Hymn of the Ancients: Hymn of the Ancients, #1

By Evan Pickering

Leonel Anglian was born of greatness he never wanted. So he threw it away for his freedom.

 

Leo's father and grandfather, Daleon and Leoric Anglian, were paragons of their era, great warrior-generals of Ellaria who helped free the southern kingdom of Rolanse from the unstoppable orc invasion during the Rolanse Liberation War. Leo's path was set for him to follow in their footsteps to become the next great warrior of Ellaria.

 

Until his grandfather died, and his father was cast out in exile for trying to free the very orcs he fought against. Leo's mother, left alone to raise him, died of illness not long after.

 

Across the sea, Kaejic Bloodwolf, orc Chieftain of the Bloodwolf tribe, fights with every breath for greatness. Kaejic seeks to restore honor to his people, to face the Anglian family in combat and pave the way for his people's return to their homeland they had fled from, cast out by the human kingdoms after the Rolanse Liberation war.

 

On the day Leo's mother died, Leo decided he didn't give a damn about legacy or greatness. He threw away his place in Ellarian court, his fear, and all his worries, only seeking to enjoy his life. Even if life was a ruthless bastard.

 

Leo became an excavator, someone who digs up relics of the Ancients to sell to the Cantry church, in order to explore the world and try to uncover the vast buried secrets of the Ancients that all cultures of Demarest sought after, the forgotten histories of their ancestors.

 

And it hasn't been going very well. He and his companions in the Stonewright Excavation company spend most of their time flat broke, traveling from place to place trying to dig up something of value in long-picked over digsites. But Leo has been loving every carefree minute of it all the same.

 

Until the day Leo stumbles onto a buried Chapel of the Ancients that hadn't been seen for thousands of years. And within it, an ancient tome that would shake the very foundations of civilization, rewriting the history that had been known to all the kinsmen of the world.

 

And with that tome, Leo is awakened to the true history of the Ancients, and to the darkness lurking in the shadows of his world. 

 

Kaejic Bloodwolf, seeing visions of standing face to face with Leonel Anglian and his people's return to their homeland, is coming to find him.

 

The hunt for these ancient tomes, and for Leo himself, begins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evan Pickering
• Release date: Nov 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393200369

Book preview

Prologue — Forgotten History

Chapel of the Divine Heralds in Southern Erathis, Continent of Demarest, 3192nd Year of the Second Age — 1029 Years Ago.

Thunder boomed and heavy rains pelted against the thick stained glass windows of the chapel. Cold, damp air whistled through the cracks in the neglected masonry. Oran shivered. His old bones ached, finding the cold more and more disagreeable as the years went on.

Something made the old monk glance back at the great wood doors to the outside. Oran couldn’t shake the strange, restless feeling that had woken him before sunrise. A feeling that now had him pacing about the stone floors of his empty church. There was nothing special about this day, and yet—he felt like he was waiting for something. A shadow seemed to hang over his mind.

Oran shook his head. It’s nothing, he chided himself. Just an old man afraid of a storm.

He pulled his robes tighter around himself, rubbing the rope belt around his waist. With slow steps he shuffled to the altar. He knelt gingerly, bending his groaning knees, ashamed of being so afraid and distracted from his devotions.

It’s just a storm. It will pass. He bowed his head in prayer.

Blessed Divines, protect and watch over your people. When the demons of old came, you sent down your Divine Heralds to cast them out. Help us not stray from you when Eskian the Betrayer tempts us to our darker natures—

Oran said the words, but his heart was not in them. He wished he could blame it on this strange day, but countless years he had prayed, and he only felt further from the gods. Magic had slowly dwindled from the world over the centuries. It begged a simple question: had the Divines left the kinsmen of the world behind? Eyes closed, Oran creased his brow, sighing. Time had not made this any easier.

The heavy wood doors unlatched and swung open behind him. The sound of the pelting rain and booming thunder grew even louder, echoing in the empty chapel. Startled, the old man pushed himself to his feet with some effort, turning to see a hooded figure standing in the threshold. Splashes of relentless rain darkened the pale stone of the doorway.

May I enter, father? The man’s deep voice resounded through the chapel. It was almost an assertion, not a question at all.

Of course, child, the old man replied. Take shelter from this wrathful storm. The divines are showing their ire at us, and we must make penance.

The man said nothing in reply, his hood covering his face as rain dropped off his drenched cloak. The great wood doors thunked shut behind him. He was wearing simple traveling gear, but had a longsword and a tome covered in an oilcloth hanging from his belt.

What is your name, Son of Erathis? Oran said, trying to sound pious.

The man lifted his head slightly as he strode to the empty pews, making his face visible. Oran hesitated mid-stride when he saw the man’s short tusks and strong, high cheekbones below kind eyes. The blood of Erathis and Vaarshoc—a half-orc? The old man had to fight to hide his fear of the man with savage blood—blood of the Betrayer.

Istran, the man said as he sat in a pew, rain dripping from him. He was unconcerned with the old man or anything else for that matter. He stared only at the symbols of the Twelve Divines above the altar.

Oran shuffled closer. Intense magical power radiated from this stranger, even from a distance. A power like he had never felt before. His skin tingled from the sensation, the arcane presence an invigorating charge in the air.

There were almost none left in the world in this Second Age who could harness the arcane. And yet, here sat one so powerful that the very air felt empowered by his presence. Oran himself had barely been able to produce the most meager cantrip after years of practice, and this man emanated arcane energy like light from an inferno. Oran’s breath caught in his throat, making a small gasp, but the half-orc did not notice or care. This is impossible. No one has such power—no one! Hesitating, Oran began to move closer again, despite the fear in his heart.

Who are you? Oran said, his voice wavering. I mean to say—what brings you here to my humble chapel?

The man did not respond, or simply ignored his question, his gaze still fixed on the symbols of the Twelve Divines.

Do they ever answer? The half-orc mage named Istran said. When you pray, father, do the Divines ever answer you?

Oran bowed his head. He almost began preaching, one of the same sermons he always did, but he stopped himself. He wasn’t sure why. It felt almost as if the lie would evaporate in the air between himself and this stranger if he put it to words. I don’t believe those words. I haven’t in a long time. Why do I repeat them to those who come looking to me for guidance?

No, he said finally. A soft sigh of relief came with the word, the release of truth. He felt free, just having spoken it. Though I have had much to atone for in my life. I let the Betrayer tempt me to dark deeds in my younger days. The demon-herald is strong in his whispers. But I try to be a better servant of the gods every day.

Was there a hint of a smile that grew on the face of the hooded stranger?

You speak with honesty, Istran said, his voice calm, almost fatherly. Where others might lie for pride, false piety, or fear of judgment.

Oran frowned. He felt lighter, somehow, talking to this half-savage. It was a confusing thought. His was the blood of the Betrayer. He should not be blessed with the wisdom of Rael. We all have a duty to the truth.

Istran bowed his head, his hood covering his face barely enough to hide his smile.

Then may the truth find you, Oran.

Oran blinked. Truth? What truth? How did this man know his name? Before Oran could muster a question, the half-orc stood up, striding out of the chapel back the way he came. Oran shuffled after him.

Wait! Oran called out. Where Istran sat, a tome lay on the wet wood pew. Oran furrowed his bushy brows and picked up the tome gingerly, hustling as best he could to the entrance of the church as the man closed the doors behind him. You left this tome, sir! Wait! What truth?! Why came you thus to my chapel?!

When Oran opened the doors, there was nothing but the rain-soaked rocky green fields and the stone path to his chapel. The stranger was gone.

He looked down at the tome in his hands, his wrinkled fingers gently caressing the blue leather cover as raindrops beaded upon it and fell. May the truth find me…?

He hesitated a moment with his finger on the cover. Some part of him was scared of what he would find written inside. For a moment, he questioned everything he knew about the world, and it scared him. But it was a relief, too. The hope of an answer to so many questions time had not been able to answer. He took a slow breath and opened the tome. Something was written in flowing script across the first blank page. The message wasn’t penned by the original author of the text—it had been written by this half-orc named Istran:

The manipulators of our world reside not in great power, but in the shadows they cast.

Chapter 1 — Three Knights and a Treasure-Hunter

Even a warrior measures his life not by the enemies he felled in battle but by the laughter he shared afterwards.

-Azorius

Highlands Barrow digsite, Continent of Demarest, 1027th year of the Third Age — Three months before present day.

The morning sun crested above the massive standing stones, casting radiant light everywhere over the grassy plains. A faint smile grew on Leo Anglian’s face as he pulled back the hood of his cloak. He loved the smell of highland wildflowers, he loved the cold spring wind, he loved the swirling waves that it made of the hills of long green grass. Twelve huge standing stones stood in this ancient druidic circle, time-worn, massive, covered in pale blue lichen. I never would’ve seen beautiful places like this if I spent my life stuffed up in keeps, castles and estates. Exploring the world was undoubtedly the best part of the life of an excavator. It was probably the only good part of being an excavator, Leo laughed softly to himself.

Leo reached out to feel the great monoliths, the blue-grey stone rough to the touch as he dragged his fingertips along its surface. Gooseprickles ran up his arm.

His stomach growled. Leo gave it a pat. I know, baby. I’m as sick of hard salt beef as you are.

Good meals were few and far between these days. The life of an excavator was far from lavish. And to think, he traded in tender spiced meats and fresh hot meals every day for chewing on stale bread and salt beef on bumpy roads. When people recognized him in towns and taverns, they often called him a fool—though not so often to his face—for leaving his noble family’s house. Maybe he was a fool. He didn’t care.

For as long as he could remember, since he first learned of the Ancients as a boy, Leo yearned to uncover secrets of the past. Some unknown desire inside had left Leo searching for something. A secret hunting for a secret. It wasn’t until he was older he realized no amount of lordly or knightly accomplishments could fill that void. He had to go out into the world and find out what it was.

And so he chose to leave behind his family’s legacy: knighthood, lordship, a life of wealth and great noble status, fame and renown in the eyes of his northern countrymen, a place in Ellarian high court. The Anglian family name was more beloved than the king’s across Demarest because of the deeds of his father and grandfather in the Rolanse Liberation war.

Not to mention many considered Leo the greatest warrior of the northern kingdoms, better even than his father. He had bested the greatest knights and duelists assembled in the capital to become champion of the Leoneguard Tourney when he had just become a man grown. It hadn’t been by accident. His father had been training him relentlessly all his life. And gods, Leo had hated it. He hated all of it.

He was glad to leave it all behind. More than that, he was relieved. It was freedom. He was just another broke excavator wandering the world for relics of the past. All in the hopes to find… well, something. He wasn’t exactly sure what. There’s more to the world than what we’ve been told, than what’s written in histories. I know it. More than that, I can feel it. I’ve felt it my whole life.

So here he stood, wishing he’d had a better breakfast, staring at the twelve symbols that were carved into the monoliths that stood before him:

Tree, Raven, Hammer, Flames, Stag, Star, Tower, Wolf, Crown, Tear, Gryphon, and Dragon. The tree symbol faced north and the other symbols followed in a circle in that order.

The symbol carved in the great stone in front of him was a carving of a raven. It was worn and faded, and this incarnation of the symbol had vine-like knots carved within it. It felt familiar to him, somehow. Maybe from the times he’d seen it in other digsites and in historian’s books. Ancients stood in this very spot, thousands and thousands of years ago. The thought made his mind dance with questions. Was this part of their magic? What does it mean? What was it for?

He’d seen those twelve symbols before in digsites all across the continent of Demarest. Some long-forgotten ancient druidic worship. A cult, maybe. There was little to no history told of them. Little was known about the Ancients despite how revered they were by the Cantry Church and all kinsmen of the world. Knowledge and history mostly lost, buried, ruined by flood and fire and cataclysm from an age long past.

Donnal chewed on a heel of rye bread as he walked past Leo towards the grassy burial mound beyond the standing stones.

We’re not going to find anything. This place has been scoured long ago, Leo said.

Donnal didn’t seem to disagree. "Duncan says there’s more to be found deeper down in the barrow. Says ‘it takes a dwarf to find what’s buried in the earth,’" he said in a mock dwarven accent, still chewing.

Leo rolled his eyes. If that were true, we wouldn’t be as broke as a dwarven fisherman.

Donnal barked a laugh, bits of bread flying from his mouth. Don’t keep him waiting or he’ll send Benley after you to tell you half a hundred stories of his great halfling ancestors.

I like Benley’s stories. They’re different every time he tells them.

You’re touched in the head, Donnal said as he walked into the burial mound. Leo drank in the beauty of the moment, taking a deep breath of crisp highland air. We may not be making any coin, but at least you can’t beat the view.

What secrets do you keep? Leo said to the stones, running his hand along the altar. I promise I won’t tell.

The distant sound of hooves drew Leo’s attention. From the small dirt road three mounted knights galloped towards him at a determined pace.

This is sure to be good news. Leo yawned—he badly needed more sleep. Sneaking a nap in the caravan sounded lovely about now, but he knew three self-important knights would deny him that chance. Nor would they have anything interesting to offer in the way of conversation, most like.

The knights predictably pulled up not far from Leo, their standards plastered across their barded horses, their shields, and their tabards as if one couldn’t get enough visual cues of their grand nobility.

Outlaw Leonel of House Anglian! the foremost knight shouted much too loudly for how close they were. You are summoned to Lord Geralt Pendrose’s court to answer for your crimes! Accompany us willingly back to Gryphonhall and return what was stolen or we will take you by force!

Leo scratched at the braids in his hair. Sir Voice-problem of House Woodmere, Leo said to the loud knight that had addressed him, who was adorned in symbols of three blackbirds.

Sir doesn’t-want-to-be-here of House Milrond, Leo nodded the knight with the crest of an Oak tree against an orange background.

Sir Mouth-breather of Delyn’s Hold, Leo said to the knight with an absurd pointed mustache bearing the symbol of a castle against a violet background. It was too kind of you to come all this way to bring me breakfast. I do hope it was honeycakes, they’re my favorite. My mother used to make them.

The too-loud knight of Woodmere scowled, bringing his horse around. It disgusts me to see how you dishonor your house! I thank the Maker and the Mother that your father and your grandfather did not have to see the beggar you have become. I fought alongside your father and grandfather in the Rolanse Liberation War against the orcs. They were heroes, and you dishonor them with your outlawry!

When you say ‘fought alongside my father and grandfather’, did you mean you showered them in useless flattery every morning before they went out and won the war? I know who you are.

I will not endure another word of this mockery! Woodmere shouted again. Lord Pendrose hired you and your excavation crew to clear out the goblins in the Valley Creek ruins on his lands. But instead you stole an artifact of value from those ruins and sold it to the Cantry Church!

Leo shrugged. I’m a treasure-hunter. I find artifacts of the Ancients and sell them to the church, or whoever else will buy them. And between you and me, that coin is gone, anyway. But your lord has my thanks for his generosity.

You violated the terms of your agreement, which Lord Pendrose said that you were explicitly to remove the goblins and leave the ruins untouched!

Leo laughed aloud, shaking his head. He said no such thing. I believe his words were: ‘Clear out the damn vermin however you please in that crumbling shithole, anything to get the mongrel farmers to stop bitching in my court every gods-damned day.’

Do you accuse my lord of lying? Woodmere shrieked, his face reddening.

I accuse your lord of doing what most lords do, conveniently misremembering things they said between numerous flagons of wine whenever they decide it suits them. Leo paused. The whole damned kingdom knows how much of a drunk your lord Pendrose is. My father used to tell me he would stumble into the Fiefland Council at Leoneguard once a year smelling like he fell into a wine cask. Can’t even stay sober for the king.

Woodmere drew his sword with a flourish. That’s enough! I will not abide this dishonorable slander! If you will not accompany us, I will make you answer for your crimes!

Leo rolled his eyes. This one really loves the smell of his own wind. Please don’t. I’d rather not kill a hapless idiot today.

Defend yourself or die in dishonor! Woodmere shrieked again, spurring his horse forward.

Oh, you’re not even going to dismount. Very honorable, Leo said, casually unsheathing his longsword and pulling his shield from his back.

Woodmere’s black destrier charged straight ahead, nostrils flaring and eyes wide. Leo leapt to the side, swinging his sword at Woodmere’s shield as he passed. The blade bit into the wood hard, driving him back. The older knight lurched in the saddle, struggling to maintain his balance, pulling up on the horse as it tried to turn around among the standing stones. It was somewhat embarrassing to watch. Some knights were knights in name only. Being struck by a lance at a tilt might send him flying into the stands.

Leo dashed up to Woodmere as he fumbled to regain himself atop his horse. He grabbed the older knight by the straps of his plate mail and pulled him out of his stirrups and off his horse with a loud clanking thump.

Can we stop this? Leo said to the knight in a heap in the grass. It’s not going well.

Woodmere clumsily scrambled to his feet, unwieldy and slow in his armor. He picked up his ornately crafted longsword and began hacking away at Leo with a shrieking battlecry. Leo didn’t even raise his sword, easily parrying the blows with his shield until he guided the last strike into the dirt. He shoulder-checked Woodmere and swung a hard shield bash into the knight’s helmet. The helm rang like a bell, and Woodmere fell back into the grass unconscious with the jingling of plate and mail.

Leo noticed that Donnal, Benley, Vera and Duncan had all exited the burial mound, happy to watch the entertainment. Don’t come help or anything.

He turned back to the other two knights. Are we satisfied?

The stern-looking knight wearing the Oak Tree of Milrond chuckled. Leo recognized him. His name was Hughren. He was Pendrose’s Castellan who offered them the job in question. He had the pale skin and hard complexion of a man of Uthrec, the seafaring warriors who called themselves the ‘true northmen,’ to separate themselves from Leo’s kinsmen, the northern peoples of Ellaria. Some twist of fortune had turned Hughren into a loyal soldier of Ellaria at a young age, and he had gained knighthood for his heroic efforts in defense of the human kingdoms in the Liberation War against the orcs. Leo knew his story from childhood, from his father’s days on the Ellarian council. The common folk loved a story of a common man becoming nobility, even if it was as a landless knight.

"I did fight alongside your father in the Rolanse Liberation War, unlike that liar, Sir Hughren said. I’m not fool enough to fight the son of the greatest fighter I’ve ever seen draw a blade. The older knight had a relaxed bearing about him. I should thank you, though, for shutting up Woodmere. Now we won’t have to listen to that windbag’s endless bleating. The damned fool never shuts up."

Leo sheathed his sword and slung his shield over his back. I’m glad someone has some sense. Sir Hughren, if I recall?

Aye, lad. Your father was a great man, up until his exile. I’ll never understand why he did what he did. I’ll admit it saddens me to see you not hold up your family’s honor and take your family’s place in Ellarian court.

I have no interest in legacy or politics, Leo said, wondering how many times he had said that to strangers who knew of his family.

You’re a young man, still. Hughren said. Give it time. You’ll find your way home to Leoneguard.

Leo frowned. I doubt it.

The knight with the pointed-mustache of Delyn’s Hold spoke up in an arrogant tone. Yes, we all are touched by these fond reminiscings, but Lord Pendrose will not suffer this insult lightly. He will take it up with the king.

I don’t care what he does, Leo said.

Hughren nodded. Aye, the drunken fool Pendrose is as stubborn as he is petty. Hopefully the king will care as little as you for this matter. I will tell that you won your fair combat, but Lord Pendrose will not let it go, I’m sure. He will take this as a slight upon his honor, if there were any to begin with. The man is a disgrace. He tarnishes the hard work and sweat of his ancestors. His lord father Brynden was a just and goodly man, before he died. Would that I were bannerman to another.

Watch your tongue, sir! the pointed mustache of Delyn’s Hold barked. He is your liege lord! Hughren ignored him, unconcerned. The two men dismounted and retrieved their unconscious fellow knight, tossing him over his horse like a sack of grain.

Maker watch over you, Leo. These are dark times, Hughren said, nodding.

Meradea’s ashes keep you. Safe travels, Leo said, nodding back at Sir Hughren. The two knights galloped away, their unconscious third atop his horse in tow.

The rest of the Stonewright excavation crew approached as Leo watched the knights ride away.

You might be more trouble than your worth, laddie. Duncan chuckled, tugging on the thick braids in his beard that were cinched at the ends with dwarven silver clasps. Battlin’ landed knights and getting all tangled up in human politics.

Yeah, you’re welcome, Leo grumbled.

I was hoping you’d kill at least one of the bastards, Vera said, excitement in her half-orc eyes.

Benley hopped up and down on his toes, having been talking incessantly the whole time. …Why didn’t you take his gold? Isn’t that how it works? If you win, you take his prize? I would’ve taken his gold. Well, I also wouldn’t have fought him in the first place. But you were all clang-clang-clang and bam! He was out! Didn’t even need a sword, really. I bet you could’ve bested him when you were a young lad. I remember the first tourney I saw, I had to sit atop a kindly man’s shoulders for a copper, and this one young knight unhorsed another with his left arm broken… Benley rambled excitedly, the halfling animatedly pantomiming the action as he spoke.

Donnal shoved a shovel into Leo’s hands. Thanks for the show. Now get back to digging with the rest of us so we can find nothing and get the hells out of here.

Chapter 2 — It is Foretold

Weeping Thunder Plains, Five Leagues from Bloodwolf Stronghold, Continent of Teldaran. 1027th Year of the Third age — Present day.

The war drums pounded in unison, a thumping heartbeat resonating across the plains as Kaejic’s warriors approached the crumbling stone watchtower. It had been built long ago by men who joined their ancestors not long after building it. A vain hope to colonize the wilds of Teldaran. Kaejic’s orcs marched with pride, victorious grins around tusks that jutted upwards not even to their noses. Younglings even compared to himself, but savage and honorable despite their youth. Kaejic was proud of the home his Bloodwolves and other tribes had made in this desolate land. But they all longed for their lost homeland across the sea in Demarest.

The dust of the plains and the red blood of men covered his warriors. Every one of them he had sent out had returned. They carried a middle-aged human, one Kaejic recognized immediately. His heart swelled with satisfaction, a rush of fury racing through his veins. After all these years. Kaejic bared his teeth. After all these years, honor shall be mine.

Gothrak strode up beside him, his silver braids swaying with each step. He crossed his arms and scoffed in disgust. "Weaklings. We found him not far from the human frontier city of Iterrand. These palesoni could not even manage to send one of our brethren to meet our ancestors."

The humans are more dangerous than any that walk upon the earth, Gothrak. You of all orcs should know that.

Gothrak spat into the dust, glaring at Kaejic. "Do not lecture me, pup. You may be Chieftain, but you have not waded through the seas of blood I have. These palesoni would never have stood a chance against our might and that of our fathers were it not for their cursed magics and honorless ways."

Kaejic snorted. The humans won their war against our fathers and grandfathers, Gothrak. Don’t lie to yourself about this like the others. They defeated our kind. We underestimated them. It was the pride of our kin that saw us enslaved, cast out from our homeland across the sea.

His warriors dragged the man and threw him into the dirt at his feet. They saluted their Chieftain with pride. They had done well. Kaejic was proud of them.

The human was bound by frayed rope, his face bloodied around his curly black hair and mustache that connected to his beard, in the fashion that northern humans favored. He wore a simple leather armor and traveling breeches. The human looked small compared to Kaejic’s warriors, smaller than his weakest warrior, though he knew by human standards this man was tall, strong and well-built. This particular warrior was once a legendary fighter among humans. A hero of their ‘Liberation War’ against his kind.

Daleon Anglian, Kaejic said in the common tongue. The words of common felt strange in his mouth, the way they always had, though he had no choice but to learn them. The cultural price of survival in a world flooded with humans. Do you know who I am?

The man nodded. He wore no fear in his eyes. Though Kaejic expected no less from the son of Kith’Gaari. The Son of the Demonheart.

The mantle of leadership suits you, Daleon said, managing a tired smile. You are Kaejic Bloodwolf, son of Kaegrash. Chieftain of the Bloodwolf clan. You look like him. Your father once spoke of you with pride. I see why.

What do you know of my father!? Kaejic roared. "You and your father hunted my people like dogs. Fought us out of our homeland and enslaved us. Just so your people could take our lands in the name of your gods. So you could dig up precious relics of your Ancients to keep them from us savages," Kaejic felt the fury of this moment he had dreamed of for countless nights. The bloodrush that washed over him made him yearn to bring his fists down on the man’s skull. But he held himself back for now.

Daleon became solemn. My father was an evil man on an unjust crusade.

Kaejic’s brow contracted, frowning. He did not expect this.

"Your people revere your father. Build statues in his honor. Crusader Leoric they call him, Kaejic scoffed. He has no honor. He slaughtered my people. Young children and old wise-ones who cannot fight. Those of us he did not kill, he enslaved and threw into camps, working my brethren to death. Your people tried to break our spirit, to destroy our culture."

Daleon looked sick at these words. Kaejic paused, perplexed by his blood-enemy’s reaction. This is not what the seers spoke of. And yet, it did not feel in conflict with his visions… the spirits did not dissent.

"But despite the honor your people give your father, you have been cast out of human lands. Osh’agaal. Exiled one. Sent across the sea to where I could find you."

Daleon gave a sad smile, despite the exhaustion in his face. The price I paid for the promise I made your father. Daleon’s eyes met Kaejic’s. To free you.

The nearby campfire that his warriors had made crackled as the sun began to set on the dusty golden plains of Teldaran. None spoke, though his warriors were unsettled by the man’s words.

Gothrak humphed. "A lie to save his hide. His people have no honor. I do not believe you, human."

Daleon simply shook his head and looked down at his bound hands.

Kaejic regarded Daleon for a moment. It was hard not to respect the man, and that angered him. The man deserved no respect for what his bloodline had done. Your father Leoric slew my father. I saw it, Kaejic said. "He was the Kith’Gaari. Possessed by demons. No man else could have the savagery to hunt my people and slay Kaegrash Bloodwolf. No human could have such heart-fury."

Daleon became solemn, bowing his head. I am sorry. I did not know.

It is time to regain my father’s honor.

My father is dead.

But you live.

I am not my father. I do not believe as he did, or carry his sins.

"We all pay for the sins of our fathers, Osh’agaal," Kaejic said.

Silence fell between them once more, and the fire crackled as logs fell into the embers. Daleon stared into Kaejic’s eyes, his face expressionless, unapologetic. They were knowing eyes, the eyes of a man who did not flee or fear what he knew was coming.

Free him. Give him water, Kaejic commanded. His warriors removed the frayed ropes holding Daleon, and held a waterskin to his lips. Daleon drank the water and took a deep breath, his expression somber. He did not wish to fight, Kaejic realized, not because he was afraid of death, but because he did not see Kaejic as his enemy.

It was unexpected. Kaejic’s mind roamed to make sense of this. But it did not matter, so he pushed the thoughts away. Honor must be regained. Blood must be paid in blood.

What weapon suits you, human?

Sword and shield, Daleon said.

We have no shield for you, Kaejic said begrudgingly. He wanted this human to fight at his best.

Bloodwolves do not hide behind wood, paleskin, Gothrak barked with contemptuous pride.

Daleon appeared crestfallen at the scenario playing out before him. He looked up at Kaejic. If I die here, is your father’s honor regained?

Kaejic knew what he was asking. This man knew his people’s culture. It shocked him nearly to the point of asking how he came to know this. Your father owes a deep blood debt. You have a son. Leonel Anglian. Your line must end.

Daleon raised his head high. Leo is innocent of all this. No blood of your people is on his hands.

Kaejic breathed deep. I will hunt down your son. The spirits will guide me.

Daleon stared at him now with a fire in his eyes that was not there before. Good. Fight with fury, human. Fight with the fury of your father.

What weapon, human? Gothrak barked with impatience.

Sword, Daleon said stoically.

One of Bloodwolves brought a simple sword to Daleon. It was a long, heavy blade built for an orc. It had no crossguard, and Daleon had to wield it with both hands.

The war drums began to beat out the hypnotic rhythm as the Bloodwolves began to chant and sing, deep resonating sounds that spoke to the spirits and spoke to Kaejic’s soul. Honor will be mine today. Gothrak brought Kaejic’s father’s axe Heartsong to him. His hands felt at home on the worn wood handle, the earth-spirits moving from it to his fingers as he hefted it. Daleon stared down Kaejic, but spoke no words. He knew that this fight was inevitable, as sure as summer thunder over the golden plains, as waves crashing upon the shores of the frontier, as sure as blood seeps back into the plains of dust.

A warcry that had been penned up in Kaejic’s soul for countless years burst free as he lunged forward, swinging his father’s axe in a sinister arc. Daleon managed to deflect the blow and sidestep, though the force of it kept him from any return strike. Kaejic swung his left fist at Daleon, connecting with the man’s chest to the sound of a deep groan. The human stumbled backwards, raising his sword and fighting desperately to keep his stance and the air in his lungs. Show me the fury of your father, human.

Kaejic shouted again, sweeping his axe in a wide path towards the man. Daleon ducked low, the swing whistling over him. He rolled and jumped back to his feet,