The Lords of Valdeon: Heart Of The Warrior Book One

By C R Richards

A new series from award winning Author, C.R. Richards: The epic tale of two men begins. The first - a man of honor trying desperately to turn his country from civil war. The other - a boy struggling to discover his destiny before agents of evil find him first.

Coveted by two ancient enemies of a long forgotten age, the continent of Andara holds the key to victory in an endless struggle for dominance. Eight hundred years have passed since the god-like Jalora struck a bargain with the first King of Valdeon. The Lion Ring, symbol of the covenant and conduit of power, gives its bearer incredible abilities. The ring's borrowed magic protects the people of Andara from covetous evil, but there is a price. As with most predators, the Lion Ring must feed. Only the blood of the D'Antoiné family line will satisfy its hunger.

A rival for Andara's treasures, the Sarcion has waited impatiently for its time upon the land. Whispers of treason in the right ear aid its treachery. The King of Valdeon mysteriously disappears, leaving his lands in danger of a civil war by the hand of a murderous usurper. His Lion Ring is lost and the covenant is broken. The Jalora's power begins to seep away from the land. Evil's foot hold grows stronger. Can the Lords of Valdeon, Sacred Guard of the covenant, stop the tides of war? Or will Andara fall into chaos? The future rests in the blood of a boy...

• Language: English
• Publisher: C R Richards
• Release date: Apr 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310664250

C R Richards

C. R. Richards is the award winning author of The Mutant Casebook Series. Her literary career began as a part-time columnist for a small entertainment newspaper. She wore several hats: food critic, entertainment reviewer and cranky editor. A co-author of horror and dark fantasy novels, her first book was published under the pen name Thia Myles Vincent. Her most recent literary project is the horror short story, Lost Man's Parish. Cynthia is the Publisher, Editor-in-Chief and head bottle washer for the Books and Banter Newsletter. She is an active member of EPIC and Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers.Works Available on Smashwords: Phantom Harvest, Lost Man's Parish

Book preview

Prologue

Blood and bone. Mikel D'Antoiné's fields were buried in the remains of the dead. He shifted his bare feet, trying to find firm footing upon the blood-soaked ground. Pain radiated from the many gaping wounds that made tracks along his bare torso. Dark, sweat-drenched strands fell across his swollen eyes. A hand made steady with grim resolve wiped them away.

Eight Valdeonian men stood with him in the remains of their smoldering village. Farmers all, they were the last of those able and willing to stand in defense of their people. Desperation kills fear. Anger breeds courage.

A lone shack protecting what was left of their women and children stood behind them. Screams of the helpless shook the thin walls. Mikel's wife and son were among the first to perish. Their bodies remained in a pile at the center of the battlefield with the other dead, befouled and dishonored by men from distant shores. Returning from his labors among the crops, he and the other men of the village had been too late to save them. Flesh eaters had already claimed most of their people before the farmers had pushed them back. Those innocents left trembling behind thin walls would not be taken with this new surge of violence. Mikel would see his life drain away first.

In the distance, the murderers from foreign shores waded through the dead. They were rough men, unkempt and savage. Mercenaries. Their armor was thick and their swords strong. Covered in the blood of the innocent, they kicked away the bodies of women and children. Cold hatred filled Mikel's heart as his eyes took in their leering faces. A hundred strong, they had no fear of the nine men who stood against them.

Thunder crashed in the depths of the sky as a great light burned through the din. Mikel shielded his eyes against its searing beam. He staggered helplessly as the ground threatened to break apart beneath his feet. Panic and cries to an unknown god rose behind him from the shack. The men standing with him made no protest. They were all ready to die, whether it be by the hand of an army or the land that kept them.

Then the great light faded, leaving a band of pale warriors standing at the edge of the battlefield. Dressed in brilliant white, their pale skin and hair glistened in the light of their power. Cold faces remained indifferent, betrayed only by the burning blue of their eyes. Each hard glare was fixed upon the murderous invaders. Cautious hope rose within Mikel's heart. The mercenaries knew these pale warriors, and they were afraid. Whimpered cries bubbled from flesh-stained lips. A few mutterings for mercy drifted across the muddy fields. Still, the pale warriors showed no emotion and no inclinations for mercy.

Protect the Innocent. Punish the Guilty. A voice — neither male nor female — resonated from the very Erthe and sky.

Brandishing twin swords, the strange men and women moved as one. Perfect features remained emotionless as they penetrated the mercenary battle lines. Mikel stood frozen with the rest, watching as their unstoppable blades carved a deadly gap between the killers and the villagers.

His attention was not captured entirely. A large ball of brilliant energy floated beyond the swinging swords and pale heads. Was it the same power commanding the pale warriors? Or was this another unknown threat? Leaving the warriors to their battle, he followed.

Chaos. Avarice. They radiated from a cluster of trees well behind the bloodshed. Mikel spotted something moving beneath the branches. Bulbous head atop a shriveled body, the creature gnashed its long teeth in warning at the ball of energy. It hissed like a feral cat and turned to flee. A bolt of power struck the ground before the creature's feet, halting its escape. The hideous thing hissed again with bared teeth.

Did you think I wouldn't know you've broken our treaty, Sarcion?

It was the same voice he'd heard commanding the pale warriors. Curious, Mikel kneeled down behind undistinguishable charred rubble. The stink of death was greatest here, though he could see no blood. Taking great care to remain hidden, he listened and watched. These strange creatures were clearly enemies. They'd chosen his village as a battlefield, and he wanted to know why.

The energy ball began to pulse. Light formed arms, legs, and a small torso. No distinguishable features appeared on its glowing head. Though it was a short being — roughly the size of a small child — Mikel strained against the power hidden within its body. He examined the two beings locked in their own battle of wills. They seemed to be made from the same ilk, though one was beautiful and the other ugly.

You intrude, Jalora. Andara is neutral territory, ripe and ready for the plucking! The Sarcion's teeth snapped in warning. I have won this land. It is mine.

Moving with the tremendous speed its ethereal body allowed, the Jalora grabbed its twin by the throat and squeezed. The creature's form was thoroughly revealed in the light of the Jalora's glow. Encrusted with scabbed sores and dried blood, its sickly green skin peeled under the light. Flaccid lids drooped over large dark orbs. Hatred swirled in their depths. Mikel hadn't considered the notion of good or evil. Tending crops and raising a family consumed his time. If evil did exist, surely the Sarcion was its host. Growling, the disgusting evil squirmed in the Jalora's grasp.

We divided this world evenly, agreeing undeveloped lands such as these would remain untouched. They are inhabited by simple farmers, not warriors. The Jalora released its evil twin. I claim this land for my own. Andara is under my protection now. Leave and never return or there will be war between us, my sibling. Never forget how much I would welcome such a challenge.

Do your followers know of the blood lust in your burning heart? The Sarcion asked, spitting venomous drool to the ground .

Moving its clawed fingers within the space between them, the Sarcion formed a malicious sneer upon its malformed face. Their competition for Andara wasn't over. Mikel had seen the same stubborn look in the eyes of a wild boar roaming outside the village. The beast wouldn't retreat from their dogs. It had greedily charged into their fields for an easy meal rather than going elsewhere. Mikel and his friends had killed the boar, but it hadn't been easy. Ridding Valdeon of the Sarcion wouldn't be easy either.

Andara is rightly mine. I will have it. Your puppets may have destroyed my warriors, but there are always those hungry for power. We will meet again, Jalora. You will have the war you crave.

The Sarcion bounded into the trees, leaving putrid fumes in its wake. An explosion of green and black filled the forest with a thick haze. Stepping into its foggy belly, the hideous thing of evil disappeared. The Jalora waved its hand. Haze made way for sunlight and a steady breeze, but the damage had been done. Leaves wilted upon dying branches. Undergrowth withered and died within a moment's haggard breath. Mikel clutched at the ashes of his village. How would he stand against such a creature when it returned?

Mikel stood away from the rubble, keeping his eyes upon the Jalora's back. This being of light and energy could easily destroy him. Common sense told him to strike while the being was distracted. Instinct told him to stay his hand. These warriors and their god-like master cared nothing for the people of his village. He must act on their behalf. There was no one else. Trusting his instinct, Mikel stood at his full height and waited as the Jalora turned slowly toward him.

What manner of being are you? Why have you come among us?

The world is bigger than the borders of your farm, Mikel D'Antoiné. Valdeon is one of many nations upon this continent. I intend to protect all of Andara from evil creatures such as these. Will you and your men follow me? Will you be servants of the light?

Others had joined them along the tree line. Mikel's brother, Malcolm, and their faithful men formed a half circle at his back. The deep cut down his younger brother's left cheek would be a constant reminder to be wary of strangers. They held their weapons at the ready. Their eyes too had seen enough violence and death this day. Trust would not be easily given.

White light glistened about them, finally stopping to circle the Jalora. The pale warriors held their weapons at elegant angles, ready to strike Mikel down if he made a move toward their master. Not one drop of blood or muck stained their uniforms. One hundred men cut down in less time than it took to walk his fields. He felt no pity for them.

These angels you have brought with you have great power. Will you give these powers to us as well?

You asked what I was, child. I was born when the old world ended. Its destruction came without warning, striking from the heavens. The cataclysmic attack tilted the world on its side. Human life disappeared from the planet's surface. Everything civilization had created was gone in a matter of moments. Concrete and steel gave way to forest. Technology faded with the civilization, which once worshiped its flickering idols. The Jalora paused for a moment as it relived the memories. I was created from the energy of emotions bonded to the land. Love. Hatred. Their intensity could not be erased. Not entirely. I am all that remains of the light from those long dead.

And the other being? The ugly creature? What of it?

There cannot be light without darkness. My twin embodies all things evil.

Extending its hand, the Jalora showed him a large, oval crystal resting within its palm. Tiny tentacles protruding from the crystal's surface wiggled in anticipation as they stretched out toward Mikel. Swirling its finger around the oval, the Jalora formed a silver band. The tentacles stopped moving as the crystal darkened in sleep. Then the head of a great beast rose to the surface, floating on a sea of black stone.

Behold. This Heart of the Warrior Ring will mark you as my servant. I give this Lion Ring to you, Mikel, as a symbol of our covenant. Known as 'The King of Beasts,' it will mark you as my voice on Andara. The Jalora tilted its bulbous head. I see fond memories of a child's trip to the zoo. Yes. I had liked these strange and wonderful animals. Perhaps I will bring them back to Andara?

You speak of things I don't understand. Tell me. If I wear this ring of yours, will you swear to protect my people? Mikel asked, bringing the strange conversation back to firm reality.

My wisdom will always be available to you and your descendents. I promise to protect Andara from evil as long as you and your heirs bear the Lion Ring. Know this. I decide who shall be worthy among your line to bear this symbol of our covenant. Guard it well, for if this ring falls into the hands of evil, more than Valdeon will suffer. Lose or dishonor the Lion Ring and my power will fade from the land along with my protection.

Mikel clenched his left fist as he stared down upon the lion's head within the stone. He was willing to sacrifice his life for those innocent souls shivering behind the thin walls of the shack. This being was asking for much more. It was asking for the future of his family line. His eyes drifted to the dying leaves the Sarcion had left behind. So be it. His heirs would serve like their sire before them.

I will wear this ring of yours and serve you for the sake of my people.

And those faithful to you? Will they also serve me?

Malcolm stepped toward Mikel, resting a hand upon his shoulder. I will stand with you, my brother. You will not bear this oath alone.

The others joined the two D'Antoiné brothers, their eyes staring unabashedly at the Jalora. Each of them nodded their acceptance. They were all brave men, pulled together by desperate need.

Very well. I name you the Sacred Guard. Great power will be yours. Fulfill your eternal duty to protect our covenant.

Warm energy ran along Mikel's skin as the Jalora brought the Lion Ring closer. The middle finger of his left hand grew hot, aching to touch the ring's silver band. Need, urgent and insistent, grew within his heart. The pull of the ring was strong. Would he lose himself and all he had been if he put this band upon his finger? Mikel's heart grew grim. No. He had nothing left to lose. Duty to his people was the only spark of meaning he had left.

Never let this ring fall into the hands of evil, my Lion. It is the key to summoning my power. If evil should take this ring, your borrowed magic could be turned against the very people it was meant to serve.

You have my promise. This ring will not leave the Lion's hand while breath still flows from our bodies.

Mikel kneeled down and stretched out his left hand. The Jalora thrust the ring onto his middle finger. Hungry feelers bit into his flesh. He swallowed a scream as tiny teeth burrowed and chewed. Searching for a stronghold, the feelers at last struck bone. Tiny tentacles latched tightly into the marrow. Other tentacles opened, sucking Mikel's blood into its stony belly. Its mortal host threw back his head, unleashing a mighty roar.

Mikel! Your eyes burn with fire. Amber flecks form within the brown.

Malcolm clutched at Mikel's hand as he fell to the ground. Heat burned within his body as the Jalora's power filled him. Pain overwhelmed his senses threatening to send him into unconsciousness. Words came to him as from a great distance. Still, his brother held firm to his hand.

You are the Lion's Right-Hand, second only to him. The Jalora's voice echoed in the mist. Mark those amber eyes well, Malcolm D'Antoiné. They are unique to the Lion. This is the mark I give the rightful heir of the king. Guard your Lion well. The lives of a great many depend upon him.

Chapter One

Obsession was a demon, driving men with the whip of blind ambition. Julian D'Antoiné felt the sting of its whip as his ship fought against the perpetual downpour. A great hound's muzzle — encased forever in bronze — snapped at the frigid air from under the bowsprit. Its distorted reflection upon the water was a herald, an ill omen of death.

The forgotten land ahead, as if in retaliation for the impending violence, threw all its ill will against them. Brutal wind sent daggers of rain pounding into the solar sails of the air schooner. Rough currents pushed against the ship's descending hull, but the vessel held its steady course toward shore. Julian ignored the wet striking his face. All his focus and will remained fixed upon the prey trapped somewhere within the thick coastal bog. The object of obsession was, at long last, cornered in the most desolate part of Andara.

He smoothed at the ring gripping his finger. It shivered with anticipation. Mentor and friend, the Sarcion had shown him many things. His greatest ally had once belonged to a nation of great people whose magic had been called technology. Much of what it told him brought only confusion, but its promise of power he understood well. Bitter rivalry between the Sarcion and its eternal enemy, the Jalora, fueled an infinite match. Julian and his fellow mortals were but pawns in their endless game. He accepted the diminutive role and was being richly rewarded for his part.

My lord prince. Captain Nunez's scarred face leaned in close, his voice fighting against the winds. We've received the signal from shore. They've found it.

A single lantern light flashed from the thick trees crowding the rocky shore. Its message came in steady pulses. The hand holding the lantern was insistent, urgent and hungry. Julian's grip upon these new soldiers was a tentative hold at best. Obedience in exchange for the promise of freshly slaughtered human flesh. The creature would obey his commands until the driving hunger overpowered its will. The scent of blood drove them into frenzy, but their need mustn't be satiated yet. His own need was greater.

Get me to shore, Captain, Julian commanded, boarding the hovering dinghy. We don't have much time.

Leaning hard upon the throttle, Julian sent the craft bolting forward. Crystal engines blossomed brilliant white. Vessel and rope ripped out of the hands of his human crew. Flying recklessly toward shore, the craft bounced precariously above the waves. Not far now. He sailed faster as his own demons gave chase. Julian reversed the engines when the hull drew near rock. They whined in angry fits of metal. He leapt out of the dinghy and onto the rocky beach. Discarded, the small boat drifted slowly toward the tree line.

A long shadow fell across the ground before a small break in the trees. He scrambled over wet rock and driftwood to the spot. Dignity be damned. The shadow brushed at his hand for a moment, and then fell away. Julian mastered his revulsion at the intimacy of the touch. No affection dwelled in the shadow's frozen caress, only a hunger to devour. He forced his eyes downward and scraped moss from the weather-worn stone with the toe of his boot. They’d found the ancient road leading to Sea Point Outpost. His father would be there, hiding like the animal he’d become.

He pushed through the overgrowth as the shadow retreated into the bog. Following its dark blemish upon moss and stone, he forced his way into the inhospitable barrier. The stench of things long dead assaulted his nostrils, making his eyes water. Muggy heat hung about the dead branches. Julian rubbed a strong-smelling balm under his nose. Fresh air was a stranger in North Marsh.

Tearing, scratching, and gnawing at his body, the land fought back until it revealed the secret it had hidden so well. He glared up at the ruined fortress, its skeletal remains stretching helplessly toward the ocean it once guarded. The Jalora Legion had abandoned this stronghold long ago, along with the continent of Andara’s northwest coastline. Now it was nothing more than a rotting corpse slowly fading away into the bogs.

Much like a painful birthing, he pushed through the tangle of limbs and growth to stand upon the dried path. Someone had cleaned off the stone and cut away nature's fingers, leaving an island of rubble. He sneered, absently stroking the talisman upon his finger. It was unlike his clever quarry to be cornered with no means of escape.

I’ve found you, Leo! Julian’s shout echoed among the stones. I can feel the Jalora’s life force pulsing within your Lion Ring. You have nowhere left to hide from my power as long as it is upon your finger.

Dark eyes flecked with fiery amber pierced through Julian from a small gap within the stone wall. Nearly eight hundred years had passed since the Jalora had first put the Lion Ring upon Mikel D'Antoiné's finger. Countless Lions had kept Mikel's oath to protect the people of Andara by bearing the ring. Leo was as blindly dedicated to upholding his ancestor's promise as any of those who had come before him.

The Jalora will never allow you to bear its sacred talisman, Leo called out through the stone. Take that thing of evil off your own finger, my son. It will see all that is good in Andara destroyed.

You remain the Jalora’s puppet to the end. Julian spat upon the ground. By its word you have abandoned the people of Valdeon, neglecting your duties as their king. Now civil war threatens our homeland. A strong leader must take your place.

Tell this man to come face us then, bastard prince! Another voice called to his left. For it shan't be you.

Brave words. You may well call me a bastard from the safety of those walls. Come face me directly and we'll see how loudly you can bark!

Movement from the trees forced Julian to master his temper. His hold upon his unstable allies weakened as he lost concentration. The defenders of this ruined fortress had seen his terrifying army easily take their last stronghold, an abandoned abbey in the middle of a Ghent meadow. They were purposely goading him. Were they so anxious to die?

A single arrow flew from the wall, striking the ground beside his boot. Laughter, coarse and proud, filled the bogs. This last act of defiance was no surprise. From the moment a ranger put the ‘Heart of the Warrior’ ring upon his finger, the Jalora took control of his mind. It was a parasite living off the ranger’s life force, sharing his blood within the crystal mounted upon bands of silver. As a child, Julian had been fascinated by the carnivorous appetite of the crystal. He remembered watching in awe as the host’s blood filled its stony stomach. Sickened with disgust, his gaze fell to the ring upon his own finger. The Sarcion demanded no such sacrifice. It was a partner to its host. He smoothed his finger tip along the surface of the black stone. Of course, it did have its own needs.

Hell awaits all of you! Julian raised his hand and sliced it down again.

Nine dark figures, shrouded in midnight robes, poured from the rotting trees and tall grass of the marsh. They moved like wraiths toward him. Their passing made no sound, and their feet left no prints. Sniffing the air as one, the creatures caught their quarry's scent. Their blood-stained teeth began to chatter. A nerve-shattering caterwaul emanated from deep inside their billowing forms. They were the Sarcion's advanced guard and special assassin squad. Those unlucky souls who had heard their terrible song called them the Dirge.

They stopped beside Julian, tense with anticipation and hungry for his command to take the fortress. He watched them, feeding on their savage hatred. They had been men once. The Sarcion had changed them into instruments of death, bound forever to its will.

The man who joins the Lion Ring and the Sarcion Ring will rule not just Valdeon, but all of Andara! The Sarcion whispered within Julian's mind, sending the euphoria pulsing into his body. It was a drug akin to the deepest gratification. The words — as they always had — gave him the courage to push on. For two years, he had patiently orchestrated his rise to power. He had eliminated any competition for the throne of Valdeon. Then the long hunt for Leo had begun. The final element for his victory was at hand.

I will restore the glory of Valdeon! Julian breathed in deeply the sensation of his invincibility. My armies will force all of Andara to cower at my feet!

Pushing his hunger down, he steadied his emotions. A cool head would see victory this day, not reckless desire. He turned to the Dirge, forcing his gaze to remain fixed on the lifeless orbs hidden deep inside their hooded shrouds.

Take the fortress. Leave my father alive. I want to see him in his defeat.

The Dirge swept toward the walls, effortlessly dodging the volley of arrows showering down upon them. Agile like predator cats, their movements were quick and sure. Nightmarish forms disappeared and reappeared too quickly to anticipate. They were untouchable. Death's song intruded upon the silence of the marsh. Screams of anguish rose up as the Dirge melted into the gaps of the wall. It was feeding time.

They move like phantoms, Julian whispered to the Sarcion.

Yes, aren’t they beautiful? The Sarcion vibrated with pleasure upon Julian’s finger. Its bloodlust never seemed to be sated.

The lifeless bodies of the defenders flew over the walls, landing with a sickening crunch upon the crumbled stone. Julian kicked the nearest corpse over. Three slash marks crossed the man's left forearm. He was one of Leo's Lion Friends. There would be no pleadings for mercy in this battle. In their fanaticism to protect the old ranger, they recklessly threw down their lives for his honor. Julian stood away from the zealot. He didn't recognize the man. Leo had many such nameless worshippers.

Death's music had stopped. It was silent again upon the marsh. Julian followed the slippery stone toward a large, barricaded opening. The wet wood was easily pushed aside now that no one was left to hold the bracings. Bloodied bodies were scattered everywhere. Some were Valdeonians loyal to their old king. The greater majority were men of other nations, those Leo hadn't disappointed. Julian hurried around them, turning his face away as the Dirge munched greedily upon the corpses. They hissed in warning as he passed.

One of the Dirge was waiting for him at the top of a crumbling wall. He struggled up the mossy stone to join its floating visage. As it turned the hooded cowl toward him, gray-blue skin pulled taut over sharp bones in a hideous mockery of a grin. Black orbs took Julian in with calculating hunger. Then the Dirge turned away and pointed a thin finger to the ancient courtyard below. Leo knelt upon the stone floor directly beneath them. Gone was his carefully maintained uniform. The old king had allowed his gray hair to grow long, tying it back in the fashion of a commoner. The Crown of Sorrows, symbol of Valdeon's ruler, hovered upon his brow. Its magic had diminished to a weak glow.

He had once feared the ranger kneeling before him. Now, the mighty Lion — one of the highest-ranking officers in their legion consisting of kings and other nobility — had been reduced to little more than a peasant. It was no easy thing to stand against the power of a ranger — especially the legendary Leo. Julian's contempt for his father gave him the strength to push aside the last of his fear.

The old ranger’s eyes swept down to the oval ring on his left hand. He seemed to be contemplating the lion’s head etched in white within the stone. The Lion Ring flashed soft purple in the afternoon sun. Was it speaking to its human host? Julian's ring stirred in response. For one wild moment, he imagined his father would surrender. Then a dagger flashed in Leo's hand. His amber-flecked eyes ran across Julian's face. With a final cry of defiance, Leo brought the dagger down upon his left hand.

The mighty roar of a lion shook the marsh, throwing them back. Julian fell to the ground, covering his ears. Beside him, the Dirge convulsed in agony. A band of energy within Julian’s mind — his bond with the Lion Ring — snapped, leaving him disoriented. Screaming, he pressed at the hot blood escaping from his nostrils. His stinging eyes stared at the Sarcion Ring pulsing upon his trembling finger. The mental link to the Lion Ring had been lost.

Get up! You must find Leo before he disappears into the marsh. The Lion Ring’s life force has been drained. I can no longer track it now that the Jalora's power has left the stone!

He tumbled down the ruined walls toward the courtyard. The Dirge waited for him at the base of the wall, spotless though they had spilled a great deal of blood that day. Their fury at the Jalora's unexpected attack was evident in the gnashing teeth and vicious sword thrusts into still corpses.

Blood pooled on the ancient stone at their center. The heavy raindrops already mingled with the thickness of Leo's sacrifice. Soon any evidence of his escape would be washed away. The Dirge seemed to sense his intent. They sniffed at the muggy air. One of them brought its face close to the stone and snorted great gulps of air into its nostrils. Howling like a demonic bloodhound, it lurched forward. Julian hurriedly followed. Several drops of blood marked a trail leading toward the back of the ruins. He cursed when the Dirge pushed aside a loose stone. It was an opening to a hidden trail. Footprints led toward clumps of matted grass surrounding a large tributary. Bent reeds and muddied water revealed a boat had been hidden, waiting for Leo’s escape. His old quarry had tricked them again.

Pounding impotently at the mud, he tried to reach out with the Sarcion once more. It was no use. He'd failed. Leo had disappeared and taken his ring with him. Something floated in the water beside the grass. He prodded it over with the tip of his sword. It was a human finger. A nasty-looking oval shape was burned into the skin. Leo had left a piece of himself behind after all.

We should have anticipated this. He spat at the abandoned flesh. Leo would cut off his own finger in order to hide the Lion Ring.

Ranger honor. He'd endured it his entire life, along with his father's disappointment. Neither Julian nor his brothers had been chosen to bear the Lion Ring. What was not given willingly would be taken by force.

I must have the Lion Ring. You well know what is at stake. He held the black ring out before him. Legends warn none but the bearer of the Lion Ring may touch the throne.

Indeed. The Jackal Emperor will be disappointed at this latest failure. Your contract with him must be fulfilled. The consequences if you fail will be…unpleasant.

Their shared thoughts moved back to his elusive quarry. Leo had lost the powers of a ranger now that the Lion Ring was no longer attached to his body. Even so, they must find him soon. Others would be looking for the ring too. He stared out across the inhospitable marsh.

There is no one else, Father! I am the last! Your only choice is to give me the ring! He waited, but there was no reply. Not even the sound of oars moving through the water.

Brilliant white light exploded from the marsh to surround the ruins. Pulsing with unbridled energy, it rose upward in a towering wave above the trees. Then the walls of the abandoned fortress shook violently, sinking slowly to the marsh floor.

Run, Julian! the Sarcion cried inside his mind. If the Jalora's power touches you, death will follow!

He scrambled to his feet and raced back toward the stone path. The Dirge followed. Some were overtaken in the wave of light. Their agonized screams hurried his pace. He dove into the tangles of branches. Hacking desperately with his blade, he propelled his body out of the thicket. He landed hard upon the rocky shore and kept rolling until the light finally faded.

Human hands lifted him to his feet. Several of the crew stood beside longboats, watching the five remaining Dirge warily. Julian shook off the hands and crept carefully back to the stone path. He peered into the dead trees and muddied waters. The ruins were gone. Only the stillness of the marsh remained.

The Jalora was supposed to be a great champion of good. Today it had shown its ruthless side.

Chapter Two

Over the waves and past the horizon, four emerald towers rose above the foaming sea. Formed with solid rock, the Grey Cliff Isles defied time and the elements for centuries before man was able to conquer their surface. They offered a simple life for those hearty souls willing to endure harsh conditions and hard work. The smallest isle, Marianna, could be traveled around by pony in half a day. Difficult to reach from the mainland, it was the farthest point west in the realm of Andara. For Seth McCloud, the little isle may as well have been on the other side of the world.

His amber-flecked brown eyes stared up toward the vast heavens as the hull of an airship floated slowly out to sea. He'd watched airships come and go from the town of Haven Bay's port for most of his sixteen years. One day he'd be onboard a vessel headed for freedom. Nothing could kill his dreams of adventure on Andara, not time or the lack of funds.

A well-placed elbow poked at his ribs. Carrot-colored curls atop a short islander frame bounced along beside him. Bright blue eyes shimmered with impatience. His best friend, Riley Logan, was not one to be ignored.

I said Stan swears the ribbon and bows will be walking through the market anytime now. We need to pick up our pace. Great gulls, Seth. You've seen airships a thousand times.

Ribbons and bows was Riley's pet name for the girls of Haven Bay. He and the other boys from the outlying farms made it a point to be in the market at week’s end. It was their only chance to catch a glimpse of softness other than the fuzzy tails of their woolie herds.

They walked down the little alley separating McTavish’s Mercantile and Old Ned’s Tailor Shop. Haven Bay Town Square opened up before them. Salty air filled Seth’s nostrils as they walked. The soles of his boots pounded upon the stone of the square, scattering a gaggle of seabirds in his wake. Far below, watery fists slammed against the rocks of the cliffs. Everyday sounds of children laughing and men arguing about the cost of feed announced they were entering the market. He leaned his head back, taking in the briny air.

Long rows of chalk-white shops stood like sentries. Windows filled with tantalizing goods beckoned to the ambling crowds of market time. Each gray door sported a shop’s name in bold, white letters. Each letter was in perfect uniformity with its neighbor. He rolled his eyes. Was it too much to ask for a missing letter or two?

Ho! Seth! Riley, Charlie McDermott called from the hitching post in front of Morgan’s Stable and Feed.

He brought a large, rough hand to smooth at the tiny bits of fuzzy stubble upon his square jaw. It wasn’t a handsome face, but Seth found it likeable. Jamie Newcastle and Stan McBride stood beside him. One stout and the other pole thin, they were an unimpressive pair in Charlie's massive shadow. The boys nodded their greetings as Seth and Riley joined them.

Seth leaned against the empty buckboard wagon. His eyes drifted up to the thin gray patch of autumn sky peeking over the eaves. Palms sweaty and stomach squirming, he tried to summon an attitude of calm in front of his friends. After months of excuses and hesitation, today was the day he'd walk up to Alice McKenzie and start a conversation. Perhaps they'd talk about harvest? Riley's family threw a big party every autumn. Imagine if he walked onto the dance floor with the prettiest girl in Haven Bay upon his arm?

Have you seen them yet? Riley asked, fingers combing through his untamed curls.

Tea shoppe’s serving those nasty little powdery cakes today. Alice fancies those. Stan gave Seth a sideways grin. I expect she'll be along soon with the others.

Jamie pointed at Seth's front. Have you been rolling around in jam, McCloud?

Cherry filling dotted the front of his best black waistcoat. Seth wiped at the sticky mess, his fingers managing to spread the preserves rather than hide them.

That's a stain for sure. I was helping my mother pack her baskets this morning.

Jamie grunted and shook his head. No offense to your mum, but I don't know why she bothers with such things. Your family isn't well off either, and that uncle of yours has a tight fist. Where does she get her money to waste on those who won't work?

We can't let the little ones go without.

Seth kept a tight grip on his anger. Jamie was the elder's son. He'd never had to do a hard day's work in his short life. His belly had never been empty nor had he been too cold to sleep. People like him couldn't understand need until they experienced it for themselves.

Careful, Jamie. Charlie leaned forward, a mean look