A Traitor’s Heart: The Lands of Ala’Mar Saga

By Jaysyn NyCole

"…does he know who I am?"

"He knows nothing of you, my lord. He believes my cousin, Master Chuonn, is the head of the snake about to strike." The assassin laughed without mirth. "But in truth, we are just its eyes."

"And its fangs," the cloaked figure added.

"Yes, and its fangs," he agreed before bowing. Without another word, the shadowed assassin disappeared back into the blackness from whence he came.

The cloaked figure remained for another ten minutes, then he too turned and vanished from the Emerileen Forest.

A Traitor's Heart

Although peace has remained within the Kingdom of Baevar during the Dragos' reign, there are some that want a change.

As the Shadows--an elite guild of deadly assassins--rise from the darkness, the opportunity for chaos and strife begins. Led by a mysterious cloaked figure, trouble spreads throughout the kingdom. Doubts and distrust surface. Friendships are strained. Loyalties are tested.

In the end, the most dangerous of enemies are those closest to the heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645364177

Jaysyn NyCole

Born and raised in Southern California, Jaysyn NyCole began dreaming of being a writer shortly after high school. Working in the construction field as a Land Surveyor for over 20 years, he was able to view the world from different angles. Having a great imagination from early on in life, he began to envision new people, ideas, and destinations. The journey to his debut novel has been more than just the five years of writing, editing, and imagining; it has spanned the last several decades of his sleeping and waking thoughts. His love of reading later in life has inspired him to finally take the leap to live out those dreams. He presently resides in a small town in the middle of Missouri with his family.

Book preview

Epilogue

About the Author

Born and raised in Southern California, Jaysyn NyCole began dreaming of being a writer shortly after high school. Working in the construction field as a Land Surveyor for over 20 years, he was able to view the world from different angles. Having a great imagination from early on in life, he began to envision new people, ideas, and destinations. The journey to his debut novel has been more than just the five years of writing, editing, and imagining; it has spanned the last several decades of his sleeping and waking thoughts. His love of reading later in life has inspired him to finally take the leap to live out those dreams. He presently resides in a small town in the middle of Missouri with his family.

About the Book

…does he knows who I am?

He knows nothing of you, my lord. He believes my cousin, Master Chuonn, is the head of the snake about to strike. The assassin laughed without mirth. But in truth, we are just its eyes.

And its fangs, the cloaked figure added.

Yes, and its fangs, he agreed before bowing. Without another word, the shadowed assassin disappeared back into the blackness from whence he came.

The cloaked figure remained for another ten minutes, then he too turned and vanished from the Emerileen Forest.

A Traitor’s Heart

Although peace has remained within the Kingdom of Baevar during the Dragos’ reign, there are some that want a change.

As the Shadows—an elite guild of deadly assassins—rise from the darkness, the opportunity for chaos and strife begins. Led by a mysterious, cloaked figure, trouble spreads throughout the kingdom. Doubts and distrust surface. Friendships are strained. Loyalties are tested.

In the end, the most dangerous of enemies are those closest to the heart.

Dedication

To Jayson and KayNykki, you are my inspiration.

Copyright ©

Jaysyn NyCole (2019)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Any resemblance to actual persons, dead or alive, or actual events is purely coincidental. Names of characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Cover design by Courtney Boatwright

Interior map design by Jaysyn NyCole

Interior map stylized by Courtney Boatwright

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Catalog-in-Publication data

NyCole, Jaysyn

A Traitor’s Heart

The Lands of Ala’Mar Saga

ISBN 9781641821964 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781641821957 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781641821940 (Kindle e-book)

ISBN 9781645364177 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019935769

The main category of the book — FICTION / Sagas

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Prologue

The 28th Day of February in the Year A³AM54

On a day when he should be celebrating his coming-of-age, the young thirteen-year-old was instead sitting in a dark room…waiting. His father had demanded to see him. Time was urgent. The elder man lay—coughing and hacking and racked with pain—on his deathbed, unable to shake the onset of the illness. Potions and tinctures from the local healers no longer held any effect. His wife lovingly wiped his chin and mouth of the yellowish-red fluids.

Leave us! he commanded, as the latest bout subsided.

Jeron, please, she pleaded.

Go, woman! This is between a father and his— He began but was again struck silent by a sharp searing pain in his lungs. The woman, sobbing, pulled him tight. When the pain passed, he pushed his wife away. I said go! You have no more business here. Leave me to my son.

Devastated by the harsh words from her husband, she fled the room in tears. Her son sat mute, watching as she disappeared from their view, then turned to face the pale, gaunt figure that used to be his father.

Wipe your eyes! I’ll not have you crying for me! his father commanded between his many fits of coughing. There are more important things to be done.

Doing as was asked, the young boy wiped his wet, bloodshot eyes, before he gently tipped a silver mug of water for the sickly man. Father—

"Don’t—cough—speak! Just listen—" hack-hack-cough. He took another drink. Today you become a man. I need you to act like one! Cough…cough. I’m dying, he said flatly, as the young teen began to tear-up anew. The elder man made a feeble attempt to backhand the boy. "Stop that inane—hack—sniveling!" he yelled. Then fell back, the pain once again racking his body.

As he settled, he lay still a moment before slowly pushing himself into a sitting position. Please, his voice was softer, more subdued, as if almost giving up. I can’t do this much longer. Just listen.

Hearing the change in his father’s tone scared the newly turned teen more than seeing the excruciating racks of pain. He receded into his chair and held back the sting in his violet eyes.

You are now a man…and I’m proud you are my son, his father said in a somber tone. It’s up to you…to care for our household. You are of high, noble birth. If not for the Dragos, it could be our sigil that flies over Baevar’s castle. He stopped to gather his wind. But it does not—yet! I believe in you, son. You are a match to that bastard heir.

But father, surely you don’t mean Sabatín? He’s my friend, the boy whined.

Nonsense! he dismissed the lad’s protests. Just listen, his voice was weak and hard to hear. The queen should have married and secured our lands. A woman is too weak to rule alone. She needs a man’s strength. He began another bout, racked with immense pain. His body shook as he coughed. Blood trickled out the side of his mouth. Afterwards, he lay panting, trying to regain his breath before he resumed. Instead, she took a secret consort—whose bloodline we know not—and delivered to us a bastard. An heir of un-pure blood.

Knowingly, he was barely able to raise his withered hand to forestall the boy’s protest. No son, he said calmly, Sabatín no longer has the right to one day take the throne. The time of the Dragos is over.

You must become the man I know you to be. Watch. Learn. And you will understand. You are of pure nobility. It is our time. Your time. Drained, he lay back—eyes closed—and rested.

The conflicted teen remained quiet while he watched his sire sleep. His thoughts jumbled by his father’s stern words. As he lost the battle to hold back the tears, he knew—his father would never wake again.

The 26th Day of September in the Year A³AM72

Push, my lady, Father Driskal urged. Push!

I can’t! the weary woman cried.

You must, Your Majesty. The baby is nearly come.

I’m too tired, she breathed, I must sleep. Her eyes sagged closed.

I know, Isales. The cleric’s voice was calm and comforting. Soon, very soon, you can rest. For now, you must push…or we’ll lose the baby.

* * *

It be time, milord, the matron announced. The baby comes.

Very well, replied the King.

He followed the middle-aged woman down into the lower castle, into the family catacombs. Within, was a large chamber divided into two sections, separated by a thin wall, on the left, above the entrance was engraved the alpha symbol, to the right, the omega. For the Dragos, within this room was the beginning and the end.

For generations, the first chamber served to welcome in new life, while the latter, was used to say goodbye. Only on such occasions were others allowed to venture below the castle’s floors. Visitors would wait in an adjoining anteroom until called forth, to either, see the newly born heir, or pay their respects to the recently departed.

This occasion was a joyous one. A new child was being brought into the royal family.

As the two made their way to the alpha chamber, another heading in for the event met them.

Janus! Sabatín hailed. So good of you to come.

I wouldn’t miss it, Your Majesty. It’s not every day an heir is born into the kingdom.

Indeed, it’s not. Sabatín agreed, smiling at his longtime friend.

Has the child been birthed yet? Janus asked

Not as yet, milord, the matron quickly answered, her eyes holding the man firm. But, if you two don’t hurry, he’ll be soon grown.

Only the matron, Faraday, could get away with speaking such to the king. She had been the one to tend his ailing mother until she passed. King Sabatín brokered no sass, but he owed her a debt of gratitude—one he could never repay.

You must wait inside here. She opened the doors to the modest anteroom and ushered the men in. When the babe be here, I shall bring him to view. She closed them in and hurried off into the birthing chamber.

Twice now your matron has referred to the child in the male tense. Janus pointed out. Do you already know the baby’s sex then?

No, the king replied. But you know old matrons. They always try to tell you what you’re having.

So, she hasn’t divined the future then?

No. Sabatín saw a disquieted look upon his friend’s face. Nothing to fret about, my friend, after all, she has a fifty-fifty chance of being wrong too. The two enjoyed a quick, fun-hearted laugh before Sabatín began to pace.

How long until he’s born? Sabatín fretted aloud, not realizing he’d also referred to the baby as a he.

Any moment now, Janus reassured the nervous monarch, just as a high-pitched wail came from the adjoining chamber. They both froze—so frightful was the sound. Each tried not to think the worst.

A few moments later, the matron returned to the anteroom doorway; a newborn was tightly swaddled in a crimson blanket. Your son, milord, the old woman crooned, while gently rocking the babe.

Let me see him! Sabatín commanded, a bit harsher than expected.

The old matron gave him a look but made no move.

Matron Faraday, let me see my son, he restated, in a softer tone.

Janus watched the strange exchange, a scowl upon his brow, yet remained silent.

Faraday handed the newborn to his father. Be sure to support his head, she chastised, as the king held the infant up for scrutiny.

The child was a wonder. He had calm, intelligent, pale blue eyes that were full of life. His short golden hair shone like fresh cut straw in the mid-afternoon sun. There was a good heft to his weight as his father jostled him up and down. A huge smile lit the king’s face. Sabatín gently laid the newborn on a nearby table and began to unravel the swaddling blanket.

Milord, Faraday stopped the proud father’s progress, drawing a glare from the man. His birthmark, milord—

Yes, yes, I’m sure I know, he sighed, on his left scapula. Like mine. Like my mother’s. And just like my grandfather’s. I know.

No, milord.

Once again, both men froze, staring at the elderly matron. Hope glistened in the deep blue eyes of King Sabatín, while in Janus’, a different reaction gleamed.

Seeing the differing looks in each, she quickly added, It not be upon his heart either, milords. He not be born true.

Neither man knew if it meant relief or not, but the newborn prince was healthy.

A grand heir, my liege. You must indeed be proud.

Yes, Janus. Thank you. Ah, my dear friend, I’d almost forgotten, I’ve heard you have a fine new heir yourself. A boy—much as you’d wished—was it not?

Indeed, he was, my lord. Janus beamed.

And what did you name him?

Jahved Jerron Teirl.

A fine strong name! Sabatín stated, clapping his friend heartily on the back. Congratulations to us, Janus. King Sabatín raised his golden chalice. And to our sons. May they grow to be wise, strong, and fair. The two men drunk deeply from their cups.

And with that, Your Majesty, Janus began a few moments later, I beg your pardon, but it is time I return home.

Yes, of course, my friend! the king exclaimed. Return at once to your beautiful wife and newly born heir.

Chapter 1

Journey to Baevar

Jahved Teirl woke with a start to find himself alone in the dark, ominous tent. His skin wet with perspiration. His hands shook from fright. His latest nightmare a product of his sire’s harsh lesson from the previous evening. The memory of events still fresh in his mind, Jahved recalled waking to the similarly empty tent.

They were camped in an open, grassy wold two days out of their homeland of Jolon. The travelers were headed north along the western road towards the main seat in the Kingdom of Baevar. The castle town—sharing the same name as the kingdom—was still another three days ride.

Jahved had gone to bed with the setting of the sun. Tired from the two-day journey, he’d fallen asleep fast. When he woke in the dark of night, Jahved cast about the unlit tent for his father. Not finding him within, the young boy’s curious nature drew him near his father’s travel chest. Inside, Jahved found the object of his fascination, the Teirl family heirloom: Venom.

Venom was made of solid silver craftsmanship. The eight-inch blade was honed to a razor’s edge. But this was not what made it the family’s treasure. The real prize, a black onyx viper coiled along the six-inch hilt; the eyes alive with the sparkle of two identical amethyst gems, the weapon was both fearsome and majestic in its design.

Not being able to fully appreciate the grandeur of the dagger inside the dark tent, Jahved wandered out into the moonlit encampment. Holding the prized weapon carefully in the light of the waxing moon, Jahved gazed upon the pulchritude of Venom.

Stepping out of the shadows beside him, a strong hand grasped the silver heirloom. If you dare to take a man’s dagger, make certain you’re ready to use it, his father’s commanding voice stated. Then, as he snatched it from Jahved’s clinched hand, Lord Teirl allowed the tip of the blade to cut a thin line along his son’s left cheek. So sharp was the edge, the youth barely noticed. Go wash your face and have Brother Brynn tend to that wound. Instinctively, Jahved touched his cheek and felt the warm wetness just as it started to seep out.

Remembering this part of his past ordeal, Jahved again touched his left cheek. Only this time, instead of a slow trickle of blood, he stroked the dry texture of the protective poultice Brother Brynn had used to patch his wound. Not wanting a repeat lesson, Jahved rolled over and restlessly fell back to sleep.

When he finally awoke the next morning, Jahved was shocked to find the sun had fully cleared the horizon. Looking about, knowing full well his father would have roused hours before, he found he was indeed, all alone. Hustling to get ready, he chose an outfit of everyday travel clothes: soft brown boots, brown breeches, and a dark green tunic. Then stepped out of the tent to greet the new day.

Outside, the mid-March day was crisp and clear. The air was clean and fresh, with a hint of the morning meal. Smelling the various cooked meats—sausage, pork strips, ham, and fish—and the baking of spiced breads, Jahved’s stomach rumbled in delight. His hunger driving him, he headed over to the foremost of the three cook-wagons. The lead wagon was stocked and loaded especially for his father and himself.

Reaching the food area, the wagon’s cook, the only servant allowed to prepare meals for Lord Teirl and his son, greeted the newly awakened youth. Mornin’ young master, would you care t’ have a bite t’ eat?

Oh, yes sir. I’m starved and could eat a full grown tuskor…by myself! he exclaimed.

Ha. Ha. Ha. The old cook laughed, his large round belly jiggled up and down. Tis a good thing I’ve cooked a full tuskor bull then.

Placing a selection of the finest cuts of the boar-like creature on a silver plate, the old cook handed the dish to his young master. As Jahved started to turn away, the portly cook stopped him with a cheerful, Hold a minute, young sir, as he ladled out a healthy portion of mixed eggs in a rich, creamy sausage gravy. Then topped it off with two fist-sized, fresh-baked, spiced rolls.

With a huge grin on his face, Jahved thanked the old, burly cook and started to head towards his father’s table. Before he got five paces away, the cook’s voice was again directed at him.

Oh, young sir, one more thing. Your Lord Father wants to see you straight away. He said yur t’ eat and not tarry about.

Once at the table set out for meals, as was usual, Jahved ate his wonderful food alone and without a companion or conversation.

Having eaten his fill of the rich spiced meal, Jahved cleared away his empty plate, the whole time thinking, Father would never sully his hands with dish clearing. He then carried his dirty wares back over to the cooking wagons.

Thank you, Maester Tubby-I-I mean Maester Tuptley. Red-faced, Jahved quickly corrected his mistake in calling the overly large cook by the demeaning nickname his father used when he was displeased with a meal. The food was excellent as always, he said, a broad smile of genuine respect upon his face.

Yur welcome, young sir, he replied with a slight nod of his baldhead while ignoring the boy’s blunder. Now stop dallying, yur Lord Father awaits you.

Hurrying through the bustling encampment, Jahved saw his father positioned at the head of a long rectangular table. He appeared to be talking to a lone figure standing erect at attention before him. I bet that’s Commander Ryger, Jahved thought to himself as he continued over towards the two. Of all our knights, I like him best.

Lord Janus Teirl was a tall, thin, muscular man. Almost a good foot taller than Jahved’s own stature of five feet. His rich black hair was short and tightly cropped. His fair complexioned skin was contrasted by a well-trimmed black mustache which had grown down around the corners of his mouth to merge into the close-cropped black beard. The mustache and beard were just starting to show slight flecks of grey, yet his cheeks remained smooth and clean shaved. Lord Teirl’s most striking feature was his violet eyes, topped by two black caterpillar-like brows.

Still gazing at his father, Jahved noticed his sire’s raiment. He was not wearing his normal traveling clothes of browns as Jahved expected, but instead was dressed in a pair of long black leather riding boots, black woolen breeches, and a fine linen tunic in lavender. A viper brooch made from black onyx fastened the deep dark purple cloak draped across his shoulders. His father was a striking figure of regal elegance. But what had caused the sudden change in appearance? Jahved wondered.

Turning towards the knight addressing his father, Jahved realized he was correct. The knight was Commander Jeremy Ryger, First Commander of the armies of Jolon. His father’s most trusted and loyal of knights. The tall, husky warrior was an older man. To Jahved, he appeared to be in his early fifties, with a shaved head and a long red and grey beard that was set into a single braid below his chin. A long thin scar adorned the length of his left cheek. Touching the poultice on his own cut face, Jahved wondered how Commander Ryger had come upon his wound. He would have to remember to ask him later.

Still slightly out of breath from his rush through camp, Jahved started to stammer out a greeting, He-Hello, Fa—

A sharp turn of his head and a deep menacing scowl stopped Jahved short. Lord Teirl resumed speaking to the knight. As I was saying, Commander. I need you to remain with the troops. Get them ready and follow behind approximately ten minutes. Be sure to keep a normal steady pace.

M’lord, I beg your pardon. But the area ahead…the reports, it’s too dangerous for you to take just two knights—

I know full well what the reports say about the path ahead, Lord Teirl snapped, cutting the knight off. Which is precisely why you are to send the marksman ahead to flank us. Three to each side, anymore and we’d attract too much attention and the rest would fail.

M’lord, at least wear your battle armor.

I will not! Lord Teirl stated angrily, then added, Do not question my judgment Jeremy. We both know things must appear as natural as possible.

Forgive me, m’lord. I only seek your protection and that of the young lord to be, Ryger said, shifting his gaze to Jahved.

I know my friend, the heat in his voice waning, But you must do as I command. Go, now. See to the final preparations. We move out in one hour’s time.

Yes, m’lord, by your command. With a clap of his fist to his chest, Commander Ryger left to make ready the rest of the contingent. As he passed by Jahved he gave the boy a quick smile and a light pat on his shoulder.

Before Jahved could utter a word, his father turned to face him and stated, Glad to see my son has finally decided to join us this day. We ride out in one hour. Do not delay. And son, change into clothes more suited for nobility. We have guests to greet. Having given his demands, Lord Teirl pivoted and strode away, leaving Jahved standing there, alone, once again.

Good morning to you, father, Jahved stated out loud, it’s such a nice beautiful March day. He said the latter to himself.

Why, yes, it is. Perfect for a pleasant ride. Jahved answered himself with a grin, even with Father. Then, he ran off back to the tent to change and prepare to leave.

Just over an hour’s time, Jahved arrived to find his father mounted upon his large warhorse. The big mare frightened him. She was the largest horse Jahved had ever seen. He remembered his father’s proud boast: She’s nearly eighteen hands, he would state as he paraded her past the smaller horses. Jahved didn’t know exactly what his father meant, but what he did know, she was huge!

Her size was enough to scare most boys of twelve, but there was more. Her coat was midnight black and was brushed to a polished sheen. The only patch of color; a small starburst of silver, positioned in the center of her brow. Her eyes were two great orbs of coal. It was like looking into pure darkness. Lord Teirl had aptly named his pride, Nightmare.

Positioned to the left of the massive beast was a smaller mount. A brown juvenile gelding, a simple horse of no particular bearing. This was his mount. Although horses, or animals for that matter, didn’t really interest Jahved, he knew they were necessary. He also knew his father would never allow him to ride with anyone. That he must do it alone. When his father had given him the horse, he’d said, He’s a solid horse with a fair temperament that even you should be able to ride. Saddle up!

That was exactly what Jahved had done.

Carefully avoiding getting too close to Nightmare, Jahved climbed up into the saddle of his little brown gelding. With an appraising look from his father, the two began their journey.

I thought it would be good for you to see some of the— Lord Teirl paused slightly to find a suitable term, inhabitants of the region near the forests.

Oh? I think I’d rather like that, Jahved said excitedly. Are they farmers that grow grains? Or perhaps they are woodsmiths that make chests, or fancy boxes, or tables and chairs? After all, they have lots of trees.

No, they are neither of those, his father said stolidly. But I do believe they shall come out to meet us.

As father and son reached the outer boundary of the encampment, two knights in full panoply maneuvered their dark stallions into a position behind the much larger mare and young gelding. Looking back at the knights, Jahved smiled and waved. Neither of the knights made any move to respond to or acknowledge the young lordling. Feeling slightly taken aback by this, Jahved glanced over to his father, who was staring at him with a disapproving scowl upon his face. Jahved quickly turned back to face north and the road ahead.

* * *

James Killian was an important man. He was born a noble of a lesser house in a small town southeast of Baevar. His family banner—a black merlin centered onto forest green and misty grey—had proudly flown in defense of the king for generations. Killian could still recall the spectacular way the mottled design of the pennon vanished in the wind, giving the small falcon the appearance of flight. Since those days he’d become a member of the King’s guard, ridden under the King’s banner. He was to be Garrison Captain of the western fort at sentinel pass—the gateway into the Kingdom of Baevar.

But, all that was in the past. Stolen away by Lord Janus Teirl in the name of the King’s justice. All because a whore, a simple nobody, had accidentally died by his hand in the small town of Cross-Fork.

Lord Teirl, as Magistrate of Jolon and the King’s right hand, just happened to be near Cross-Fork to preside over the trouble. Through his findings he’d declared Sir James Killian, Knight and Royal Guardsman, unfit and unsuitable. In judgment, Lord Teirl stripped Killian of his knighthood and station in the name of King Sabatín Drago, ruler of the Kingdom of Baevar in the Lands of Ala’Mar.

Now, Killian sat in a small clearing near the southern edge of the Halcyon Forest. The forest was located on the western road, almost two days south of the town of Baevar. The camp was small. A dozen lean-tos lined the edge of the clearing. A makeshift table was fashioned from odd planks of wood. Scores of small oak tree stumps passed as stools; gathered around were a dozen men known in the area as brigands and every one of these bloodthirsty thugs were staring towards him.

Killian may no longer be a knight. He shall never command a garrison. Nor even will anyone call him captain. But he did command these twelve men. His men. And they did call him sir. He was still Sir Killian—although, when Killian was not within earshot, he was more commonly referred to as Sir Kill Any’un!

For the moment they all waited.

A series of owl hoots sounded in the distance, to be answered in kind by a nearby bandit. A few moments later, a tall muscular bear of a man stepped out of the trees into the gathering with long purposeful strides. The newly arrived brigand made his way to Killian’s side. The two grasped forearms in greeting as Killian asked, How fares your scouting?

Better than you’d believe, replied his second in command with a wide grin.

Oh? Pray tell, Jayír, what has you in such good cheer?

None other than your deepest desire, he stated while watching close for a reaction. As you have always hoped, Lord Teirl is, at this very minute, riding up the Western Road, a few miles south of the forest.

How many in his contingent?

Four at present…

Four? This cannot be! Killian exclaimed with a shout, pounding his fist onto the plank table, shattering three of the mix-matched boards. Jayír, you must be mistaken; Teirl, he said the name with a snarl, would never travel with so few. He is a coward and surrounds himself with a small army to go for a walk.

Ah, but I was not finished, Jayír said again with a grin. It is Teirl, of that, I am sure. He was on that monster of a horse of his, dressed in fine clothes of purples with a dark flowing cloak. Riding alongside him was a young boy. I’d thought mayhap a squire or even younger, a page. But as I was able to get a better look, the lad was dressed in finery as well. With a similar look to his face and hair. The huge man paused to be sure the importance of his words sank in. I believe the boy to be his son.

This is very interesting, but, only four? It makes no sense. Do you know of the other two?

Aye, they are two knights in full regalia.

Knights, ha! Killian spat out the words.

There is more. The contingent, you so rightly speak, follows behind, but they are some ways back.

How far? He commanded in question.

My guess, a goodly thirty minutes or more. They move with the pace of wagons and women. And Teirl canters his horse, with nary a care in the world.

Good! exclaimed the confident Killian. Let us give this arrogant cur a care.

The fearsome group of warriors busied themselves gathering weapons, supplies, and horses. Picking the largest stallion for himself, Killian prepared to lead his band of men into a fight he’d been anticipating these past two years.

It was time Lord Janus Teirl, Magistrate of the southernmost town of Jolon, met the new hand of justice: the hand of Sir James Killian, leader of the Brigands of Halcyon.

* * *

Their party had been riding over half the day. The sun was now rushing to reach the shores to the west. Jahved was becoming saddle sore, for they had not stopped and rested since departing the encampment. And yet, they had not happened across a single village or any town. Not even another traveler along the open road. Jahved was beginning to wonder if they’d ever see anyone else.

The four riders had come upon the southern edge of the Halcyon Forest. The trees had started sparse and far to each side of the path. But, as the foursome continued north the trees: oaks, maples, and beeches grew larger and closer towards the Western Road. Up ahead, Jahved could see in the distance, where the woods would engulf the road, taking it and any wayfarers into its midst. As he stared at the gathering of trees before him, Jahved thought he glimpsed some movement.

A band of travelers emerged from the dense oaks on the eastern side of the path. The company was on horse and galloping fast. Jahved began to feel excited, as he was finally going to meet the inhabitants of the Halcyon Forest. I wonder what trade they ply, he thought to himself. But as the people came closer a new feeling arose.

The group rode in pairs of two. As the road widened, the horseman repositioned. The two in front remained side by side. Jahved saw eight other riders take up positions, four across, behind the first two. When the band of ten came within a few hundred yards they slowed their horses to a walk.

The two men in front, clearly visible now, sent a shiver down Jahved’s spine. The man on the right was tall in his saddle. He had a large muscular build. His face was long and stern with an air of nobility, or was it arrogance? Jahved did not know the difference. His hair was long, scraggly and an earthly brown streaked with grey. His eyes shone a vibrant green, as if they’d captured the color of the leaves from Halcyon. His armor—for he was dressed for battle—was mismatched, as if put together from fallen enemies. The only remarkable piece to his raiment was a green and grey mottled cloak that draped over his right shoulder. Embossed upon the breast was a small black falcon. Jahved was curious if it was a sigil depicting the man’s noble birth or if it, too, was taken from a slain foe. The final item of the approaching man’s mixed ensemble was the gleaming hilt of a great sword protruding above his wide broad shoulders. He looked deadly and fierce.

But that was nothing compared to his companion on the left. He was straight out of the tales mothers and matrons told the wee ones to keep them from wandering off. He was large as a bear and almost as hairy. Of the man’s face, not much was seen, as his beard was shaggy and unkempt. His wild eyes, dark from what Jahved could see, felt as if they were boring into his soul. He, too, wore a mixed array of armor and weapons. Jahved had never seen one man carry so many. Attached to his horse was a black handled long sword; a double-bladed axe hung at his hip; at least a dozen daggers and knives were strapped, belted or secured to the man in one fashion or another. A great bow was slung on his back, with a full quiver of green-fletched arrows. Jahved knew, without a doubt, this man was not a guest. He was a killer. And he terrified him to his core.

As the deadly band of men drew closer, Jahved felt the urge to flee. He glanced over to his father, expecting to see a signal to turn his horse and run. What he saw, instead, was a cool calm smile. A look of satisfaction that scared him even more than the group of heavily armed warriors.

Casting his eyes down, Jahved noticed, for the first time, that his father had an ornately handled saber in a saddle-scabbard on Nightmare’s left. Jahved wondered if it was new, for he had never seen his father carry the fine curved blade.

Jahved’s thoughts returned to the gang of men now stopped several paces before them. He then realized that they, too, had come to a halt. But didn’t recall as to when. He sat, petrified as stone in his saddle, and watched. And waited. And trembled with fear. The large man on the right began to speak.

"Ah, what a pleasant surprise, Lord Teirl. It is still Lord Teirl, isn’t it? You haven’t aspired to become king, have you? The leader asked condescendingly. What brings you to my forest?"

Ignoring the brutish man, Lord Teirl continued to keep his gaze to the road ahead.

Answering for his liege, one of the knights spoke up. Whom are you to question Lord Teirl? He asked in a stern tone.

Who am I? repeated the brigand. Lord Teirl knows very well who I am, he said irritated. I am Sir…James…Killian, formerly of the King’s guard; here to seek justice for what he did to me two years past.

You shall find no such justice here this day, brigand. Take your men and leave this land, the knight commanded. For if you stay, ’tis the King’s justice you shall come to find.

Spurring his large stallion forward, Killian casually rode straight up to Lord Teirl. His horse, somewhat apprehensive with fear, nosed up to the much larger mare ridden by Teirl. Nightmare gave a single snort of derisive contempt but did not budge as the brigand’s stallion moved too close.

Leaning forward and speaking in a lowered tone Killian stated, Arrogant to the very end, Teirl. You are hopelessly out-manned, and unarmored. My men are skilled fighters. Each and every one a killer. And Jayír there, that beast of a man eats young boys for breakfast, he said this while watching the Teirl boy quake with obvious fear.

Before another word could be spoken, the air filled with the hum of several low hisses, as if the wind itself was whispering a threat.

Turning to see what had caused the disturbance, Killian stared in stunned disbelief. For as he turned, so, too, had his overly large second-in-command. And as Jayír looked toward the source of the buzz in the air, an arrow found its mark. The sickening thud of impact would have made any normal man cringe. Killian watched in dazed horror as each of his companions fell from their mounts, dead.

All nine of his well-trained men were dead. A single black-shafted arrow with deep purple fletching protruded through each. Some hit in the neck, others under their mail below the arm. And the last to fall, Jayír was struck through the left socket of his dark wild eye, as if it were known precisely when he’d turn.

Stunned by the swiftness of the lethal assault, the lone brigand shifted in his saddle to face the riders. Before he could muster an angry response, there was a sudden flash of steel, as Lord Teirl drew the saber and in one fluid motion cleaved the head of his would-be attacker.

Jahved sat there dazed. Confused. Numb. His breeches wet from his own loss of control. His heart was racing. His hands were shaking, too. To Jahved, it felt as if the world was closing in on him. He could barely take a breath. He looked up at his father, who sat with a cool detached look of disdain, and started to cry.

Clean up this mess, Teirl commanded. And Jahved, stop that inane sniveling. His tone showed no emotion. These men deserved their fate. We shall not shed a tear for them. His task completed, he gave a gentle twist to the reigns. Nightmare wheeled about and headed back towards the slow-moving company of wagons and men.

Doing as his father ordered, Jahved tried to compose himself. I was not crying for those men, Father. I was crying for you, he said to himself, just before urging his horse to catch up to his departing sire.

Chapter 2

The Town of Baevar

For the third night in a row, Jahved awoke in the middle of the night, shaking and wet with perspiration. It had been a little over a day since the encounter with the brigands, yet Jahved could not shake the image from his mind.

His father was able to carry on like nothing had happened at all. That seemed to scare Jahved the most. When he woke from his dreams, it wasn’t the band of outlaws lying dead he saw, it was the cold, uncaring look in his father’s violet eyes. A look he’d seen before. Only, before, the eyes had been directed at him. A chill shiver shook Jahved, as much from the memory as from the cold evening air.

Although it was hours before the sun would rise, the large encampment was alive with activity. Drawing on his travel garb, Jahved stepped out of the darkened tent. His father, seated at a nearby table, was again engaged in conversation with one of his knights. Deciding to join them, Jahved made his way towards the two. Not about to make the mistake of interrupting again, he patiently waited to the side.

Glancing over at his still drowsy son, Lord Teirl expected an interruption. When none was forthcoming, he smiled and resumed his conversation, please, Sir Aryll, do continue.

As I said, m’lord, after we took care of the ten on the road, we went into the forest to be sure ’twas no more that lay in wait. What we found was a small camp, barely more than a clearing, ’twas scant a dozen lean-tos. We had found three at watch— having seen the young lord he chose his words carefully, which we easily dispatched. We cleared the area of all items, including five good horses. But found no evidence of any other bandits about.

And what of the items of Killian’s I requested?

They have been gathered and secured away as you commanded.

Very well Aryll, you may go.

Thank you m’lord. A quick fist to his chest and Sir Aryll was off to join the bustle of camp dwellers already at work.

Watching Sir Aryll depart, the young lordling realized he had been one of the knights that had accompanied them during the encounter. He was the one that had spoken in his father’s stead. With that, Jahved understood what the conversation was all about. He, then, took a seat.

Father, I understand why they went into the forest to look for others, Jahved stated.

Oh? Tell me. Why did our knights look for others?

"To be sure that when we passed through the forest no others could ambush us and our—he stressed the ‘our’ as his father had—contingent."

Leaning back as he sat, Lord Teirl raised his hand to stroke his beard. He appraised his son in the dim light of the distant moon.

Father? Jahved asked, a bit nervous.

Yes?

I wondered, he began, I know since you murdered that man—

Killed him in the name of justice, his father corrected.

Yes, right…killed him for justice. His horse is rightfully yours. But you have Nightmare. Jahved stopped, not sure whether to even make his request.

When his father made no move to speak or otherwise, he plucked up the courage and the words came tumbling out. May I claim the stallion for myself?