were the last ones to leave and barely made it out before Abraxos destroyed Darkheim with his magic. As it was, many families were killed - wives and children, gone. We fought our way through part of Abraxos' army and managed to make our way to the Great River. From there we stole boats and made our way south, to join your army.

Arradon sat, stunned by the tale. ‘You tell an epic in but a few lines, my friend. To fight here you left your families?’

‘Aye, that we did - those of us that have families left. Those few of us that survived the siege are scattered to the winds now, maybe never to rejoin our clans again. Our hope for those left is not great and what fate has decreed for them we do not know.’

‘At such time that this war is over, you will have my full support in finding your people and helping them start new homes here amongst us, away from the highlands.’ swore Arradon.

‘Thank you, sire, but for now all we ask is to fight Abraxos.’ At this, the stranger unshouldered his pack and pulled out a piece of folded leather. Laying it on the ground he opened the folds to show weapons unique to the highlands. Known as katars, they were essentially 'punching daggers'. Consisting of a leather bound metal bar held crossways through the fist, the blade extended out over the knuckles about fifteen inches. A metal guard, similar to that of a rapier's, covered the hands. They were generally used with arm guards, as the stranger wore, giving the effect of long metallic, bladed arms.

Arradon hid his admiration. He knew now that the man he was talking to was a leader amongst the clans. The other eight men carried only swords, one ax and a bow. He knew that among the tribes that roamed the highlands those that used katars were usually the leaders of the people. The skills required to use the weapons were great, the fighter needing strength, dexterity and lightening quickness of thought to fight in such close quarters as was needed. Living in the harsh highlands, such skills were needed to ensure the survival of the clan, who had not only other tribes to fight, but also the beasts that roamed the plateau. Thus it was no coincidence that most of the leaders of the Clans were users of katars.

The number of marks on the arm guards were testament to the quality of the stranger’s ability with them. The stranger’s armguards were literally a tattoo of scratches and buckles. Marks that were never polished out or straightened, but worn with pride.

‘If you choose not to rest then,’ began Arradon as the stranger stood up, ‘you can fight by me - you and your men.’

‘Aye that we will, sire. And if we go down, I swear that we will take that vermin Abraxos with us.’

Arradon grinned at the comment. ‘If we are going to fight side by side, I had better know your name, and those of your men, my stranger friend.’

‘The big blond man with the ax is Adagar, the bow master is Perek. I would recommend putting him with your archers, he can neuter a flea at twenty paces with that bow of his.’ Arradon grinned at the comment and a few of the men watching on laughed aloud. ‘The swordsmen are led by our finest, Rogar, the others being Marek, Niktha, Vasilius, Sebastas and Daryn. I can vouch for them all as good fighters and men loyal to your cause.’

‘That I would believe, given your trip here. But what is your name?’

‘Talain Dar-Khan.’

Arradon spun on one heel, bringing his long sword around in a sweeping arc. It bit into the neck of the man before him, shearing his head clean from his shoulders. The neck pumped blood into the air as the knees slumped and the body fell to the ground. As soon as it had fallen, another man took his place, slashing at the King's head with a halberd. Ducking the bladed spear, Arradon lunged forward and drove his sword into the man's belly. Shouldering him off balance Arradon moved further into the fray. The wounded man fell under the feet of both comrade and enemy and was mercifully knocked unconscious before dying.

The fighting had begun an hour ago, both sides seeking to end it once and for all, knowing that this was the time for it. Arradon had flared magic across the field for as long as he had been able, countering that of Abraxos'. The air had been charged with power, running tingles down the spines of men as the magic played back and forth. The raw power stopped for nothing, killing men and horses in scores as bolts of pure energy arced across the field. But then the armies collided, pounding into each other with a cacophony heard to the heavens. Now the time for magic was past. Only heart and steel would hold the day.

The noise of the battle was tremendous. Screams of rage and pain mixed in the air, battle cries and death agonies sounding out to all the world. The ring of steel rang out across the field, a clarion to death. Orders were roared by officers who moved men around like pawns in a chess game as they tried to gain an advantage. Above the fighting ravens circled, adding their cries to the battle knowing that soon they would feed.

Talain and his men fought as a tight unit near where Arradon battled. The Clansmen fought like madmen, hacking and slashing into the enemy around them, cleaving their way through the tribes, mercenaries and goblins that had rallied under the sword and snake banner of House Abraxos.

Adagar's ax flashed red in the bright sunlight as it tore apart everything in front of it, regardless of target. The big blond man was once a timber cutter, with the huge arms and shoulders that came from years of hard work. Now he put his skill with the blade to use in fighting for the freedom and revenge of his people. His face was tight, strained, as in a cold fury he sought to kill all before him. None could stand before him as he clove through their ranks.

Rogar led the swordsmen through the thick of the fighting. His face was a passive mask, his concentration absolute. His blade danced its deadly path through all that came before it. Calmly he despatched all those that faced him, as excited as if he was watching the grass grow.

Marek's style was completely different from Rogar's. Almost frantic in its appearance, it gave the effect that he was out of control, his two short swords flying everywhere. Lashing twirling, weaving, spinning, Marek enjoyed the fight only when facing at least five opponents. Men fell around him as wheat before the scythe.

Niktha laid into those around him with strong strokes each one precise and sure. Next to him was Daryn. Neither was the swordsman of the others, but teamed together the two complemented each other, covering and attacking as one.

Vasilius fought alone, his sword of the rapier style, unusual in the highlands. He simply killed, regardless of style. Although in the middle of the battlefield it might looked to an outsider on occasion that he played with his opponent, toying with them before he killed them.

Perek stood with the other archers. Since the armies had joined their job was now done and the risk of hitting one’s own men too great. Perek, however, had other ideas. Instead of simply watching the battle as the others did, the archer continued to launch arrows into the battle. Taking his time, and to the stunned amazement of the others around him, he brought the enemy down as if knocking apples off a wall. It got worse when he started calling his shots and did not miss one of them. A few archers nearby began to look darkly at him when he took requests.

The blades in Talain's hands flew like lightening, an extension of his self. A tall goblin leapt at him, slashing down at his head with a rusty sword. Talain blocked the blow with his left arm, sparks flying from his armguard. Stepping in with his right foot, his right arm lashed out, snakelike, punching from the hip for full force, straight into the goblin's face. Bone gave way and blood gushed as the katar drove home into the brain. The body fell as Talain pulled the weapon free; the left leg twitching erratically as it hit the earth. Talain then flicked forward with his left foot, kicking the man that now appeared before him squarely in the groin. The blow was unexpected and the man buckled to his knees, only to face a crushing knee to the temple. Talain looked around quickly, surveying the battle scene. Next to him were Arradon and his guard, the Blazing Sun standard still flying. Past him and to the left was the Snake and Sword of Abraxos. Talain swore to himself and fought harder.

Arradon too, had noticed the banner and began to fight his way to it. Calling to his men, he bashed, fought and clubbed his way towards the hated flag.

Beneath the banner Arradon hated so much fought Abraxos, Lord of all the Lands east of the Great River. Tall like Arradon, he too was blond. However he was clean-shaven and where Arradon's eyes were green, Abraxos' were dull grey. Abraxos saw that Arradon was moving towards him and a plan began to form in his mind. During a brief respite in the fighting Abraxos called his aide, Dramas, to his side and spoke quietly to him, at one stage pointing to where Arradon was fighting.

Dramas grinned when he heard the idea and complemented Abraxos on his genius. He then left his Lord's side and as Abraxos moved back into the fighting, his plan was set into motion.

As he continued fighting, Arradon slowly made his way towards his enemy. About ten feet to the left of Arradon, Talain and his men were fighting a moving battle as they too headed for Abraxos. Running parallel to each other, the two groups inched their way across the battlefield. Arradon was now fighting a man dressed in silver and black livery who was accounting for himself well. He knew that this was one of Abraxos' personal guards. Looking up for a split second, he noticed a number of them in front of him and realised that he was closer to his enemy than he had first thought. The man before him fell when Arradon cut his arm off and suddenly he found that although there was about ten yards between him and Abraxos, the battle had now opened up enough to allow him to get straight through to his foe. Roaring his battle cry he ran forward to attack, his huge sword above his head. Abraxos turned to defend himself, holding up his own sword. The two met with the clashing of steel and the battle was joined. Blades flashed as each sought to best the defences of the other. Abraxos drew first blood, nicking Arradon's arm and leaving a scarlet trail. Arradon ignored it and soon had left his own mark across his foe's cheekbone, the result of an overhead slash that had nearly made it through the other’s guard. In the space of about five minutes each was covered in a dozen nicks and cuts. Both were able to land blows but were too evenly matched to finish the battle decisively.

Then Abraxos lunged forward, stabbing at Arradon's belly. Arradon quickly blocked, stepping back as he did so to take stock of his enemy's new position - only to find him gone. As he had moved back, the last of Abraxos' house guards had completed their circle around him. Abraxos had stepped through their cordon and left Arradon to them and to the fate they had in store for him.

Too late Arradon realised his mistake in rushing forward to get to Abraxos. He had seen the guards around him but had paid no attention to them, his concentration wholly on destroying Abraxos. They had led him to the bait and he had taken it in rushing to fight his mortal enemy. In his pride Arradon had misjudged the value Abraxos placed on killing him personally. It was suddenly clear that Abraxos had only one goal in mind – taking Arradon’s lands by any means. Slowly, the guards moved in.

Fighting nearby, Talain had noticed that the warriors in black and silver had begun to move around Arradon and then at the last moment he had seen the trap that they had laid.

‘To me, men of Darkheim!’ he roared and as one his men grouped around him. Leading the wild charge he slashed his way to Arradon, his bladed hands cutting through everything before him. Soon his silvered hands were red to the elbows with enemy blood.

Now he was only ten feet from Arradon. Roaring his battle cry he literally threw himself at those before him, hacking and slashing, blood colouring his vision as the berserker rage possessed him. The men before him turned and fled. They were paid to fight people, not demons.

Arradon was fighting furiously now. His armour was covered in dents and scratches and a lot of blood, not all of it his enemies'. All he wanted to do was surrender and end this, but he knew that he could not. Too many people depended upon him and his succeeding today. He rained blows on all before him, smashing at the guards. His only advantage was that everyone around him was an enemy, whereas the others had to take care not to kill one of their own. Bodies fell around him as he cut through his attackers, each trying to get back at him, cutting and stabbing at him as they waited for him to weaken enough to fall. Then, as Arradon blocked an overhead strike, he slipped and fell to one knee. Before him now was Dramas, the man who had executed his liege's plan. Squinting up at him he saw the sadistic grin of glee on the man's face.

‘Burn in hell, Arradon.’ he spat, hatred twisting his face as he raised his sword to kill.

As Arradon waited for the blow, too tired to defend against it, Dramas' expression changed from hatred to shock. His eyes rolled back into his head and blood poured from his nose. Dramas slumped to the ground and now before Arradon stood Talain, who with a jerk of his arm, pulled his katar from the back of Dramas' head.

Just as quickly, the other eight men lashed into the remaining guards, leading the charge of Arradon's men to rescue their Lord.

Talain helped Arradon to his feet. 'Are you alright, sire?’ he asked, his eyes showing concern.

‘Aye, I am. Thanks to you.’ Arradon replied, picking up his sword. ‘I must admit though that I was a little bit nervous towards the end there.’ he added sardonically. ‘I didn't think I was going to get out of that. Foolish to think he would be that easy to get to.’

Talain shrugged, his only reply being ‘I think that we give Abraxos a taste of his own fear.’

‘But how?’

‘Give me command of your men and I think that I can beat him, with your help, in the next charge.’

‘They're yours.’

As Abraxos slashed away another of Arradon's men, he turned to the left and saw a charge of men coming from where he had left Arradon to die. They must have found his body, he thought pleasantly to himself. Soon they will die as well and then word will spread that the fool is dead and the West and all its riches will be mine.

He saw that the charge was led by a tall man, fighting with bladed hands. Abraxos knew they were katars, although he was surprised to see them being used, even more so given that he had wiped out those bastard highland tribesmen of the Darkheim region before ending up here. Abraxos realised that this man must have come south and enlisted to fight with Arradon, probably as revenge for something that his army had done to the man's family or some such rot. Well, even though he was obviously a fine fighter, the man would be dead in a few minutes when Abraxos' men killed him along with the rest of Arradon's army.

Sooner than Abraxos realised, Arradon's men were fighting his personal guards, those that he had kept with him instead of using them in the trap for Arradon. As he moved away from the fighting, he heard a trumpet sound and enemy archers began to fire volleys into his men on the right, where Arradon's men had just bolted free of the melee. Ordered forward by their officers, Abraxos' men began to charge the archers, intent on stopping the rain of arrows.

Shouting an order, Abraxos’ horse was brought forward to him. Hauling himself into the saddle he began to look at the fighting around him. However he got no more than a quick glimpse as with a scream, Abraxos' horse reared and he was forced to hold tightly to the reins to avoid being thrown. As the beast came down, he leapt clear to avoid being crushed. Only then did Abraxos realise that an arrow had lodged in his horse's eye, having gone through to the animal's brain. Who could shoot that well in fighting like this? As he stood there, he was stunned to see another charge being led, this one straight towards him. All his careful strategies were starting to come apart at the seams.

As Abraxos' men struggled to hold the attackers back their Lord looked for a way out of this mess. He briefly wondered where Dramas was, needing the man's skills now more than ever. Suddenly, the warrior he had been watching moments before burst through his guards and headed straight toward him. Ten feet from him he stopped.

‘Signal the call to stop the fighting or you're dead where you stand.’ the warrior said in a thick accent.

Looking into the eyes of the man before him, Abraxos knew that he was defeated. He signalled to his bugle man to sound the order to cease. At the same time, Arradon's man did the same. In minutes all was quiet, but for the cries of the ravens and the moans of the injured.

Lowering his sword, Abraxos walked towards Talain. When he was five feet from the clan leader, Talain bid him to stop.

‘I am Talain Dar-Khan, High Clansmen of Darkheim, last of my line.’ Talain's voice was emotionless, his steel grey eyes flat. ‘You destroyed my people and their homes, for no better reason than they were in your way. The crimes against you are numerous and unforgivable. By my right as Dar-Khan, I sentence you to death by my hand.’

As Talain moved towards Abraxos, the man moved back half a step, bringing his sword back up.

‘NO!’ cried a voice from the milling soldiers behind Talain. The crowd parted and Arradon stepped into the clearing. ‘He is mine.’ he told Talain.

The Dar-Khan looked as if about to say something, then nodded his head and stepped aside.

‘Your time has ended Abraxos. Finished. You and your dreams of empires and riches.’ said Arradon.

‘But you're dead! My men killed you!’ Abraxos screamed. The warrior was on the verge of panic as he saw his dreams of empires disappearing. Even the satisfaction of Arradon’s death being before his own had been taken from him.

‘Like you, they did not succeed.’ With that final statement and before Abraxos could react, Arradon raised his sword and cut downwards with all the force he could muster, his blade crackling with the blue light of his magic.

The blow passed through Abraxos' raised sword as if it was not there, driving into the man from right collarbone to left hip. Abraxos stood there, unmoving. The two halves separated with a gush of blood and what was left of the Lord of the Lands from the Great River to the Mountains of the Sky fell to the ground.

With a final look at the body, Arradon turned to face the men before him.

‘As my first act as King I declare that by right of conquest I now hold title to the lands of the East, to the Great Pass, North to the Ice Wastes, South to the sea and West to Dragonhome. All within these boundaries are subject to my law.

Secondly, those of you here on this field that fought for the traitor Abraxos are hereby pardoned for your actions, inasmuch as a King is not a good King without mercy.’ This brought a loud cheer from most of the eastern army, and sighs of relief from the rest. No one wanted to fight further, or be party to the wholesale slaughter of thousands of men.

Then Arradon looked directly at Talain. ‘You and your men, come forward.’

The men of Darkheim walked out from the ranks of the men surrounding Arradon.

‘Your Highness.’ Talain said, bowing slightly from the waist.

Arradon smiled at the honorific. ‘Kneel before me, men of Darkheim.’

As they all bowed their left knee and knelt before the new King, Arradon looked out across the warriors before him.

‘Finally, in reward to the men before me, who have fought their way to us, only to further fight today, saving my life, I give them the Land of the Great Pass, upon which a castle will be built. This will be their new home, a place for a new life. For it is there that they will teach our armies to fight, protecting us from the lands beyond the mountains. All are subject to Me and Me alone. Arradon, High King of Ralin.’

At that, the Mage-King raised his hands. Like his sword, they began to arc blue energy. With a thunderous boom, he brought his hands together. The light arced across the kneeling men and weaved around them. Talain felt nothing more than a tingling sensation across his skin, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. Then the sensation was gone.

‘Rise, my Lords.’ Arradon bade the nine men.

‘These are my men.’ he called for all to hear. ‘They shall hold their titles forever. Their sons shall inherit their powers and gifts, and they shall take the same names of their fathers, for their names are words of power. Rogar, Marek, Adagar, Perek, Niktha, Vasilius, Sebastas, Daryn and Talain Dar-Khan, rise.

Rise, Lords of Arradon.’

CHAPTER ONE

Ralis: Capital of the Kingdom, created in year 1 of High King Arradon's rule. It is claimed that the city lies in the absolute centre of the entire Kingdom. Arradon's Castle, which took fifteen years to build, is one of the Kingdom's most famous sights and stands upon the island at the heart of Ralis. It was designed by the first Lord Talain Dar-Khan.

- Excerpt from ‘A summary of Ralinese History’ By Hentan Jossin.

The tunnel was dark; the walls cool to the touch, but not damp. They were rough and although Talain could not see them, he knew that they were made of rock. A cool breeze wafted through the tunnel. As he continued walking, he finally began to see a light ahead.

Talain stepped out of the tunnel, his eyes watering as he squinted. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and the light here was bright. Looking around, Talain saw that he was in a beautiful garden. As his eyes once more became accustomed to the light, he saw that plants of all varieties surrounded him. Some he recognised, but many were foreign to his eyes. Throughout the garden, paths led off every which way, providing the effect of streams meandering through a forest. Surrounding the garden, what he could see past the greenery, Talain saw that the area was hidden from the outside world by a huge wall of rock. It appeared that the whole garden