Reign Of The Black Flame I.: The Waterglobe

By B.B. Vayk

In an age when the mighty Forces of Nature rule, the eternal battle between Fire and Water flares into war. The evil Fire, fueled by ancient jealousies and a lust for power, commits the ultimate treachery - the theft of the Waterglobe. Equilibrium between the Forces is lost, leaving a drought-plagued world that only one brave human can restore. Robert Ground, longing for adventure, lives in a peaceful, sleepy little village. One day, Fire appears, laying to waste everything Robert has ever known. Determined to find out why he has become a target of the Prime Evil, Robert begins a journey to uncover his family’s secrets, and soon discovers a link between his past and the elemental battle waging around him. Robert is joined by the lovely, secretive Marian as they forge an unlikely partnership. Unknown to Robert, Marian is a fireling, and Fire’s cruelest, most loyal apprentice. As Marian pursues her own dark mission, two others join the travelers: Gider, the vicious, coarse, fermad, and Shine, the brave and noble rainsteed.

Reaching the Cloud Realm, Robert is tasked with an impossible mission, one that will test him beyond the limits of his endurance. The four adventurers navigate the perilous realms of the Forces, gathering powerful weapons for the final battle with Fire. Each is forever altered, as they must choose between self-sacrifice and treachery. Ultimately, Robert faces Fire and finally learns why he is destined to fight the ultimate evil...

• Language: English
• Publisher: B.B. Vayk
• Release date: May 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9789638989222

B.B. Vayk

I live in two worlds: that of my everyday life and that of the fantasy world found within the pages of my books.My everyday life is fulfilling in so many ways: my wonderful family, my degrees in economics, and my career working for multinational companies and ministries. Still, something was always missing, something I had held in my heart ever since I could remember.Then, slowly, after our two children were born, something unexpected happened. I was taking some time away from my career so I could stay home with my daughter and son while they were very young. During that time, experiencing their childhood with them, helping them to discover the world, I rediscovered my own two childhood passions: drawing illustrations and writing stories. Encouraged by this, I found time during their sleeping hours to begin a novel that had been inside of me since I was a child myself.The storyline was inspired by my old childhood imaginations and my love for the folklore of my Hungarian ancestors. Growing up with those stories helped me to see the world in a different way, a place where things existed beyond our knowledge. As a child, I created characters in my mind that represented the forces of nature – the sun, the wind, the water – always imagining them to be actual people who ruled magical realms above and below. One of my first memories of this was when I was seven and spent a summer vacation in Italy with my parents. While watching the waves of the sea, I imagined an Ocean Queen – young, beautiful and powerful. Everything began with this vision.Years later, with children of my own, these forces of nature recaptured my imagination. I drew them. I created every little detail about them: what they looked like, where they lived, who their servants were, how they used their power, and most importantly, how they worked with – or against – each other.One day, during a rainy afternoon of writing, the hero of my story appeared on the page. Robert, a young man, with no real purpose to his life beyond living in a small sleepy village where nothing ever happened. That village was much like the one where my own grandparents lived; just as simple, just as peaceful, and where I spent many holidays as a child. Robert was clever and talented, but his abilities were not really needed in the human world in which he lived. Then, I created Marian, Robert’s adversary. Beautiful yet cruel, alluring yet evil; I really enjoyed her character! They represented two different worlds and together forged a strange, yet necessary partnership, as they journeyed through an age of castles, kings, knights and war, all ruled by the mighty forces of nature.When I finished the manuscript, I put it into a drawer, because, to tell the truth, I had really just written the story for myself; and perhaps for my children, Berni and Ricsi, as well. I imagined that one day, when they were older, they might read my story and enjoy the world I created as much as I did. Meanwhile, though, there it lay until one day, my husband, looking for something to read to pass the time, asked to take a look at it. I wondered how long it would hold his attention, especially as he was not a fan of fantasy fiction, but before I knew it, he had read it cover to cover and loved it. Even more surprising, he wanted to share it with others who might find the same enjoyment that he had within its pages.My husband’s enthusiasm for the book led to his managing all of the details related to getting it published in Hungary in 2012. Looking back, I see that he believed in me more than I did; and for that, I am thankful, because now I have reached an entire audience of readers who also love the story of Robert and Marian, and who feel a connection with the forces of nature just as I do. This feeling is at once fascinating and unbelievable for me; almost like a dream, one that I never knew I had, come true. And the dream continues to grow, now that the novel has been translated and edited into English, and published as an e-book.I have learned to believe in dreams, to work for them and to never give them up. And now, I have a new dream, to add to the rest: that those who read my book will experience the same feelings I did when I wrote it; a desire to see a world of fantasy and possibility and to experience, side-by-side with Robert and Marian, their adventures as they travel realms never before explored!

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bbvayk

Reign Of The Black Flame I.

The Waterglobe

~~~

By B.B. Vayk

Published by B.B. Vayk at Smashwords

Copyright © 2014  B.B. Vayk

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Translated by Duncan Darker

Edited by Patricia Rae Linn and Colleen Kutish

Proofread by Adam Sanyo

1

Marian

She felt a wave of satisfaction as she surveyed the prostrate throng of trembling fireservants. Young and old, female and male, they hurried to the road to lie prone, frozen in fear, arms crossed behind their backs, faces pressed deep into the glowing red-hot sand on the ground before her. Marian delighted in walking amongst them; delighted in observing the old woodcutter's face contort with pain as he bent to the dust of the road. She noted with satisfaction just how quickly the old man had thrown his ax aside in his rush to throw himself at her feet.

The firelings called her Fairest; however, her gaze was anything but fair as it swept over the fireservants. She searched for the smallest sign of disobedience, just so she might have the opportunity to mete out punishment, and later provide a detailed report of her activities to Fire. One slightly raised gaze, even the faintest cough, could unleash vicious tongues of fire from her long white fingers and leave agonizing burn marks across an unfortunate target's back.

Slowing deliberately, savoring the way the fiery sand and red-hot rocks scorched the servants' downcast faces, Marian walked through the sooty huts, dens, tunnels and underground lairs of the village. She came to the village every other day to discipline these miserable creatures.

She loathed their ash-covered black hair, and their deep brown skin, which was always covered in soot and marred by burn marks. Their bulky, worn clothes, generally the color of dun or perhaps a dirty yellow, were invariably grimy. Their feet were even worse, swaddled in tattered, brown, knee-length boots. She despised the men's faces, framed with short black beards. However, she did enjoy seeing their broad shoulders stooped low, indicating endless hard labor and humiliation.

Located directly beneath the Earth's surface, the Empire of Fire had four levels, all under direct control of Fire himself. Fireservants dwelled primarily in level one, the shallowest of the levels, along with much of the flora and fauna used by all firelings. Home to the Lavastone Forest, level one was also an ideal location to grow the firelily, a rare plant that Marian harvested regularly, skillfully brewing the black stems and petals to create Fire's favorite beverage, creosote crush.

Here, lowly fireservants grew silicorn, reared vulcapig, basalt buffalo, geyser goose and crater cattle; they also mined, lumbered, worked the quarries, drilled tunnels for roads, and even filtered and chilled lava. They provided raw materials for the benefit of the higher-class firelings, who populated the lower strata. Though fireservants were not native to the lower levels, they were often captured to work as domestic slaves, or to occasionally function as living targets for arson practice.

Arson and fire-kindling abilities were common among the higher-class firelings, with the level of expertise determining where a fireling would reside. Fireservants, those who inhabited the topmost level, were completely unfireworthy, and incapable of displaying the simplest fireskills, while firecrafters, those who lived on the second level, were able to control the intensity and flow of flames. The firewardens of level three could kindle flames that shot through their hands, wrists, and fingertips.

A kindled fire would always reflect the soul of its creator; the more evil the fireling, the darker the shade of red their flames appeared. The cruelest black flames were first kindled by Fire himself. He lived on the fourth and deepest level. To the envy of all firelings, including the few evil enough to also kindle black flames, he had mastered the art of the black blaze; murderous black flames that could cause permanent scarring and fatal burns to firelings, and could even evaporate his greatest adversaries, the watershapes.

Over millions of years, free passage between the four levels of the Empire had become all but impossible. At present, firesentries were posted along all borders at every level; rarely did any fireling willingly relocate to another level. Occasionally, an especially determined firecrafter dedicated himself to fire-kindling to such a degree (and to the dismay of many unlucky fireservants), that he was promoted to the third-level rank of firewarden. Even then, a promotion was by no means guaranteed; only by perfecting the ability to kindle and handle red flame, and through the recommendation of an existing firewarden, could a firecrafter obtain even an introduction to the Grand Warden. Once introduced, a firecrafter still had to gain the Grand Warden's approval, go through a detailed application process, and come up with a sufficient bribe before finally securing the rank of firewarden.

Marian, who dwelled in the fourth level, stood out amongst the firelings; her skin was as brilliant white as untouched snow, her hands could almost span her tiny waist, and her shiny, pitch black mane of hair reached down to the small of her back. Her large, wide eyes were set like two sapphires in her perfect, porcelain face; or, so those who knew her as a child recalled. Hardly anyone could remember the vivid, jewel-like hue of her eyes; eyes now obscured by a menacing, predatory squint that reflected her darkened soul.

Marian's fine eyebrows cut a cruel slash through the bright whiteness of her forehead, as her attention was caught by a firemaid running from a doorless, windowless little hovel of shiny black stones. The miserable young wretch, sprinting barefoot across the burning sand, darted desperately between the shoulder-high black rocks to join the others by the edge of the road.

She was dressed in brown rags and wrapped in a grubby gray shawl, her smudged and sooty face marred by a long shallow cut on her cheek. She was followed closely by an equally ragged and filthy little fireboy who, with a sudden and penetrating shriek, collapsed and clutched his ankle. The woman turned back to lift her sobbing son; because of this, she barely made it to her destination as Marian approached. Though the young mother pressed her careworn cheek into the sand, her crying child lifted a tear-soaked face to look at Marian. The evil beauty, in her long, thin-strapped dress of crimson-red silk, a color that perfectly matched her pointed nails, grinned, red lipped, like a hyena spotting its prey.

I beg forgiveness, whispered the firemaid, not looking up.

I beg forgiveness, Fairest! snapped Marian, irritated at the servant's disrespect. "That is how you must address me, if I give you permission to speak. As she leaned over to peer at the boy, her pupils were as black and cold as a deep, dark well. Tell me where you hurt."

The maid lifted her head, eyes still fixed on the burning sand, I beg you, Fairest, don't hurt him! My son's leg has been broken twice already, and the Healer says he will probably limp for the rest of his life. I beseech you, oh most beautiful maiden ever seen by the Forces of Nature, oh great confidante to the Almighty Fire, punish me instead!

Who gave you permission to address me? roared Marian, lifting her hands and sending a barrage of dark red flames along the kneeling woman's neck and back. Feeling a thrill with each new bolt of fire she launched from her white hands, Marian relished the fireservant's suffering. She loved to kindle fire; it made her heart race and her blood rush, smoldering through her veins with an excitement that shot through her entire body, right to the very tips of her fingers. The firebolts continued to flash from her delicate hands, haloing Marian in a glowing mantle of red light.

Finally, her victim stilled; Marian lowered her hands and the flames subsided. Take her to the mines – and the brat too! she commanded two firesoldiers. Too afraid to look at Marian, the heavyset firewarriors, shiny red helmets shading their eyes and long-handled axes hanging from their belts, wordlessly dragged the unconscious firemaid away over the scorching black sand.

I trust the rest of you won't be as insolent! If you don't know your place, you'll find yourselves in the mines! The fireservants lay so still at her threat, it seemed that their souls had already left their terrified bodies. The only sound was that of the small boy, whimpering in pain, his teary gaze searching for his mother, as a firewarrior roughly threw him over his shoulder.

Unmoved by the boy's tears, Marian picked up her black basket and, humming contentedly to herself, headed towards the Vulcan Mountains, finally arriving at the lava stairway that swept steeply down toward the entrance of the fourth level. Carved over many decades by fireservants from molten lava that had solidified over millions of years, Marian could survey much of the Empire of Fire from the main landing.

According to the Forces of Nature, the Empire of Fire was the most hostile of all the preternatural regions. Sun's bright beams never shone there; instead, a harsh, unnatural light came from the glowing lava, red-hot embers and raging fires. The light filtered through the stifling, thick smoke that hung over the black horizon, where the peaks of the Vulcan Mountains actually scraped the underneath of the Earth's surface. Vertical cliffs jutted out on both sides and fell abruptly to the valley depths. Below the peaks, a series of smaller mountain ranges carved through the land, their valleys dotted with sooty black lakes of magma, all spewing fumes, smoke and ashes. Amid the craters and crevasses spouting liquefied rock, the mighty Lahar River flowed sluggishly from its molten source in the Vulcans before branching off into a network of smaller rivers and streams throughout the Empire.

In the rolling hills between the Great Ruby Forest and the southern range of the Vulcan Mountains, deep in the side-valleys of the twisting Lahar, the firecrafters and their families lived in single-story longhouses. The entrance to their level was marked by a black basalt tower, a single tall column protruding from a pile of volcanic rock that loomed over the landscape.

Below this level, each fireling radiated an aura of crackling red sparks, which surrounded its entire body. The firecrafters were stout and thick-limbed, their hair black, their eyes yellow or dark brown, with shiny auburn–colored skin. They wore carefully tailored, heavy black and brown clothing with shiny buttons, and used wide belts to hold up their trousers, which they tucked into high black boots of polished leather. The males wore no mustache or beard, and the well-groomed women typically wore long brown dresses; a few dressed in red or dull orange. They weren't friendly or sociable people; they talked little, except when expressing their hatred and contempt for watershapes.

Using raw materials that arrived continuously from the uppermost level, the firecrafters worked to produce everything needed by the Empire's inhabitants, from tools, pots, furniture and clothing, to all manner of food and drink, including magmatea and juices in various flavors. In the Empire, there wasn't a drop of water to be found. They made the famously wide hotbeds, which allowed entire fireling families to sleep together. Additionally, they were responsible for providing countless conveniences to the fireling population: lava gauges, used for measuring the temperature of fresh magma; forest-firestarters, a timesaving device popular among the firewardens; and volcano chronometers, timepieces of varying sizes, made of and powered by volcanic rock. Firecrafters also forged and tempered steel swords for the firewardens, whose most skilled fighters were drafted into the Army of Fire.

At the sight of Marian descending the stairway, the firecrafters fell to their knees and bowed their heads, still as red-mantled statues. The young woman directed her attention toward a small group of firecrafters kneeling near the sulflour mill, and raising her voice to ensure all could hear, she shouted scornfully, You'd do well to grind the sulflour more finely! Just last evening I noticed how coarse and inedible the fireloaves were during evening-meal. There's always room for you in the mines, you know!

These men, responsible for the five great lava wheels used to grind sulfur wheat into sulflour, all nodded vigorously in agreement.

The air grew warmer and, if possible, even heavier; it thickened around Marian as she descended the staircase, forcing her to take smaller, more shallow breaths. Surrounding volcanoes spouted red-hot lava, and great fissures stood gaping open, spanned by massive stone bridges. Legions of pitch-dark soldiers, mounted on ebony steeds, could be seen thundering across the bridges.

The Imperial soldiers must have been assigned a mission on the surface, noted Marian with satisfaction.

Below them, in the ravines, bloodfish and snakewyrms swam in the glistening tephra creeks. Above, on the cliff tops, stood the high houses made of basalt brick and stone blocks – red houses with tall chimneys that spouted thick black smog. Yellow windows glimmered like watchful serpent eyes, scanning the masses of firelings below. These dwellings were home to the firewardens of the third level, which stretched from the Great Ruby Forest to Cauldron Cleft, its entrance flanked by two dragon-shaped basalt guardians.

Eternally poised to spring upon unseen enemies, they looked as if their solid rock bodies might come to life at any second. The firewardens typically had reddish-brown skin, and both males and females grew their hair long; the men generally slicked their hair back into pony-tails, while the women plaited their tresses into lengthy braids. Their elegant black clothing was embroidered with intricate patterns traced in red and yellow thread, an example of the fine needlework of the more skilled firecrafters. Firewardens were famously expert equestrians, and rode bareback on fiery flaresteeds – robust horse-like creatures that breathed fire, and bore their riders at breakneck speeds throughout the Empire, their hooves throwing sparks and their manes billowing like wildfire.

The firewardens were in charge of quickening the spread of surface blazes, as well as pinpointing targets based on population. They prepared for all the destruction Fire ultimately inflicted on the surface world, from forest fires to volcanic eruptions. They drew up detailed plans, calculating their charts and diagrams based on research performed in the two cave-like libraries underneath the dragon towers.

Nevertheless, despite their higher rank, they also bowed low, eyes averted, until Marian had passed. One tall firewarden, wearing a long yellow coat, was mounting his flaresteed just as Marian turned the corner. He too bowed deeply and spoke to her in the rasping tones of firespeech.

Greetings, oh, Fairest! The Great Warden is already on his way to the palace to make a forest fire report.

He'd better be on time, then! The only thing left of the last Grand Warden who reported late is blackened teeth sitting at the bottom of one of the volcano-mines! she retorted, to which the yellow-coated firewarden bowed even more deeply in reply. Marian quickened her pace. She always enjoyed hearing the plans for upcoming destruction as well as the reports on completed fire disasters. She also wanted to get started on her new batch of creosote crush, which took a certain amount of time and expertise to perfect. At last, she reached the narrow southeastern branch of the Lava Stairway, which plunged ever more deeply into the darkest heartlands of the Empire.

The Lahar River fed into a lake behind Cauldron Cleft, its bright surface spanned by a wide black stone bridge with columns that resembled dragon's claws. On the far side of the lake, the bridge led to four enormous watchtowers that dominated the landscape – the entrance to the fourth level. Marian's blood quickened in anticipation of returning home, and a wave of heat washed over her from head to toe, preparing her for the higher temperatures of the fourth level.

Marian turned to her right and surveyed the distant southwestern corner of the Empire, where she knew Fire kept several rare monsters in the volcanic swamps and ash-pits. Whomever he banished was sent there to die in terrible agony. This was the one region of the Empire Marian had never visited, but she was determined that one day she would command those foul monsters as well.

Soon she reached level four, the most scorchingly hot strata of the Empire, home to Fire and his children, as well as several thousand firewardens. Though they always addressed her respectfully, and gave a courteous nod as she passed by, it vaguely annoyed Marian that these firewardens neither had to bow nor avert their eyes in her presence. These were the most elite of the firelings and were high enough in rank that they were permitted to meet her gaze. They were also not required to bow to anyone but Fire himself.

The lava stairway took Marian to the eastern watchtower, where she stepped onto the grand avenue, a spacious, straight, black-paved boulevard. This was the main artery for the level four populace, and the only completely open, level road. All of the other streets branched off the grand avenue, winding into the mountain itself. These secondary roadways were lined with high apartment blocks carved directly into cliffs of rock.

The grand avenue led to an impressive central square, a wide plaza paved in brightly polished obsidian cobblestones. In the middle of the plaza loomed Fire's palace – a scorpion shaped stronghold – its back covered with hundreds of pointed turrets shining with thousands of windows, all lit like smoldering eyes.

Marian, elated to be back in sight of her adored home, reluctantly turned to a small building adjoining the palace, the only bungalow on the entire fourth level. The house looked out of place in its surroundings, with its walls of light red brick, roof tiled with bright orange slate, the open windows festooned with golden firelilies and cinder lavender.

She was as contemptuous of this house as she was awed with her Overlord's abode, and gingerly pushed the yellow door open with her index finger, as if she might catch something nasty from merely touching it. This house belonged to Cinder, Marian's foster mother, with whom she had lived until three months ago, when she had turned seventeen.

As soon as she entered, she picked up the scent of freshly washed linen and the spicy fragrance of firelilies. On the table, she spied a plate of rhubarb dumplings sitting beside a pot of steaming magmatea. After a brief glance around, and seeing no one was watching, she popped a dumpling in her mouth, savoring the sweet-tart flavor.

Suddenly, she wrinkled her nose in disgust as a pungent odor drifted into the room; Cinder must be soaking her wretched healing herbs again. Marian loathed the medicinal smell, just as she loathed the very idea of healing the sick and injured. In Marian's opinion, Cinder wasted her time on the riffraff who affectionately called her the Healer. She much preferred to refer to her as the Nag.

She hurried past Cinder's room, absently peeking in as she passed the open door. As she expected, nothing inside had changed since Marian moved out. The room was circular and meticulously tidy, and it seemed to Marian that everything was freshly washed and starched. The walls were lined with shelves full of books and carefully labeled jars and vials containing various herbs and tinctures.

An ancient flame motif-engraved wardrobe stood in one corner, and a great umber-colored chest stood beside it, closed and locked tight with a black padlock. Marian had never spent time in this room. She never cared about Cinder and her ways, only about getting away from her as soon as she possibly could, away to serve her Overlord, Fire.

Marian was no more than five when she was first noticed by her Overlord. He had come to visit Cinder and Marian had been caught by him as she eavesdropped by the kitchen door. He had stooped down to look the beautiful child in the face, his eyes glinting, and he pinched her cheek between his red fingers. His touch burned like hot iron, but left no mark on her skin.

She was immediately enchanted by the dark evil of Fire and his destructive power. That afternoon she immediately set to perfecting her fire-kindling skills, and soon after, mastered the art of arson.

In her old room, the neatly made bed still sat in one corner, covered by the yellow blanket Cinder had woven for her. Her childhood things, the ones that had survived, sat upon red shelves; two china dolls dressed in yellow lace, a teddy bear with a red button nose, and a dozen storybooks, all handwritten and illustrated by Cinder herself. There had been more, but Marian took pleasure in disappointing her adoptive mother by smashing a new doll or incinerating the dull storybooks with her little firebolts – books full of stories about stupid elves and fairies.

A brand new blood-red dress had been draped over the corner mirror. Similar in cut to the one she wore, the shoulder straps were woven, yet very filmy and delicate, like fine, braided gossamer. The red satin of the dress itself tapered to the tailored, narrow waist, and the wide skirt was embroidered with a black flame pattern. She lunged upon it and tried it on, gasping in appreciation of her own beauty. Just imagining how Fire would stare at her when she wore this dress made her face flush red.

Impatient to see him, she flung aside a heavy black curtain in the far corner of her room to reveal her secret den, the only place in the house she liked, and where she happily concocted creosote crush. Laying a round red slab of andesite rock on the wide black tabletop, she shot a bolt of fire from her fingertip, lifting the slab into the air.

As it glowed redder still and started spinning around and around, Marian took a dark gray skillet off its wall-hook and set it on the andesite. Expertly, she poured thick orange-colored oil from a sleek flask, and added three bright rhyolite pebbles, a mixture of fifteen herbs, and the pulverized firelily petals and stalks she had harvested earlier. Next, she added magma ore to the thick, tarry blend, stirring it well, then sprinkling in a bitter powder and a dash of volcanic ash.

The final ingredient, a few drops of blood, from a virgin, was supplied by Marian herself. Taking a finely wrought, bejeweled dagger, she made a small cut on her own shoulder and stirred the crimson-tinged blade into the steaming tar-black liquid before pouring it into a clear long-necked bottle and sealing its mouth with a pitch-black lump of coal.

Her elixir now ready, Marian prepared to leave. Just as she reached for the doorknob, it turned and Cinder entered.

2

Robert

With mounting fury, he spun the smoldering orb faster and faster between his gnarled fingers. The spinning created a heat so intense that nearby objects were in danger of catching fire. Not that he, a creature made up of black flames, and whose very touch would destroy an ordinary mortal, was concerned.

He sat upon his black throne, which was much like sitting on a blazing stovetop, feeling completely at home in the stifling smoke of his subterranean chamber.

"Show me! It must be up there somewhere!" he rasped, eyes narrowed into impatient slits. Deep in his ancient, hungry soul, he knew – at long last – the chance he had been waiting for had arrived.

The orb sputtered, and then a blurred image flashed just below its surface. Fiendishly, he gazed into the shadowy depths. His nostrils flared, a cruel smile twisted his thin lips, and a feeling of triumph trembled in his every limb. His flamelike body ascended – finally! – from the depths of his empire in a rush toward the surface.

The first fresh breeze of spring sent a spray of dewdrops from the tall, wild grasses. Tinkling gaily past the brightly colored flowers, they announced their presence to anyone within earshot. The harmless sound had a strange effect on some, as several nearby field hands quickly gathered their tools and hurried toward the high, yellow steeple of the village. They were wise to hurry; when a Force of Nature paid a visit to these lands, it was best for humans to keep out of their way. The men were soon far away, their silhouettes merging with the shadows of the nearby woods. As a result, no human was present when the dewdrops gathered in the center of the meadow, gently flowing together to form a graceful figure.

A maiden stepped forth, fluid limbs lithe and flowing like fine silk. Her long, sky-blue hair brushed her ankles, her sparkling cobalt eyes flashed, and her long, silver dress streamed far behind her, brightly belted at her waist. A tiara of silver spun water encircled her head.

Her youthful appearance, combined with a timeless wisdom in her eyes, hinted at her immortality. The forest, the fields, and all their creatures attended to her. Radiating tranquility wherever she went, all those near her were blanketed by a feeling of peace and perfect happiness. The wasps ceased buzzing and the woodpeckers fell silent; nature itself paused to watch and enjoy the gift of this moment. Gracefully, she flowed through the meadow, moving one hand slowly in wide arcs over the blades of tall grass. In her other hand she gently carried a globe.

The greatest treasure of her entire race, twinkling and vivid blue, it vibrated with such intensity, it may well have held the vital force of every creature on Earth. Silver sparks traced its surface, and any man or beast whose gaze fell upon it was instantly captivated by its timeless elementary force.

All eyes followed her as she lifted the globe high above her and looked expectantly toward the sky. Suddenly, her blue brow creased in alarm and her face grew grim as she craned her long, graceful neck skyward.

She sensed trouble, bad trouble – but from which direction? She quickened her pace as the meadow itself bristled with a sense of impending evil. Flowers lost their colors, and the animals, trembling, took shelter in their dens. It was as if an invisible poison had spread through the air, and into the very pores of the sandy soil. Even the sky above had lost its cerulean hue.

All of a sudden, the ground became as parched as a desert landscape; a large crack appeared in the earth under her feet and a jet-black screen of smoke bellowed from an impossible depth. She dared not look down, breaking into a run under the sky now colored red as blood by violent tongues of flame.

Suddenly, she stopped short, and froze, cornered and alone in a field burning with red fire. Fear turned her pale as ice as a million menacing black flames erupted and encircled her like vultures in a whirling death dance.

The inky flames then revealed the most dreaded presence known to the Forces of Nature: the Prime Evil. The maiden screamed as he towered above her, her deepest, darkest fear now materialized, blocking out both light and sky.

The evil lord laid the field to waste with a wave of his hand. In an instant, all that was green, lush and alive became black, charred and dead; whether plant, creature or structure, it made no difference. The Evil One then tread through deep gray cinders, his long black tongue licking his chops in satisfaction as he breathed in the stench of burning and destruction.

Stopping before her, his coal black eyes, the eyes of a bloodthirsty executioner, swept over her delicate form. He laughed, a gravelly, raspy sound, savoring her fear and his power.

His contemptuous glare changed to an expression of evil craving as it settled on the globe she held behind her back. Gripping it tightly, she saw his desire for the globe in his eyes, and knew he would not hesitate to maul her fragile body to acquire it. In that moment, she knew her treasure was not safe, not with her or with any of her people.

She stumbled back, tripping on a branch and falling painfully on her back. Nevertheless, she embraced the globe as a mother would her only child. She would have gladly given her life to save the globe, and thereby, all of her people, but knew such a sacrifice would not pacify the Evil One. Running out of time and losing her strength, she tried to summon the knowledge of her ancestors, to find words of wisdom to help her flee his trap. But the struggle was over before it even began.

An evil skeletal hand grabbed at her, and then there was a burning red flash. He snatched the globe from her weak embrace with such savagery he nearly ripped her arms off her shoulders. She lay at his feet, her battered arms useless by her sides, her bright eyes veiled by tears, as he grew darker in his triumph. His smoldering fingers clasped the ill-gotten globe, which pulsed, as though in anguish, throbbing like a heart torn from the chest.

Suddenly, a blinding bolt of light struck an opening into the black flames and blue sky shone through. A flock of fleecy clouds descended onto the field. The evil one sniffed the air and stamped his fiery hoofed foot in frustration. Now in a frenzy, he turned back to the maiden and maliciously kicked her, his hoof tearing open a wound in her chest that sprayed blue vapor onto the flames. She screamed in agony and became still as the ground opened and the evil lord, roaring with laughter, disappeared underground.

As the fissure shut above his flaming figure, bright red flames danced in the blood-red mist where the grassy meadow had been, and a female form arose. Her supple figure was draped in a mantle of white, and her beautiful face, framed in jet-black hair, held intensely warm brown eyes, now flooded with pain and streaming with tears. An onslaught of deadly flames obscured her body and she shrieked in distress, Leave us alone! Why can't you just leave us in peace?

Robert Ground sprang from his straw mattress. He was gasping for air as if he'd been running non-stop for hours and hours, chased by some unseen demon. His face glistened with sweat that trickled down his neck, soaking through the white linen shirt that clung to his robust torso. Another nightmare. And in it, again was the black-haired woman, his mother.

As his breathing and heartbeat calmed in the gray glow of pre-dawn, he reclined once again into the straw. Sleep found him once more, here in the shed in the backyard of his father's house.

Robert had been up late the night before, busy tending to the roses. When he had come in to whet his shearing knife, he saw his father light a candle, signaling the end of the workday. Hoping to avoid an encounter with him, Robert went back to the potting shed, to take his rest right there in the straw.

He liked the open shed of worn oak, the buckets and garden tools lining its walls: shovels, rakes, saws, canisters, and hoes. The narrow shelves held an array of knives of all different shapes and sizes. Every blade glistened in the moonlight, and not a trace of workaday grime marred their mirror-smooth surfaces. A stack of neatly cut firewood was piled in one corner, with fresh straw in the other, and spiders spun their cobwebs overhead, swinging on silk trapezes. Whenever Robert gardened, he would start the day at the shed, gathering his tools; later he'd unwrap and eat his hastily prepared lunch of bread and cheese there.

Summer was approaching and the mornings were already scorchingly humid. During the growing season, Robert spent more time in his father's garden than he trained the more adventurous village youths in swordsmanship. He would sleep in this shed from the first day of spring to the earliest days of frost, after which he would rent a small attic room, warmly furnished in mahogany, above a tavern in the neighboring village.

By the age of twenty, he had grown tall, nearly six foot five, and his shoulders were set so powerfully, villagers turned to look when he strode down the street. His light green eyes were pure and radiant, and adorned with playful dark eyebrows that slanted rakishly when he flirted with the village lasses. His nose was narrow, his lips broad, and his chin wide and slightly dimpled. The heartstrings of women and girls fluttered at both his smile and the golden mane of hair that crowned his head, growing long on his neck. The length of his hair, as well as his easy, flirtatious ways, was equally disdained by many of the village elders.

Dressed in trousers of dark brown or black that contrasted with the white of his shirt, he wore black leather boots in all seasons. In the freezing cold, he would reluctantly don an old woolen waistcoat, to put an end to the unsolicited advice of the wise old village women, who swore he'd catch his death. Still, he steadfastly refused to button it up, despite their arguments. Spotless and unwrinkled, it seemed as if he was always ready for an appointment at the Royal Courts.

When he woke this day, Robert took a few moments to enjoy the stillness of the shed, as he lay in the straw. He gazed around, like a child in a room full of his favorite toys. He listened to the hum of insects and inhaled the pungent odor of damp soil. At the raucous crowing of the bald-tailed cockerel in Aunt Liz's yard next door, he got up from his cot and stretched his sleepy limbs. He put his boots on and washed his face in a basin, which stood in the garden on an iron tripod. He loved to wash in cold water and never use a towel to dry off; he much preferred the sensation of clear spring water evaporating drop by drop from his tanned skin.

The shuttered windows of his father's house appeared to look back at him, heavy-lidded eyes beneath the red tile roof, while the light of a single candle threw a glimmering wink from between the shutter slats toward him.

His father would leave the house for the garden soon. Every tenth day, for as long as Robert could remember, his father would trim the red roses, then spend two days caring for the white roses, then two for the yellow, and two again for the coral and lastly, the pink blooms. Always the same pattern. His father had other patterns too; he was sure to chew the meticulously sliced bacon on the left side of his mouth one morning, shifting over to the right side the following day.

He turned away from the house, and thoughts of his father, and went back to the shed. Checking the highest shelf, he noticed that one of the knives, the one with a deer foot handle, was missing. He picked up his own knife, which was engraved with a leaf design, and stepped out into the garden, eager to finish with the roses he'd started trimming yesterday.

Peasant boy, do you lie in so late every day now?

The grating, nasally voice made Robert spin around. A familiar figure stepped out from behind the far wall of the shed. His tall, lanky form was draped in a dusty black traveler's cloak; he wore a feathered hat on his head and long golden-spurred boots on his feet. Though his gaze was hidden in the shadows, Robert could sense hatred and contempt radiating from the man.

And a good morning to you too, Brownman! What brings you so far from the Courts? Run off by the Lord Counselor? Couldn't hold your own as assistant groundkeeper? Robert laughed lightly.

The cloaked man drew his sword and pointed it at him.

It's you and your father behind this, isn't it, Ground? I hear your old man is after fame and fortune! Sending a dozen roses, 'as a gift' to the Lord Counselor! That old goat, you just knew he'd give them to that whitewashed lady-in-waiting he's had his eye on, and have her swooning straight into his lordly arms!

Well, I'll not argue with you on that, there's not a woman alive who can resist the Ground roses, Robert remarked evenly, polishing his knife with a rag, unfazed by the much longer blade aimed meaningfully toward him.

Now the Counselor has dispatched his envoys to seek out this backwater and learn more about those roses of yours! By now Brownman, who had already been speaking loudly, had raised his voice to a full-blown shout. I can see through your father's schemes!

Robert looked into the man's bloodshot eyes. His father's schemes? Out of the question. George Ground gave his roses away generously to anyone and everyone, accepting nothing in return. Such courtly attention would, of course, please him, or so Robert thought, but only because his roses were truly worthy of admiration and praise.

"Schemes? Oh, please, do tell." Robert said, nonchalantly stepping toward the man.

I won't be made a fool of! There was gold paid for those roses, and I'm here to get my fair and even share!

You are mistaken on two counts, Robert said, shrugging. "Firstly, that there was any gold given. I can't imagine my father taking money for his roses. And secondly, that you would deserve even one coin, if any gold had changed hands."

Aha, so you admit it, then! Your father's really after my position! And you think you'll be following on his coattails and gain a position at the Royal Courts, peasant boy?

No doubt they'd welcome me as a skilled gardener. However, I have no time for Royal Courts or Royal Gardens. Not even for the King himself. So just sheathe that sword and get away from here. Robert's voice was still quiet and steady, as if they were just having a chat over breakfast on the porch.

"You're a good-for-nothing crofter, Ground! Now, take me to your hovel, serve me meat and drink, prepare me a bed, and bring a pretty wench too! Then you can lick my boots clean. You've made me run a worthless errand to this filthy backwoods. Tomorrow, we'll welcome the Court's envoys together, and you'll be telling them how I planted those roses myself, and how I gave you the instructions for their care."

And suppose I don't? Though you've asked so nicely, Robert said, a bit of an edge finally entering his tone of voice.

Then I'll bury you in the forest and the dogs can dig up your rotting carcass!

Sorry, Brownman, no deal, he replied, and in one quick motion, Robert grabbed a shovel by the shed wall and struck. Before the cloaked man could even blink, Robert had knocked the sword from his hand. With a kick, he then sent Brownman sprawling to the ground, the shovel's sharp edge now only inches from his scrawny neck.

"I know what you're up to at the Courts, trying to make a claim to the Ground roses, and taking money from courtiers in anticipation of the next harvest, when you know we give the roses to any who ask, and only accept whatever coin people offer from the goodness of their hearts. Unfortunately for you, my father's invitation letter is already before the Lord Counselor! Your miserable little lackey, Portman, delivered it