From the Ashes: Book I of the Phoenix Saga

By Luke Courtney

Born in a secluded village in the kingdom of Verdenta, ruled over by the iron fist of the Empire of the Phoenix and its cruel, domineering ruler, Empress Maeivra, the so-called Witch Queen, Diarmud never imagined he would experience anything out of the ordinary. But overnight, he finds himself caught up in a struggle to free the world from the tyranny of a sorceress in thrall to far greater and more terrible powers who watch the races of the world with hateful eyes

Hounded from his home by the Empresss agents, Diarmud finds himself to be the sole survivor of a secretive project to create a breed of warrior from a forgotten age of the world, a weapon meant for conquest, to be the first of Maeivras new order. Accompanied by his guardian, the old bard Cameron, and his closest friend Tabitha, Diarmud must race across hostile territory to find those devoted to keeping him safe and their world free from the clutches of the mad queen and the entities she worships, and prepare for the struggle that is to come

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Apr 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496977229

Luke Courtney

Luke Courtney has always enjoyed writing and telling stories about heroes and monsters since his childhood. He was inspired to write From the Ashes by walks in the Irish and Scottish countryside and his own interest in history and mythology. He lives just outside London, where in between working; he plans the next part of the story…

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© 2014 Luke Courtney. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/09/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-7721-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-7720-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-7722-9 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Prologue:   Delivered From Evil

Chapter 1:   Old Legends

Chapter 2:   Diarmud

Chapter 3:   Meat And Mysteries

Chapter 4:   A Man Of Power

Chapter 5:   The Hunted Hunter

Chapter 6:   Strangers In Town

Chapter 7:   A Nasty Surprise

Chapter 8:   A Secret Of The Past

Chapter 9:   A Hero’s Blade

Chapter 10:   Leaving Home

Chapter 11:   Signs Of Evil

Chapter 12:   More Strangers In Town

Chapter 13:   The Assault On Irith

Chapter 14:   On Matters Magical

Chapter 15:   A New Direction

Chapter 16:   The City By The Sea

Chapter 17:   Friends Of Old

Chapter 18:   Many Minds

Chapter 19:   Past, Present And Future

Chapter 20:   Blaggards, Bureaucrats And Beasts

Chapter 21:   Training And Plotting

Chapter 22:   Spies And Old Magi Mind Tricks

Chapter 23:   Future Plans

Chapter 24:   Setting Sail

Chapter 25:   Black Daggers

Chapter 26:   Hunting Through Golden Fields

Chapter 27:   Ambush And Ultimatum

Chapter 28:   Power And Control

Chapter 29:   The Hunt’s End

Chapter 30:   Tor Sekmet

Chapter 31:   The Days Of Blood

Chapter 32:   The Ring Of Ghosts

Chapter 33:   The Court Of The Dead Kings

Chapter 34:   Janus

Chapter 35:   Tabitha’s Tale

Chapter 36:   A Fresh Start

Chapter 37:   Journey Through The Unknown

Chapter 38:   The Beauty And The Beast

Chapter 39:   The Viper’s Nest

Chapter 40:   Jailbreak

Chapter 41:   A Brief Respite

Chapter 42:   Flight To The North

Chapter 43:   A Demon’s Kiss

Chapter 44:   Hole In The Wall

Chapter 45:   Blood Rage

Chapter 46:   Running For Your Life

Chapter 47:   A Secret Revealed

Chapter 48:   Salvation?

Chapter 49:   Blood Never Lies

Chapter 50:   The City On The Mountain Of Fire

Chapter 51:   Marius

Chapter 52:   Many Meetings

Chapter 53:   Let The Games Begin!

Chapter 54:   The Council Of War

Chapter 55:   The Battle For Reyjarvik

Chapter 56:   The Beast Within

Chapter 57:   The Army Of The Dead

Chapter 58:   The Sightless, All-Seeing Eye

Epilogue

Language Guide

A derelict prison, in the year 611AF of the Allied Calendar

The creak of a rusty iron hinge woke him from slumber; looking up from the pallet bed, the blankets falling away to his waist, exposing his gaunt, near-emaciated form, he saw two of the prison guards enter his cell, one with a hand on the haft of a hefty, iron-bound club, while the other dragged a spindly legged chair across the stony floor of the outside corridor, scattering the rushes as the guardsman deposited the chair right beside the door. The first guardsman tightened his grip around the cudgel at his belt as the prisoner tried to push himself up from the bed, perhaps thinking the man might try to rush them, only to realise it was a pointless worry; while the prisoner was by no means old, fever and lack of food had leeched much of the strength out of him. It would be no trouble for the guards to put him down if he tried to cause a ruckus.

The sound of footsteps, slow and measured, came as a third intruder approached. Compared to the boiled leather and mail of the prison guards, the third interloper was more finely dressed, at least based on what he could see of her- for she was definitely a woman, based on the slender figure, full bust, measured steps she took into the cell- finely tailored robes of deep scarlet wool embroidered with gold thread at their hem just visible under the hooded black cloak she wore to conceal her identity. Ensure we are not disturbed the figure spoke, her voice oddly muted as she slipped a few gold coins into the palms of each guard and bring some refreshment. The door creaked loudly again as the guards pushed it shut, though they did not lock it, no doubt to allow the visitor escape if the prisoner got violent.

As the hooded and robed figure sank down into the chair, the prisoner caught a glimpse of ivory and gold beneath the hood, and a lock of red hair fell to rest on her bosom before the visitor tucked it away beneath her hood. The prisoner gave a groan of realisation as he recognised the visitor.

Somehow, I knew one day you’d show up again. I just knew it the prisoner sighed, running a skeletal hand over his worn features, glowering at the woman, sunk in the chair as if it were a throne, dark eyes staring at him from the depths of the hood.

Some people may forget the things you and all those others have done, but not I. There’s too much at stake she noted, disdainfully looking around the cell, pulling a pomander on a chain around her neck from her robes and inhaling deeply. The strong smell of perfume, thick and heady, cut through the air, fragrant with cinnamon and cloves, though it could not quite disguise the smell of the overflowing privy bucket and the mildewed straw, nor drown out the screams of the wretched and the hopeless locked in the cells beside, above and below them.

It’s ironic they would cage you up in here, given who’s been in this cell before you. He was here once, long before all this…though I would have thought you wouldn’t have drawn attention to yourself the way he did when he ended up thrown in here. You had your orders; keep your head down, draw no attention to yourself and ensure no one learned what you were keeping safe. Somehow, I don’t think that ending up in this rotting hole would be viewed as keeping to that plan. The prisoner gave an angry snort at those words and turned away, staring out the barred window and the rain hammering down on the prison and the drab city below as he spoke.

"It must be so easy for you, not to mention him, now that the both of you are beyond such petty mortal concerns. Neither of you can imagine what loss and failure can do to a man; a wife dead in childbirth with a stillborn son, crooked dice that take what you own, and being forced to move from place to place because the people you knew are gone and the ones left fear you and what you possess…I have seen things you cannot witness, things I still wish I never had…and all night long in my dreams, I hear it whispering in the back of my mind, taunting me about all I’ve lost, and all that I’m going to lose. Do you blame me for turning to other means to forget? Wine, mead, ale, they help drown out her face and block out the whispers of that accursed thing in my skull…if this is the price I pay for it, well…"

You expect me to be moved by pity?! the woman snapped, her tone unmoved. "So you lost loved ones? Wake up and look around you- we all lost loved ones in that war! Have you forgotten that that was why we set out to do the tasks we were set? What you were chosen for, when the fires had burned out and it was all done? When we broke apart what was left of her, to ensure the flame she tried to start would never be kindled again?"

"I forget nothing! the man snapped angrily. I remember everything! The destruction of my village! The siege of Reyjarvik! The slaughter at the Gate of Kings! The hungry flames that sought to consume all…and the screams of all those who burned!"

Then enlighten me, because it would seem to me you have forgotten what he asked of you, what he asked of us all. Do you even remember what happened, or did the alcohol and the self-pity rob you of those memories as well?

There was a long, awkward pause that lingered so long the woman thought the prisoner would never answer, but finally, with a clearing of his throat, the prisoner began to speak, his tone that of a man wanting to get rid of something that had been on his chest for so long that its weight had all but crushed him beneath it.

I imagine you remember parts of this story better than I do- you were in it long before I was given a part- but I can tell you what I know and what I heard, if you’re truly wish to hear it; I suppose it will while away the hours until the guards come for another beating or decide to free up my cell by dragging me off to the scaffold… A weathered hand ran down a lined and weary face as he continued There are times when I wish I’d never been a part of it, or at least that my mind had been rotted enough to forget what I saw in those blood-soaked years…but as I have long learned, wanting something will not make it yours

As he began to speak, he turned his head, exposing what looked like a length of gold chain around his throat. An avaricious gleam appeared for but an instant in the woman’s eyes as she leant forward to hear the tale.

PROLOGUE:   Delivered from Evil

The howling winter wind swept through the forest from the east, sweeping the leaves up from the forest floor in a great maelstrom, whistling through the trees like a horde of ghostly banshees as it heralded the onset of dawn. On the breeze, a scent recognisable to all present in the leafy glade wafted towards them: the scent of elf flesh. The tallest of the figures raised his head in a lupine manner and sniffed the wind. The scent was unmistakeable: elf, and getting closer. Under the hooded brim of the long black cloak he wore, his mouth- the only part of his face not hidden in shadow- curled into a triumphant smile, revealing pearlescent white teeth. His canine teeth were two prominent, curved fangs, designed for piercing and tearing flesh.

He knew they were coming, and he was certain that these elves approaching were the ones his mistress had charged him with tracking: he could smell another scent approaching with them, and even if he hadn’t been a creature of sorcery, able to sense the presence of magic, he could tell what approached with the fey folk stank of black sorcery: the foul reek of it carried for miles in every direction. He smiled in satisfaction: his mistress would reward him well for this.

Turning to the soldiers he had brought with him, he gave a guttural snarl, whispering his orders in a low voice which still rang with authority Spread out, hide in cover- shrubs, bushes, trees! Our enemies approach: don’t let any escape! Any who fail me answer with their lives!

The creatures nodded in unison, their heads bobbing like a flock of birds. There were twenty of them, and they were strange beasts: they were each the size and weight of a tall human, with huge, heavily muscled torsos like a man’s, but their legs were coated in thick, shaggy brown or black fur and their feet were clawed paws that pounded the dry earth impatiently.

Their heads were bestial too: their faces were protruding snouts like those of a stag, from which murderous red eyes glared ceaselessly out into the night. Nostrils on the end of their snouts dilated wildly as they struggled to catch the approaching scent, curved antlers protruding from their brows and the backs of their skulls. Their antlers were designed to be used for competitions of dominance, where the strongest locked horns and wrestled with each other for authority, but they were also tipped with bronze spikes, making them formidable gutting weapons if their owners were disarmed. Thick ropes of yellowish saliva dripped from their open mouths, hanging from rows of cracked and broken dagger-like fangs and falling to the leafy forest floor, collecting in sickly pools at their feet, while their hot fetid breath steamed in the night air like blasts from a furnace. Thin leather armour, more for show than any defensive purposes, was strapped around their torsos. Their meaty hands clasped large wooden shields, emblazoned with the runes and sigils of their kind, along with iron axes and swords, their blades notched and crooked, stained with blood and other distasteful embellishments.

Swiftly, they headed for cover, taking up hiding places in hedges and bushels, behind tree trunks and fallen logs, covering every part of their bulky forms from view. In an instant, they and their dark leader were gone from sight, and the glade became calm and tranquil once more. The tall figure took up position behind the trunk of an ancient oak, its centuries of age almost a rival to his own, trusting its wide boughs to hide him from sight. He was tall and thin; almost handsome in a gaunt, feral way, with the bones of the face and hands prominent beneath the flesh, with no excess fat to his build, with only the corded musculature of a consummate predator over his skeleton. His taut skin was pale, white as marble.

Under the folds of the elegant black, hooded cloak he wore to disguise himself, his body was wrapped in a maroon robe, emblazoned with gold finery, under which he wore a chain mail shirt, though it was somewhat unnecessary: he was impervious to all but one injury. He wore thick leather boots which made no sound as he moved silently across the forest floor, which was laden with items that could make a sound at the most inappropriate time: leaf litter, fallen branches and twigs, stones and mud, amongst others. In his right hand was clutched a curved scimitar, its serrated blade designed to cut through the thickest of armours without challenge, but still slim enough to slip between a foe’s ribs and into his vital organs easily.

In the faint light, any others would have had trouble to see anything, but he could see as clearly as though the glade was bathed in daylight and though his bestial servants struggled to see anything, their sense of smell was powerful enough to compensate for that. He could still scent the approach of their prey, so close now, barely metres away. He could also smell the vile stink emanating off his warriors, the strong breeze wafting the potent reek downwind towards him, and could not help curling his lips in disgust- the overpowering stench of rotted meat and mangy fur they gave off was repulsive- ‘but thankfully’, he noted to himself, ‘if I can smell it, it means our prey can’t!’

Even so, he was uneasy, and for good reason: to the east, he could see a faint yellow glow- the first sign of dawn. Turning to his soldiers, he hissed on the breeze Get this over with quickly! I can’t remain here for long! His soldiers nodded mutely, and he smiled: their unquestioning loyalty was truly pleasing to see. His mistress had been right: fear and intimidation did make useful tools.

Suddenly, barely metres away, his clear hearing caught the sound of a twig snapping, and the figure smiled as his prey came into sight, entering the glade slowly, as if wary of a trap. There were a half dozen of them, all mounted on huge, purebred horses; their steeds were an unblemished white, with rippling manes of hair like pure silver, gleaming even in the faint light pouring through the trees, flowing like a river of precious metal. On their backs were their riders: the first five were male elven warriors of noble bearing, clad in well crafted armour, forged from gold inlaid steel and chased with elegant spiralling patterns in blue filigree: the work of a master craftsman. Their armour was segmented like the carapace of a scorpion; lightweight and easy to move in, yet strong and sturdy enough to resist attack. On their heads, they wore golden helms, each carved into the likeness of a snarling dragon’s head. The parts of their faces he could see from the few with their visors up were rugged and handsome, unmarred by injury and unmarked by scars and such disfigurements, and a mane of flowing white-blonde hair hung down around their shoulders. In the right hand of every warrior, an elegant lance was clasped, and at their left side, a broadsword rested in its ornate scabbard: finely forged weapons that could no doubt be used to lethal effect.

But the most majestic of the elves was the last: a woman who carried herself with the bearing of a noble or a queen. Her eyes darted everywhere at once, as though determined to see something her escorts could not. She was not heavily armoured, instead wearing a flowing cream-coloured robe, chased with intricate spirals of gold, which the information his mistress had given him said was part of a disguise to help them take their prize. Instead of a helm, she wore a silver circlet inset with a gleaming sapphire, but she was armed: an elegant sword was belted at her waist and on her back, a longbow and quiver, packed with twenty white-fletched arrows, was bound in place with a leather strap.

Her skin was almost as pale as his, ivory white and a contrast to the darkness around her, framed by a tangled mop of jet black locks and with his keen eyesight, he could see even the colour of her eyes; a radiant green, like the colours of the leaves of the pine trees outside the forest on the snow-swept plains. In her slender arms, she held a large and unshapely bundle, wrapped in thick, bandage-like rags, which she often turned to, as though to reassure herself it was still there. Occasionally, she would make a cooing sound to the bundle or sing softly in Elvish and gently rock the bundle in her arms, as though she were trying to please something within it. She then turned to her escorts and whispered something in her native tongue, but the wind was too loud for him to hear what.

He couldn’t tell what was in the bundle, but its stench told him enough: it stank to high heaven of black magic, and in an instant, he realised it was what his mistress had sent him to claim. And he had no intention of failing those orders.

The wait that followed seemed to last for eternity, waiting for the right moment to strike, a matter that he knew would take expert timing. Too soon and the prey could flee back the way they came: too late and they would race past unstopped. But in his ancient bones, he sensed the time had come, and when the third elven rider had ridden past him, he threw his head back and let loose an unearthly wail; a piercing shriek that carried for miles, waking and sending into flight every animal that happened to hear it.

His warriors heard it and hurled themselves to their feet, leaping from their hiding places in the undergrowth to spring the ambush. The horses whinnied in utter terror and surprise as they caught the foul smell of their attackers, their riders yelling in shock and unease as they tried to bring their mounts back under control, allowing their ambushers to get close enough to bring their cruel weapons to bear. One rider was down before he had time to defend himself, falling from the back of his horse in a spray of blood and spilt entrails, his belly split open by a crude sword blade. Another managed to drive his lance through the skull of one of the beasts, and brain, bone and blood spurted high in some morbid fountain. The elf threw the broken weapon aside to draw his sword, but before he could, two more grabbed him by his arms and pulled him to the ground, goring him repeatedly with their curved horns until his thrashing form was devoid of life. In an instant, the pair who had killed the elf and several others were brawling in the dust, fighting for the choicest meats from the corpse.

The once-peaceful glade was now a place of slaughter, the ground awash with blood, and the sheer stink of that vital fluid was enough to make his mouth water. ‘No’ he thought sternly ‘that can be done when this is over! For now, there are more important matters!’ He watched in distaste as most of his soldiers turned to fighting amongst themselves for the choicest meats from the bodies of the slain. Two of the elven riders were spurring their steeds back the way they came, pursued by ten or so of the bestial warriors, hungry for slaughter…and out of the corner of his eye, a light coloured shape fled into the forest at great speed.

Get after her! he roared. I must have what she carries!

Eager for fresh prey, most of the monsters feeding in the glade left their fighting, hungry to kill more, following their leader as they sought to catch their new prey. The elven woman had a great lead on them, but he did not plan on simply running her down on foot. Stopping a short distance behind her, he raised a clenched hand and pointed behind her, hissing a single word of a dark, long-forgotten tongue "Nazgahar!"

Bolts of black fire leapt from his eyes, striking her horse in its rump. The beast howled in anguish as the eldritch flames began to burn its flesh, hurling the woman across the forest floor. Amazingly, he noted, she took pains to ensure her bundle landed safely, rather than herself. ‘Whatever that is, it must be as precious to the elves as it is to my mistress, if they protect it so dearly!’ he mused.

The woman leapt to her feet, notching an arrow to the string of her bow as a trio of his animalistic followers charged her. The arrow flew straight and true, hitting one of the beasts between the eyes, felling it with a wailing screech. The figure raised his arms up, halting his soldiers from going past him. Go back and deal with the remaining elves! I’ll dispose of this one myself! His thin lips peeled back from his teeth in a cruel smile, revealing the curved fangs at the top of his mouth. With an elegant flourish, he threw back his hooded cloak, letting it fall to the forest floor. Around his now exposed face, a mane of flame-red hair framed a face that resembled a skull with skin pulled over it to give a parody of life: a high bone structure, prominent cheekbones and taut, pale white skin gave him the appearance of a corpse. The only part of his face truly alive was his eyes: a deep sapphire-coloured blue, they were mesmeric and ensnared those who looked into them, like a mouse entranced by the gaze of a serpent.

The elven woman hissed like an enraged cat and loosed two arrows from her bow. He moved his head deftly aside to avoid the first arrow; it went flying inches from his face, buzzing like a hornet. The second seemed to strike his face, and for a second, he saw a smile on her beautiful face at her seeming success. He raised his hand to his face, as though to remove the arrow, but her smile faltered as he lowered his arm and showed to her the arrow had been a hairsbreadth from his right eye before he had plucked it from the air. He watched as the slow realisation of what she was facing struck her, her face contorting in horror as she realised that only one creature in the world could move that fast.

She screamed one word into the late night in utter terror Strigoi!

Yes, that is one of my callings, elf! the Strigoi roared back, before yet again pointing at her and screaming the dark word "Nazgahar!"

Again, black flame leapt from his eyes, hitting her full in the chest. She gave a low gasp of surprise, before falling face first to the floor, where she lay, struggling to even move. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps; it was clear for all to see that she was dying, the spell having practically burned through her heart. The Strigoi smiled: they were victorious. He could hear, in the distance, the ululating brays of his bestial minions in the glade as they fed off still-warm meat and drank down steaming blood, but he had a more important thing on his mind: the bundle the elven woman had been carrying- it lay a few inches from her grasp. He moved towards it, determined to get back to his mistress before the rising of the sun. He could see it: it was quite large, big enough to be a book or small animal, yet he couldn’t tell precisely. He was close enough to touch it, and he extended his hand to grasp it, taloned fingers getting closer and closer to it. His hand began to close, eager to grasp the bundle by its front and pull it to his face, to see what lay in it.

Yet for all the inches it was away from him, it may as well have been five leagues, for he heard a rattling gasp behind him: turning around to the source of the noise, he saw the elf woman struggling to raise her head. Her beautiful visage was stained with blood and dust, her elegant black hair charred and burning, her body coated in soot and dirt, while blood-stained pieces of cloth fell away from her attire like rose petals. As he watched, she whispered one phrase in the elven tongue. "Dutha do Telar!" she choked, and in a burning flash of blue light and a cataclysmic roar, as though the world itself were erupting, the bundle was gone.

The Strigoi let out an almighty wail of defeated fury, impotent to do anything except howl in frustration and defeat: so close to victory, yet he had lost. His mistress’s prize was gone, far beyond the reach of his abilities to bring it back- the elf would only have used such a spell if she knew there was nothing else left to do. The bundle could be anywhere by now, and with dawn so close, he had no chance of tracking it down now, not without risking his own safety. His mistress would not be pleased to know he had failed, but he knew he could do nothing…except one thing, to gain some small manner of revenge.

Turning back to the elf, he kicked her hard in the side, knocking her onto her back. He placed his left foot firmly on her chest to hold her down, and then raised his sword above his head. She realised what he was about to do and tried to struggle, but her injuries, and his unnatural strength, made it impossible.

The scimitar came stabbing down.

There was a terrible scream. Then silence. A truly ghastly silence.

Furious, but denied his victory, the Strigoi turned to see the sun begin to rise. He could feel its pure light start to burn him, and he knew in that instant he had failed: the elves may have been slaughtered to a man, but their true quarry had eluded them.

Morning arose, clear and bright, to reveal the scene of an almighty massacre: bestial creatures fighting amongst themselves for the choicest meats from the butchered corpses of horses and slain elven warriors. Beyond this lay a burned hollow in the ground where a spell of almighty power had been cast, close to the body of a elven noblewoman, her body marred with burns, ash and blood oozing from a fatal sword wound to her stomach, to form a sickening pool of red ichor at her waist and in the dirt beside her, staining the fabric of her ruined white dress a deep scarlet. But the Strigoi was gone, retreated back to the safety of shadow, to wait for the time when his failure that night could be rectified.

Fifteen miles away, close to the mountain town of Heron, high above the forested valleys below, a lone figure climbed along the outcrop of granite that formed the side of one of the mighty peaks that made up the ancient mountain chain known as the Caros Mountains. Hidden under the hood of a dark cloak, a thin man, well into his mid forties, dressed in practical clothing of dark leather and fur, stared out into the morning mist, searching for signs of life. To the south, he could see the great pine forests at the foot of the mountains, and almost directly below him, he could see two great plumes of black smoke emerging up from the trees, rising to the early morning sky. He ran one hand through the long greying hair on his head, whilst the other tentatively fingered the hilt of the sword at his hip. That’s not natural he muttered to himself.

‘Best be wary’ he thought to himself. ‘I don’t know what’s lurking about here!’

Under normal circumstances, he would never have dared venture out alone into the mountains at such an unnatural hour, and for good reason- in the early morning light, foul creatures were often on the prowl: groups of bandits and slave raiders, packs of wolves, and worst of all, war bands of the bestial Rocs- hideous creatures with bodies of men but the features of beasts. All would kill a lone stranger out in the mountains, or do far worse; he knew he had to finish his business and be gone before too long.

The wind chilled him to the bone, and he pulled the cloak around him to keep some vestige of warmth, all the while cursing the wretched elves and their poor sense of time-keeping. ‘Where are they?!’ he cursed to himself. He had dragged himself from his home on the mountain, from a warm bed and the comfort of the familiar into this inhospitable hellish place; the greatest threat to him now were not the beasts of the wild, but the elements, thus heightening his desire to get out of the open before long. Once again, he cursed the wretched elves: it was so typical of them to keep him waiting. ‘The only agenda they follow is their own, and damn anyone else’s!’ Turning his thoughts to the task at hand, he spotted a cluster of pine trees, bent slightly by the wind. He began to stagger towards them, hoping to find some shelter from the cold, while he waited for their arrival, the sole reason he was out there. But as he walked toward the trees, a burst of light emitted from the centre of the trees, and a strange sound carried on the breeze, a sound that cut through him sharper than the winter wind.

He turned around, expecting to see a number of figures on horseback racing towards him, but nothing emerged from the morning mist. His mind was then caught up with thoughts of snarling beasts charging from the surrounding pines, to kill him with crude blades, or shred his flesh with bestial claws and teeth…or else worse. But the sound was not the howl of a wandering bear or wolves, nor was it the sound of approaching horses or the ululating bray of a Roc, nor thankfully was it the sound of approaching bandits. It was higher, more shrill…and incredibly close.

Then he saw it: a circular patch of open ground among the trees, where the needles of the surrounding pine trees were blackened, as though they’d been hit by a fiery blast of incredible power. The snow was black as jet, and the mosses, the lichens, the very rock beneath it was scorched and burnt. In the centre of the burnt ground, there lay a strange bundle. It was the size of a large rock, wrapped in thick white rags, which smouldered gently in the wind, wispy tendrils of smoke twisting insubstantially. Picking up a long, thin stick, the hooded man gently tapped the bundle from a safe distance, and to his amazement, it moved, thrashing slightly, making the wailing sound he had heard over the wind. After a short time wondering with himself whether or not to investigate further, his inquisitive nature got the better of him, and he stepped into the burned circle. The bundle was completely wrapped in the thick bandages, but as he pulled back the topmost cloth strips and saw what was in the bundle, he realised they weren’t bandages.

They were swaddling clothes, to keep what was in the bundle warm.

A baby.

He couldn’t believe his eyes. A baby, having just appeared as if out of nowhere.

‘What is this?’ he thought. ‘Is this what I am here for?’

The child still felt warm, no doubt the result of what had caused it to appear there, but he knew in the freezing winter chill, it wouldn’t survive long. He had no idea where the child had come from, where or who its parents were, or if they were still alive: he doubted its parent would have used what surely must have been sorcery to send it here if they weren’t in danger. ‘I’m certain it’s only appeared here because of magic’, he thought to himself, if the charred ground and burned trees surrounding him were anything to go on.

And then, in an instant, he realised this was what he was here for. What he had been called up the mountain for. What the elves had been planning to give him. He would have to take the child.

Wrapping his cloak around him and the sleeping babe, he turned back the way he’d came, back to his home on the mountainside. He raced back to get them both to the safety and warmth of his home, where would begin the next great challenge of his life: trying to raise a child.

CHAPTER 1:   Old Legends

The village of Heron, eight years later

One more tale, Cameron!

I’m sorry, young ones, but I think I’ve told you enough!

A collective groan rang out from the group of twenty children sat around the fire outside the stone house. They’d been sat outside for hours, listening to the tales of adventure and magic spun by the old village bard. At the announcement there were to be no more stories, some of the group began to move away, either heading for their homes, or led away by waiting parents before the sun set and the cold night set in, but of those who remained, four in particular kept on arguing, determined to wheedle one last story out of the old man.

Come on, Cameron, just one more story! a tall child with long auburn hair, pale skin and striking blue eyes called out. Call it a bed-time story if you want!

The village bard, Cameron, the boy’s adoptive father, having discovered him as a foundling in the Caros Mountains eight years before, ran a finger through his grey-streaked brown hair and shook his head. He stood in front of the fire, resting on a thin wooden staff, carved with strange, unfamiliar symbols, and its top carved and shaped like an eagle with spread wings. He shook his head and turned to the boy Sorry, my boy, Diarmud, you may be almost my son, but I’m not going to give into you.

Another child, a lanky girl with sandy blonde hair and green eyes also called out Come on, storyteller! Just one more tale before we sleep! Cameron shook his head and muttered Sorry, Tabitha, I’ve told enough for one day! Now be off with you, I want to get some sleep!

But the children kept clamouring at the bard, calling for one more tale of adventure, of warriors and monsters, of great battles and terrible conflicts, of brave heroes facing evil tyrants, until finally Cameron shook his head, sighed and said All right, one more, but that’s it!. The children nodded and swiftly fell silent, eager to hear the tale. Cameron spoke This tale is one you probably will not have heard before, for few are brave enough to speak it in this time… His eyes stared at something in the distance: the children followed his gaze to a small clearing nearby, where a black banner bearing the emblem of a phoenix fluttered in the light wind.

"This tale is one of glory and heroism, of nobility and brotherhood, and of the darkest betrayal and the greatest evil. It is the tale of this land’s past!’ An audible stir rippled through the group as they murmured amongst themselves: here was something that was new to them, a tale that had never graced their ears. Cameron gave a soft smile, spread his arms theatrically, and continued.

"Long ago, in the time long before even your grandfathers were born, the elves came to the shores of Verdanta. Noble and elegant, they sailed from across the great sea in their dragon boats to the lands of men, to see what lay there. They landed on the western shore, near where the city of Calaway stands today, and there, they were met by men, a group of fifty men, led by their lord, Uther, who the legends now call as Uther the Indomitable, for on the field of battle, there were none and nothing that would stop him until the battle was won, but then, he was just the chief of a simple tribe. The elves were led by their lord, Fearghall Drakecalla, -Dragontamer in our tongue- for his family were first to ride those mighty beasts into battle. It is said that there was much tension between the two sides when they first set eyes on each other, for neither had seen the other before, and both sides were reaching for their weapons in fear and suspicion. The elves were armed with magical blades and deadly arrows, while the humans had only wooden clubs and blades of stone and bronze. But the men had numbers on their side, and could have overcome the elves.

But Uther stepped forward and, despite the fear of his fellows, laid down his weapons on the ground, and walked over the elven party unarmed, welcoming them to his land and extending them friendship. The elves accepted his friendship, and together, they formed an alliance between the elven realms across the sea and the lands under Uther’s rule, sealed when Fearghall’s daughter, Rhiannon, married Uther’s son and heir, Artur. With the skill and power the elves gave to the humans, the chieftains of tribes for miles around swore loyalty to Uther, in exchange for aid from his allies, for the elves taught men how to work metal into weapons and armour, how to build sturdy homes of wood and stone, and even taught them of the ways of magic. With Elf and Man joined in alliance together, the two great warriors who led them commanded their peoples in a bid to join the lands and peoples of Verdanta forever, in peace, unity and freedom.

And so the great wars began: the two armies of Elf and Man rode together, obliterating all in their path: the Rocs, the warlords of men outside Uther’s rule, ancient monsters that roamed the land freely, were swept aside and crushed. One by one, the lands of Verdanta became unified, as did the races. Friendship and fellowship between our peoples flourished, for just as their leaders became closer than brothers, so did their men: the Elves taught Men the secrets of art, music and sorcery, just as Men showed them cunning, bravery and guile. More peoples flocked to the cause: the Dwarves, under the rule of their new High King Wulfric, who had for ages beyond remembrance hidden themselves in their mountains and kept from the sight of others, joined the alliance, and their skill and power were much valued, for they were craftsman and smiths beyond equal, and with their aid, Men created tools of warfare and power beyond any like them. And perhaps greatest of all, the mighty Dragons, whose sheer fury on the battlefield their enemies could not oppose. After twelve great battles, the enemies of the alliance of Man, Elf and Dwarf were gone, either dead or fleeing to the north, and their work was considered done. A new age had begun.

As time went on, history changed, and the alliance grew old: Uther died, as all mortal men must do in the end, cut down by a bestial warlord in another great battle to defend the realm he had created. Fearghall, lamenting the loss of his great friend and brother-in-arms, sailed back across the sea to carry tidings of the death of his people’s great friend back to the Elven lands, and Wulfric also fell to the ravages of his enemies on the field of war. But so too did the alliance prosper: Artur and his queen, Rhiannon, ruled wisely, building upon the legacy their fathers had left them, improving and bettering what had been done for them, and they and their heirs after them ruled with justice and wisdom. Power and knowledge, wealth and glory, respect and friendship, those were the currencies of the realm. Trade flourished between the human kingdoms in the mainland, the Dwarven cities in the mountains, and the Elven realms across the seas, and so it remained for centuries. A golden age ruled over the land, one the peoples of the alliance came to believe would never end. But lament, young ones, for you should already know, like everything else in our world…it could not last".

He stopped briefly to give his words time to sink in and find weight, swallowed, and then continued his tale.

"From outside, the alliance was impregnable; no enemy was strong enough to defeat it. But from within, it had no defence, and so it came to pass that the alliance that had endured for so long was destroyed from the inside out. Our arrogance and self-belief in the totality of our rule over these lands, our firm believe that the time of peace, freedom and glory would never end, caused us to grow complacent and lax, and in our dormancy, it cost us… fatally. Nearly seven hundred years had passed since Uther’s death, the alliance having gone from strength to strength, with unity and prosperity between the races still evident, though friction was emerging between the three, and the King of Verdanta, Commodus III, known to some as Commodus the Fool, went to his grave. Before he died, the king named his heir as his daughter, Maeivra, for he had no sons. A dark beauty and a keen mind like no other, Maeivra was eighteen when she ascended to the throne, holding such promise for her rule. But fear gripped some nobles at the coronation: fear that Maeivra held a dark presence in her soul, born in her younger years.

When Maeivra was six years old, she had been in the tower of her mother, Queen Lilith. Lilith was an aspiring sorcereress, with a penchant for experimenting with the boundaries of magic. But it is said that on that fateful day, her experiments were too powerful, too dangerous, but she continued anyway. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Lilith lost control of the spell: the magic imploded, consuming the tower and everyone in it- only Maeivra, spared by some unknown force, was found alive in the rubble, blackened by soot and bloodied, but otherwise unharmed. It was rumoured that she saw terrible things in the moments before the spell consumed the tower; sights of such great and perverted evil that should not be witnessed by mortal eyes, and as she watched, she was changed by it. By the time soldiers dug the girl out from the rubble, she was changed for eternity.

When Commodus had his daughter returned to him, he wept for days on end, for he had feared that he had lost his daughter to the devastation that claimed his wife and so many others. He summoned the finest healers and mystics to tend to his daughter, to restore her. But while her physical wounds were healed easily enough, her mental scars ran deep, and all the while, Maeivra brooded on what she had seen. Her growing madness was fuelled by her father’s treatment; he mistakenly indulged his daughter and gave in to her every whim, doing so with the best intentions, trying to help her, but in truth helping the madness to grow greater. And as she grew from a girl into a young woman, the darkness unearthed in her began to fester, like a cancer. None knew if the evil that grew within her like a child was brought about by what had transpired in that tower, or whether the evil had always rested in her soul and what had happened there brought it to the surface. But as the years passed, it became more apparent: she became more capricious and cruel with every passing day, and when she finally came to the throne, her madness was unleashed, and all suffered for it!"

Her father’s lords and nobles thought she wouldn’t be suitable to twist and bend to their will, so they attempted, in the final days of her father’s reign, to raise one of their own to succeed him. But that was their fatal mistake, for Maeivra had no intention of being denied what was hers by right: she bribed, cajoled and threatened the city guards, leaders of the alliance’s armies and members of the nobility to support her claim to the throne, and then, in the first of her many rages, she ordered the murder of every lord and noble in Uffern who had not sworn loyalty to her. Those who had not all perished in a single night of betrayal, infamy and murder, now known as ‘The Night of the Bloody Knives’. Dozens of lords and nobles were stripped of their lands and estates, publicly denounced in the court of Uffern and then murdered before their families and peers. Their heads were mounted on spikes above the dark city’s gate, a grim warning to all those who would dare to try and defy the Queen’s will. In one terrible stroke, Maeivra had ensured her power at court was secure.

"Maeivra became obsessed with gathering power for some unknown purpose. She collected many tomes and writings of sorcery as she grew ever more determined to master every aspect of magic and spell lore, and when she had mastered every aspect of pure magic, she turned to the darker side: black magic. She learned abilities that few mages or sorcerers have today: to summon steeds of shadow to carry her from one place to another in the blink of an eye, how to tear a man’s soul from his body, or freeze his blood and stop his heart with a glance. She even learned the greatest blasphemy of magic: how to raise the dead from their graves to slay the living. Some say that these dark powers came from what she witnessed in that terrible moment in her mother’s tower, whilst others claim she learned the powers from the tutelage of a Strigoi, but wherever it came from, it caused her to become even more formidable. Her obsession consumed her reason and devoured her mind, and in that instant, she realised that, to her thoughts, the world was too weak and feeble to survive, and she decided to rectify this. When she was certain she has mastered every aspect of power from sorcery, she began her dark work.

The events that followed are not named in our lands, but what the elves and dwarves call the Betrayal, for it was the betrayal of everything the age-old alliance stood for; the death of order, peace and freedom, and the birth of chaos, anarchy and tyranny. Maeivra tore down the realms and betrayed their peoples a thousandfold".

"With the authority of her crown, she declared the alliance finished: instead it was to become an Empire, with herself as the ‘Empress Eternal’. Any who would oppose her were to be executed or banished, trade between the realms would become unconditional, with all wealth and gain heading directly to the palace of Uffern. She also ordered all peoples in the alliance- be they elves, dwarves or men- to submit to her rule and her demands without question, or she would declare them enemies of the realm. In an instant, the dwarves and elves, knowing the folly of opposing her, but unwilling to serve a raving lunatic, retreated to their own realms, into the mountains or across the seas, leaving the race of men to its fate.

The kingdoms of men were split in two: there were those who saw Maeivra for what she was, a maniacal tyrant who would stop at nothing to undo the work of hundreds of generations, led by the surviving lords who had lost everything to her, and those who followed her, out of allure for quick, easy power, or fear of her vengeful wrath, were they to refuse. There were many who followed her, however, for her sorcerous skills and silver tongue swayed many. Maeivra knew that her madness would only gain her enemies, so she sought to gain support to her dark crusade. In time, she swayed a number of nobles, eager for quick glory and power, to her side, and together, they formed an alliance to claim Verdanta for themselves. They gathered wealth, power and armies together, preparing to crush their enemies in one swift, final stroke.

But her greatest success was when she swayed a young captain by the name of Karn, a man of some importance in the rebel movement against her, a youth with an honourable heart but a weak mind, consumed by greed and power-lust. She made Karn renounce his loyalty to the rebels, promising him power, wealth, prestige, and naming him a powerful noble, if he would serve her willingly. Karn was greedy and ambitious, and in a heartbeat, he agreed. Maeivra gave him a test to prove his loyalty to her: she told him to lead her armies to the rebel stronghold. Having become a zealot, a man fanatically loyal to the Queen, Karn obeyed, and brought his new mistress to the lair of his former allies, located in a hidden fortress below the end of the Caros Mountains. Maeivra’s army, guided by Karn, burst into the hidden stronghold and killed all they found. Only a handful of the rebels survived and fled north, further into the mountains, the Imperials chasing at their heels like wolves pursuing sheep.

After months of pursuit, it was on the Plains of Nimue, at the foot of these very mountains, that the two forces met for the final time: the royal armies led by Maeivra herself, and a force of the last few rebellious fighters, led by the noble warrior Eoghan, a man who had the heritage of a noble Elven bloodline in his veins, and years of skill in warfare. Having gathered as many able to fight who felt the same way as he did- men, elves, dwarves- he had ridden to confront the queen".

"The rebels were outnumbered nearly three-to-one, and though his advisors and captains begged him not to engage, but to fall back and seek more reinforcements, Eoghan was adamant: he would not slink through the Caros like a brigand- here was where he and his men would stop this dark ruler, or die in the effort. Mounted on the back of his faithful dragon, Draco, he led his men into battle, determined to reach Maeivra and kill her, knowing that was the only way to stop her army.

The battle that followed was a grim and bloody affair: men, elves and dwarves died in droves, cut down by the dozen for no worthwhile purpose, while their foe seemed fresh as ever, unstoppable and baying for blood. In the heat of battle, Maeivra’s dark magic called up foul creatures to her side, for with the disintegration of the alliance, creatures like the Rocs and far worse- brutish monsters and other blasphemous abominations of life- no longer held in check by the alliance’s soldiers who had made sure such creatures were purged from the lands regularly, had swarmed back into our lands and they had sensed her darkness, making her like a figurehead to them. With their aid, her army became a living tide which tore through every defence to stop it and obliterated all in its path, an unstoppable horde that the rebels could not withstand.

As the battle reached its climax, Eoghan and Draco fought in the centre of the field, slaying all who stood against them. Draco was amongst the fiercest and mightiest of his terrible kind, his bright golden scales and scarlet eyes flashing in the sun as he tore apart man and monster with tooth and claw, and with Eoghan’s skill with the blade and ceaseless bravery, there were none who could stop them. Then, he spied Maeivra stood alone at the edge of the battlefield, and he urged Draco to take to the air, so they could cut her down to end the horrific battle and save the alliance. But Maeivra was not as hapless as they took her to be: using the dark secrets of witchcraft she had learned, she conjured up an enchanted spear which she used to pierce Draco’s heart, and the pair tumbled from the sky".

Cameron paused for a moment as the children gasped at that, revelling in the reactions of his captive audience before continuing the tale.

When Eoghan recovered from the fall, hurt but angered by his loss, he leapt to his feet, determined to avenge the death of his noble mount. But Maeivra was not just a pretty face or a studious scholar: she had cunning and guile to her, dodging aside his blade with simple ease and then kicking Eoghan in the groin, smiling sweetly as she did so. As he fell to the floor stunned, she again called on dark magic, causing the corpse of Draco to rise up, his lifeless eyes to blaze with unholy light, his breath to steam with pestilence and decay, and his mind to become consumed by thoughts of rage and destruction. As Eoghan watched in horror, she commanded his undead steed to kill him, which Draco, made an unresisting tool of the queen’s will, did without question, tearing his former master to shreds, and then feasting off his remains. Then, calling up fell sorcery unlike any seen before, she let it loose on the survivors of Eoghan’s army, incinerating any still left on the battlefield in a wave of magical fire, leaving no one alive to challenge her again. But the use of such power was not without consequence: she was changed, left forever youthful and beautiful, but stripped of all humanity: mercy, compassion, love, all such things were alien to her. Even her most loyal followers could not look upon her without turning away in horrified disgust, knowing the truly diabolical powers that had twisted her to become what she was, and from henceforth, Maeivra was known as the Witch Queen.

And in the forty years since that dark day, she has ruled over us Cameron finished the tale solemnly.

Silence fell over the group as the story ended. Stunned by the sheer magnitude of the tale, most of the children simply sat there, mouths agape in astonishment at the almighty tale they had just heard. Cameron smiled enigmatically, then waved his arms Now, be off with you! I said one more tale and I stand by that!

At this, the children began clamouring for more, but the man shook his head, calling No, no, it’s late enough, and your families will have my hide if I keep you here any longer! Come back tomorrow night and maybe I’ll favour you with another! Now, go home! Come, Diarmud, sleep calls, and I do not wish to deny it!

As the young ones wended their way back to their homes, the bard and the auburn-haired youth he had called slipped into the wooden house behind them, the boy calling a weary Goodnight to his friends, slowly retreating to their own homes. As the boy collapsed onto the straw pallet upon which he slept, before he fell into sleep, he called out That last one was a great story, Cameron!

The bard nodded softly as he headed for his own chambers.

He has no idea how important that tale should be to him, Cameron thought to himself.

If only he knew.

Personally, I pray he never does.

CHAPTER 2:   Diarmud

The village of Heron, ten years later

The ear-splitting crowing of a cockerel broke the stillness of the morning. On the straw pallet bed laying on the floor of the old house, an auburn-haired boy yawned as he stirred from sleep. But he had changed a lot since that dark night ten years before: no longer a gangly child eight years of age, but a youth of seventeen years, handsome, well-built and impressive. He turned in his sleep, hoping to lie in the embrace of dreams a little longer, but suddenly, a sharp voice cut through that promise like a sword strike.

DIARMUD! GET UP!

Diarmud groaned wearily. Cameron was awake. And it seemed the cantankerous old goat was in a bad mood.

‘So what’s new?’ Diarmud thought to himself. He slowly sat up and shook his head, clearing the last traces of sleep. Diarmud had been called handsome in his time: seventeen years old, with barely a week before he became a full man, tall for his age, with a well-toned physique and appearance, the end result of so many nights in the wilds of the mountains hunting for game, in howling winds and freezing cold. Light blue eyes stared out from a face with a quite pale complexion, high cheekbones and a pointed chin, framed by a tangled mane of auburn curls that defied all attempts to tame them.

Quickly, Diarmud rubbed himself with water from a nearby bucket in a swift effort to clean himself, and then slipped on the heavily worn, dull brown leather clothes he usually wore, and staggered into the second of the house’s three rooms. Cameron’s room.

The house they dwelled in stood about a mile outside of Heron, close enough to the village to get food or help, but far enough to be hidden by the surrounding forests from the sight of the village. The house itself was built from granite stones piled up within a wooden frame. There were only three rooms: his own small chamber, a larger room for Cameron’s quarters and a third room where the pair cooked and dined. A thatched roof made of spare hay from the nearby village covered the top of the house, with only a small hole in the roof to let out smoke from the fire in the house. The only things of interest