Dawn of Destiny: Calhorion Dreams: Volume 1

By A. J. Harrison

The winds of war cease to blow,
A brittle peace covers the land,
But the cry of battle is never far from the hearts of man.
In a final attempt to unite the Western Realms, King Aristian of Allamantya has offered his eldest son in marriage to the daughter of his nation’s oldest rival, King Vincinicus of Valanor. With the proposal accepted, he rides north in the hope of a secured peace for his people.
However, in the shadows, foul deeds conspire to destroy the king’s dream of an eternal peace. The 12 Dragons of Dagen, a ferocious order of assassins have just landed on far eastern shores of Allamantya. Questions arise, who has hired their blades? And more importantly, who is their target?
Danaka, an outcast and suspected witch, lives on her farm with only her dog, Griffin, for company. One day a mysterious stranger with a dark past arrives and takes her on a quest for vengeance.
Amidst the chaos, their stories will entwine in a world where only death can lead to immortality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781528997546

A. J. Harrison

A. J. Harrison was born and raised in Birmingham, United Kingdom. His passion for writing was born from his interest in military history. Medieval Europe and the rise and fall of the Ottoman Empire are his favourite time periods. In his spare time, he’s an avid boxing fan and follows the sport religiously.

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Characters

About the Author

A. J. Harrison was born and raised in Birmingham, United Kingdom. His passion for writing was born from his interest in military history. Medieval Europe and the rise and fall of the Ottoman Empire are his favourite time periods. In his spare time, he’s an avid boxing fan and follows the sport religiously.

Copyright Information ©

A. J. Harrison (2021)

The right of A. J. Harrison to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

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

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

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528997522 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398420076 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781528997546 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

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E14 5LQ

Acknowledgement

Writing this novel has been one of the most difficult and enjoyable experiences of my life. Emotions ranged from highs of excitement as both my characters and story developed before my eyes to lows as self-doubt crept in. I would question, is my writing and my story truly good enough? In those instances, I’d like to thank Mathew Davies and Ibrar Hussain, your kind words and enthusiasm for my writing and characters meant more than you knew. I’d also like to thank Lesia for her book cover design and Sarah Shillam for her proofreading.

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Chapter 1

For the Good of the Realm

The year is 201G.D

House Da’Menaeon, the Allamantyan Royal family

Heading north through Oalandrium to the Flentian Mountains

To be king, it takes more than just the name and a crown, King Aristian’s hand lingered over his own golden crown. Andros, listen to me! When it is your time to rule, you cannot just expect to sit upon the throne. Being a king is a great responsibility, not only to oneself but to your people. To wear a crown is a never-ending weight upon your shoulders.

King Aristian looked despairingly towards Andros, who sat with a tormented expression on his face while he peered out of the carriage. The king could feel his son’s sadness. He understood why. In a way he felt bad for what he had done, but he knew it was for the best – not only for him but for his kingdom too. Aristian turned and admired the vast landscapes and shades of green that passed them by. The grass was bright and healthy, the river Balan was flowing to his left, the sounds of the birds and the water were relaxing. The scorching sun shone down from the sky, reflecting off the armour of the knights who followed them. The harsh light forced the king’s eyes away and back into the dimness of the carriage. He squinted; the bright rays of sun had burnt into his ageing eyes. His short grey hair showed his age and the wrinkles on his skin looked like old leather that had seen better days. He was never going to be a maiden’s dream, but his wisdom was second to none.

I’m listening, Father, Andros replied suddenly.

He knows what he has to do, Princess Arrabella interrupted, clearly irritated by the conversation.

Aristian turned to his daughter. Her long beautiful brown hair and fiery look in her pale blue eyes reminded him instantly of his wife, Sonja. He missed her greatly.

I don’t see why I should marry her, Andros snapped. I’ve never seen her – she could be fat and ugly.

Arrabella laughed. It’s not the fat or ugly part that concerns you.

Be quiet, Andros snarled at his twin. When I’m king you won’t dare talk to me that way.

King Aristian laughed to himself. The pair had never got along even as children and now, nearing their twentieth year, they still bickered over the smallest detail. By the time he was twenty he had defended the kingdom from invasion and been crowned king. What had his son Andros done? He could barely ride and not once had he defeated an opponent in the training yard. Being a strong warrior doesn’t make a king.

Why does the wedding have to be so soon? The prince clearly seemed anxious. From the first time I see her it will have been only four new moons before we are to marry.

I agree, Father. Arrabella showed her first sign of interest in the wedding since they had set off from the capital three days ago. Why should things move so fast? They don’t even know one another.

Aristian looked at his children, twins but ever so different except in one way. Neither had inherited his brains or logical way of thinking.

These things happen fast, he replied. I had never seen your mother when my father told me I was to marry her. I didn’t want to but I did as he commanded. Our love wasn’t created at first sight. It takes time; in fact, she hated me when we first met. I have a habit of always being right, and she couldn’t stand it. Eventually we grew to love one another. Vincinicus and I have agreed we both will rule our kingdoms together, learn from each other. Then we will pass this knowledge over to you and Tilia. But will he listen?

The carriage passed through the waters of Balan, and the clear blue river gently crashed onto the wheels. The armoured knights, numbering close to three hundred, were guarding them either side. One would think we were marching through enemy territory. However, it was his brother, Prince Daemar, who had demanded the protection. He was very doubting of Valanor, but he was loyal. Loyalty was needed when ruling. You needed your soldiers and your people to trust you. You needed to be able to inspire them. Aristian saw none of those qualities in his son, but wondered if maybe it was his own fault. He didn’t push him enough and allowed him to become what he was.

Keep those horses moving, damn you! a voice bellowed from outside the carriage.

Aristian peered out to see Sir Dolfan Greenway riding by. He was first commander of the red sword legions and one of the kingdom’s greatest swords. The silver armour covering his thick chest flickered in the sun as he rode by. He wore the royal colours of Allamantya: the red sword of Tyranian sitting upon a field of green. The visor of his helmet was raised, showing his thick ginger beard and his intense blue eyes. His voice boomed like a drum as he yelled commands to all those around him.

Would all these knights who had served him so faithfully stay loyal to his son when he died? Aristian doubted it. That’s why he had done what he had, to ensure his son would be safe and to keep his kingdom and empire secure. Many doubted his choice, but he was the wise king. He had been named that for a reason and he was going to make sure he lived up to it.

The journey was long, the carriage uncomfortable and the king’s old bones began to ache. His legs were numb and the back cramps became almost unbearable. The heat didn’t help. It was one of the hottest summers in years. His rich leather stuck to his chest and he found it hard to breathe. He took his crown off; he never liked wearing it and whenever he could, he removed it. I must ignore my pains. What they were doing would change the kingdom forever. A few aches and pains were nothing for what the rewards would be at the end.

The carriage clumped and banged as it rode up the bank, back onto land. Andros’s head bounced back and forth. The anger built up in his face but to the king’s surprise, he stayed calm, adjusting his red and green silks and brushing his short brown hair back off his narrow face. The prince was tall, standing nearly six feet, but he was slim and ungainly. Above his weak chin, the prince wore a faint look of surprise. Not quite the warrior image that his father had hoped for.

Father, what is Princess Tilia like? The prince carried a rare bit of humanity in his voice.

The king looked back at his son. I hear she is beautiful, strong and loyal. Many of the finest men in Valanor asked for her hand. She chose you, my son.

Andros stared intensely at his father, as though trying to read his thoughts. He couldn’t.

It’s her brother, Prince Gabriel. I hear he is the beautiful one, Arrabella chipped in, rolling her eyes slightly at the rumour and looking out upon the vast lands around them. Son of a god they say, shining hair of gold, his eyes sparkle like diamonds and his ability in war is rivalled by none. Women from all over pray that he may grace them with his touch but once in their life.

Aristian smiled. Legends don’t often live up to their stories. Though this was true, he knew Prince Gabriel was said to be a formidable warrior, one he wouldn’t like to go to war against. Aristian ruled the five regions of Allamantya from his capital of Antilion. Two hundred years ago, when his ancestors, twins Prince Artendaus and Princess Valenya were born, the gods had seen fit to curse the land with blood and terror. Both thought it was their right to claim the throne: Valenya because she was first born and Artendaus as he was the eldest male heir. Valenya, however, was forced to flee north, taking a few noble families with her. She travelled over the Flentian mountains to Northrum, to form the Kingdom of Valanor. For two hundred years the wars had raged on. Aristian knew that the peace he’d been able to garner for the past twenty-five years had been a blessing. But he wasn’t a fool. He knew that it was wearing thin and soon war would break out once again if something didn’t change.

The match between Andros and Princess Tilia had been a clever one. After long thought and against the advice of those closest to him, most notably the members of the High Council, Aristian had offered his first-born son to wed the eldest daughter of his long rival, King Vincinicus I of Valanor. Despite Andros’s shortcomings, the offer was accepted and now, six months on, they rode to meet each other on the borders. It wouldn’t be easy and the hardest part was yet to come.

The carriage came to a halt and the door opened, a summer breeze rippling through and catching the king as he waited to be greeted. The cool air wrapped around his face like the cool touch of his wife. He liked it.

We are here, Your Majesty, Sir Dolfan said as he held open the door.

They had pulled up on the fields of Balross. The grass was green and healthy, a beautiful sight to behold. One would never believe that this field once held the bodies of over ten thousand dead and dying men over a hundred years ago.

This is a good place to make camp, the king replied as he leant out the carriage, Dolfan taking his hand. His thick steel gauntlet started to burn into his flesh. He ignored the pain and placed his feet onto the ground. Thick dense forest covered them either side, the river to their back and the only entrance was straight ahead. No chance of an ambush.

Andros and Arrabella were quickly helped out of the carriage by other servants as Sir Dolfan stood ready for his orders.

Have my tent made ready, sir. Andros glanced up at the hot blaring sun, admiring its beauty. I don’t wish to look like a beetroot for my betrothed.

Yes, Arrabella jutted in, As that will be another thing to put her off. That pretty little face of yours will be like a tomato. She smiled sweetly as she walked off with her handmaiden.

Andros scowled and placed a hand on his cheeks. Hurry, he snapped.

As you command, Your Highness, Dolfan replied obediently. Andros stalked off, flanked by two soldiers as he headed for shade, leaving his father to slowly make his way to the centre of the camp.

Soldiers and squires alike, as far as the eye could see, were pitching up tents. The hot sun was blaring down on them. The king watched from the shade, with his son and daughter either side of him. All three were resting on an old wooden stand that made his back ache. Arrabella had a mirror in one hand and her handmaiden was braiding her thick brown hair. Her red and gold dress twinkled like stars in the night sky. As always, her dress emphasised her breasts, tightly fitted around her waist, complementing her frame.

Aristian was wiping sweat from his brow, sulking in the heat. In front of them three men and a young boy were trying to erect his tent. It was bright white with a rich green and red trim. They pulled with all their might to lift it up. Just watching made the king feel tired. To his right, heavy goods wagons were bringing up food supplies, and he could see baskets full of fruit: bright red gleaming apples, large sweet looking oranges and grapes as large as walnuts. He was looking forward to his meal tonight.

The king had always liked the hustle and bustle of an army encampment, the noises, ranged from chatter and shouting from the men, the laughter and screams of the camp whores and finally to the crackling of the camp fires. The smells of rich red wines to bitter ales, from smoking roast pork to freshly boiled soup wafted over. As a boy he would walk around his father’s encampments, interacting with all his subjects. You could meet all sorts of characters: fat blacksmiths sharpening weapons, obedient squires who would be running about from place to place and knights praying to the gods of Ollaria’h for glory and their eternal place in the night sky.

Aristian loved it all, except for one thing. An army encampment usually meant a battle. The last time the king had been present at a camp as large as this was during the rebellion of the Mountains Clans of Golgia, nearly sixteen years ago, when the sounds of laughter had been replaced by the screams of the dying, and the calls for wine had been taken over by those of men pleading for their mothers or their wives with their last breaths. The thought of such things encouraged a dark cloak of sadness to drape itself over his shoulders, and for a fleeting moment he felt all the happiness in the world had drained away. He had to remind himself that he wasn’t riding to battle. This time he was riding to peace.

Suddenly the ground began to rumble, and the king’s feet began to shudder against the wooden stand. Across the bright green plains, and through the rising heat, Beyorn approached. He was running as always, two riders flanking him either side. He was the king’s champion and a mountain of a man; he was as tall as three men and as wide as two; he wore two thick leather belts across his torso which revealed his bulging chest. He looked as if he had been carved from stone by the gods themselves. His arms were larger than most men’s legs. Just the sight of him put fear into everyone who glanced up at him. Long thick black hair fell loose from his head and most of his face was covered by his well-groomed beard.

Are you well Your Majesty? Beyorn’s voice echoed as if it spoke from within a cave.

I think I am feeling better than those four over there. The king pointed towards the four men still struggling with his tent.

I have word from Prince Daemar. He and Prince Arteus were scouting the area for the northern savages.

Aristian was quick to interrupt. Savages? They will soon be kin to us all. There will be no more talk of that.

Beyorn offered no reply except to bow his head in shame. His dark soulless eyes closed ever so briefly. He was so used to talking about the people of Valanor in such a manner when he was in the company of Prince Daemar.

The young Prince Arteus will make a fine warrior one day. His skill with horse and sword improves daily. Beyorn rarely spoke, but when he did, he often complimented the young prince, who was as different to his brother Andros as the sun was to the moon.

King Aristian admired Beyorn, as most did. The beast of Golgia they called him. The rumours said devils created him. Aristian wondered if he would have any luck in training Andros on the battlefield but quickly shook the thought from his head. Andros had tried the patience of many a good warrior, and none of them had taught him to wield a sword with much success.

My brother was always more interested in horses and swords, Andros said loudly. That is why he will be a soldier, and why I am to be King and Emperor of the Calhorion Sea. I enjoy the finer things in life.

The king noticed Andros’s irritation and tried to calm him. Certainly, he agreed, Arteus is gifted with both horse and sword. But I do hope in the times to come there will be no more use for the latter. He should be taught how the use of his brain can be mightier than any weapon.

The king knew teaching Arteus to use his brain and to study was as likely to happen as it was teaching Andros how to wield a sword. But he continued to dream.

Andros shot up from his seat and spat angrily onto the dry ground beneath his feet. What the hell are those men doing? I should have them flogged for their stupidity! He flew from the shade, pointing towards the men still struggling with his tent. All four of them immediately stopped what they were doing. The youngest of the group – a skinny young boy of fourteen at most – started to shake at the outburst, the rope he held beginning to slide around the grass like a snake.

I should show you how to do it myself! Andros shouted as he stomped towards the boy, Aristian and Arrabella watching on with interest.

One of the men stepped in front of Andros’s path and blocked his way, possibly the boy’s father. I apologise, Your Highness, he said, his bald head glistening with sweat. Pip – he is only young and still learning. He isn’t used to this heat. We are from Baron’s Bay, the weather there is wet and—

Andros scoffed, stepped round the man and pushed his son to the floor. I don’t care for his name or where his whore mother shat him out. All I want is my tent up, so I can get out of this heat. Andros grabbed the rope from the boy as Aristian watched him carefully from the shade. I would like to see him attempt this; I haven’t had a laugh in a while.

As the prince leant back on the rope, a group of knights rode into the camp. Wait, Your Highness, one of the knights called cheerfully from his horse as he began to dismount. It would be a dishonour to see you work while these peasants sit back and enjoy the sun. The young handsome knight was Sir Lyon N’Dai, son of Latimor N’Dai, the Marshal of Kathoros. He was dressed in silver clad armour with a white tunic, with his family emblem of the red war lion upon his chest. His long thick brown hair was half tied up and half down. His five knights were behind him, known across the land as his pride. All dressed identically, they clanked along in heavy silver armour.

Let me do the honour. Lyon held out his arm to the prince, who seemed so entranced by the knight’s rich brown eyes that he obediently let go.

Lyon was a well-built man, standing at a strong six feet. His shoulders were broad and his jaw fine cut, like he was made from stone. He gripped hard on the rope and leant back, pulling with all his might and yet still the tent didn’t move. A sense of embarrassment took hold of him but he kept pulling. Arrabella looked to her father and the two shared a secret smile.

Just as Andros started to frown again at Lyon’s seeming lack of strength, the five knights dismounted to lend a hand. All together they pulled and launched the tent into the air. The cloth of the tent flapped loudly as the tip was erected, forming a slight breeze which caught them all in the face.

Bravo, Bravo, Arrabella shouted as she stood up and walked towards Lyon N’Dai, clapping her hands furiously. What a knight you are, she said, her voice breathless. My brother should be honoured to have a man as strong as you looking over him. She ran her hand across Lyon’s cleanly shaven face, while all the time smiling at her brother. The king could see the anger building up inside of Andros. He knew that look. It was the same one he had when he was a child, before he would attack his sister.

Lyon, however, never sensed the princess’ sharp sarcasm; his arrogance blinded him. Your Highness is too kind, he said, taking Arrabella’s pale hand and kissing it three times. You are truly the most beautiful lady in the realm. I will never forget this moment, to have such a fairer hand as yours to touch but a humble knight such as I. He turned to Andros. My prince knows I am here for him. To help and serve in any way I can.

Arrabella smiled sweetly and turned back towards her father. What an honour, she murmured again, causing the king to smother a loud laugh.

The day slowly drew to a close across the hustle and bustle of the camp. The bright sun had dimmed its light and the intense heat had finally cooled, allowing for food to be served in the royal tent which had been erected and fully furnished. A huge dark red and green rug had been placed along the floor, from the entrance to the centre of the tent; its embroidery was the Allamantyan coat of arms, the sword of the god Tyranian. At the centre stood a round table, adorned with a sheepskin map of the Calhorion world. A large oak table at the back rose up so those sitting at it looked down on anyone who entered; it was near twelve feet long and almost three feet wide. The colour and the grain of oak were warm and appealing, and on top were plates full of meats and fruits that filled the entire tent with a rich scent.

At the table sat the king, wearing thin red silks that made him feel cool and relaxed. To his left was his daughter and two empty chairs, one for his youngest son Arteus and the other for his brother Daemar. Both still hadn’t returned from their scouting mission. Next to Prince Andros sat the king’s father-in-law, and the prince’s own grandfather, Devon Hohjan. Beyorn the beast of Golgia stood silently behind the king.

A large stuffed pig with an apple in its mouth was the main course. Everyone tucked away into their meal, chatter filling the tent and lifting the atmosphere after the intense heat of the day.

I wonder why they put the apple in the pig’s mouth, Andros said rhetorically as he sat stuffing his face with the rich tender meat. The juices began to run down his chin – an image that Arrabella didn’t think was fit for royalty.

It is to keep the jaws of the swine open, Your Highness, Devon Hohjan, the Darnaion lord, leaned in and explained with an air of arrogance in his voice as he held out his cup of wine to be filled. When the pig gets roasted, the jaws would lock shut if not for the apple. He drank his wine down in two large gulps. The old lord was nearing his seventieth year and was dressed in dark purple robes that hung loosely from his body. He was old and frail, with a thin face that had deep wrinkles carved into his skin like scars. He was also a known alcoholic; the king only really put up with him due to him being the father to his dear departed wife Sonja.

I see you know your food, Lord Hohjan, the king added with a smile on his face. He wasn’t one to get involved in a conversation unless he knew he was right. In the fall, the farmers fatten their pigs on apples. So, when roasting the pig, they would put fruit in the pig’s mouth. It is a way of portraying the life and death cycle so that the pig would be eating the apple in both life and death. Also, the pig’s snout is not the most beautiful thing to look at. The king poked the pig’s snout with his fork, as though to emphasise his point.

Arrabella looked over to her brother. Maybe we should do the same to you, Andros. If we put an apple in your mouth, it might make the Princess Tilia find you more appealing.

Before Andros had any time to react, his grandfather Devon Hohjan burst into hysterics, knocking his wine all over the floor.

Suddenly the two soldiers at the entrance announced, Prince Daemar is approaching!

Everyone looked up, except Andros who turned to Hohjan. I wouldn’t drink too much, Grandfather. It could one day be the death of you. His hand tightly squeezed the old man’s wrist.

Daemar entered the tent with some haste, dressed in light mail and armour, his silver breastplate showing a golden sword carved at its centre, and a green cape that hung loosely from his shoulders. His left hand as always was placed on the tip of his sword. He was an average sized man, but strong and imposing. He had aged better than his brother; his skin was smooth and his hair still a light brown. His face, as usual, sported rough stubble scattered across his jaw. He wasn’t a man to fuss about his appearance.

He walked straight over to the table and poured himself a large glass of wine. He gulped it down in one go. Some of the wine ran down his cheeks and he wiped it away with his hand. He then looked up to his brother, bowed his head and placed his right fist over his heart.

Your Majesty, our foreign friends are less than a day’s ride north. They had just passed through the Falentis pass when I last saw them. Maybe a thousand in total, more than double the men we have with us. His voice sounded concerned.

The king smiled. You sound worried, Brother. I would be too if we were riding to war. Luckily for all of us here we are going to a wedding not a battle.

Andros suddenly butted in. A thousand soldiers! We should send word back to the capital to call for more men.

Daemar looked up at his nephew, who he never had much time for. He was too weak and spoilt for his liking. My prince, it is a two-day ride back to capital and two back. There would be no time to call for aid. Luckily, I was prepared; I sent word to the Marshal of Ardenia, Varrone DeVeil. He, along with eight hundred men, are camped just a few hours south of our position.

King Aristian was a little irritated by his brother’s over-cautiousness. Thank you, Daemar, for protecting us all. I feel, though, those eight hundred may have just got themselves a lot of needless exercise and maybe a nice tan in this summer heat. He wasn’t in the mood however to argue with his brother, so he changed the topic of conversation. Where is Arteus?

I am here, Father, Arteus said happily as he strolled into the tent. The youngest of the king’s children and only a boy of fourteen, Arteus was handsome, strong and large for his age. His short brown hair reminded the king of his own in his youth. He too was dressed as a knight in the same attire as his uncle. We saw them, as far as the eye could see, knights dressed in silver and blue. They look fierce.

It is always good to have fierce allies, the king added.

Did you see the god-prince? Is he as beautiful as the legends say? Arrabella sounded like an excitable child.

Yes, Gabriel was there; a great looking warrior he was, on a white horse at the front of his men.

Arteus was quickly cut off by his uncle who added, Where all leaders should be. Daemar looked towards Andros with disgust.

Andros replied with an arrogant tilt of his head and a roll of his eyes before he drank down some more of his wine.

Please sit down, Brother. King Aristian looked up to Daemar. It wasn’t a suggestion; it was a command. He pointed towards the roasted hog in front of him. Have some food with us all. The pork is particularly good.

Daemar glanced at the food, but instead of sitting down he turned and walked back towards the entrance of the tent.

I’m afraid I haven’t the time, Your Majesty. A soldier’s rations are all I need.

The king’s eyes narrowed at his brother’s supposed piety.

Preparations need to be made, and the guards need to be alert and changed every few hours. I rode in here today unchallenged. If we had been the enemy, this camp would be overrun by now.

Who is this enemy you speak of? the king replied with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. When Daemar didn’t respond and walked away, Arteus turned to follow him.

Arteus, my boy. Where are you going? It is late, you should eat.

Sorry, Father, I must see to the men with Uncle. Arteus could barely be heard as he quickly scuttled off after Daemar.

The king would always forget that his son was a boy of fourteen but had the strength of mind and body of a man of twenty-five. Arteus never cared for the luxuries in life, such as fine food and a warm bed like his elder siblings. He was happy to sleep outdoors and fight all day – something which made him incredibly popular with the small folk.

Slowly, in small groups of twos and threes, the company in the tent began to filter out into the inky darkness outside, their chatter floating up into the wind. All that eventually remained was King Aristian, his son Andros and a couple of other soldiers who were talking quietly whilst they finished with their wine. The king was still eating. He took his time; he liked to savour his meals. He believed that good food was to be eaten slowly, to enjoy each bite, taking in all the different flavours and textures. It also helped his indigestion.

Andros, what makes you different to that boy, Pip? the king asked as he cut up the final piece of his pork. He wanted to teach his son something.

The boy? Andros was confused. He never had the best memory. Especially for people he thought of as inferior. He’d stood up and was lingering in the centre of the tent, running his fingers over the large map of Allamantya and its empire which, one day, would be his realm.

The one you pushed to the ground. What do you think makes you and him different?

"He is a peasant; I am a prince, a future king and emperor, destined to rule. He is destined to wallow in mud and piss. To be forgotten." The prince’s fist began to tighten on the map.

You are wrong, Aristian said slowly. Yes, you are of royal blood. You are my son and heir to the throne, whilst that boy is born of the common people. More than likely he will be forgotten by the mortal man. That isn’t what will make you different, however. The king leant forward and lifted a cup of wine and washed down his pork. The sweet taste almost took him away from his conversation and back to happier times with his dear departed wife.

So you are saying I am no better than a peasant? Andros looked tense as if his blood was starting to boil.

The gods, in their White City of Ollaria’h judge all men equal when they arrive at the golden gates. A king and a farmer are deemed the same. Their name and who their fathers were count for nothing. It is the deeds you do every day that will decide whether you are worthy. What we do in life will be remembered, maybe not by the common man but by the gods. The actions you take in life live forever.

Andros stood silently as if he was taken aback by his father’s words. His fist loosened and he wiped his palms on his silks. I will try, Father. I hope to make you proud one day. I am sorry I am not what you wished for. His voice was tinged with sadness.

The king smiled as he finally stood from his chair, the servants relieved to at last be able to begin their clearing of the tent.

Every day you make me proud. I have loved all my children, from the day they opened their eyes until the day when the gods decide I should finally close my own.

He walked towards Andros and wrapped his arms around him. As they embraced, for a brief moment, the king could feel the love a son should have for his father. Maybe it was his own fault as to why his children struggled to show love. His own father, King Alector, had been a cold man.

One day you will make a fine king, one that will deserve his place among his ancestors. The king’s words were powerful but Aristian wondered how much truth there was in them. It is getting late and we have an important day ahead. Get some rest. These old bones of mine are not what they used to be. The king turned and walked to his room, stretching his old weary arms out wide and ready to fall into a deep sleep.

****

The sun had set, replaced by the largest great white moon anyone had seen in years. The bustling sound of horses, men and armour was now replaced by light chatter, the crackling of campfires and crickets in the long grass. Prince Andros stood alone near the forest edge. It had seemed like it had taken an age for his father to fall asleep. He could hear him tossing and turning, even muttering to himself. It wasn’t until he heard the snores that he knew it was safe to get up.

He looked up and admired the sky, dark and never-ending. Imprinted on the night sky were stars, the god’s tribute to fallen heroes so their memories could shine on forever. He thought back to his father’s words, trying to recall the odd phrase here and there. No matter how much they irritated him, he knew they had meaning and wondered if he too, would one day go on to have a star of his own.

His hands were sweating. He felt excited and guilty, as he always did when it came to nights like this. Both feelings were like an inner fight inside of him, constantly trying to outdo the other. He rubbed his hands down on his silks. The bright white tunic he wore had become sweaty; the patches were starting to show under his arms. He noticed dirt on the wrists of his tunic. He hated white, it always got dirty and it didn’t suit his pale complexion. He was jealous of Arteus, his younger brother; he had olive skin, better suited to the sun like his mother.

I have been cursed with my father’s looks and my mother’s brains.

It was late; the moon was high in the sky. Andros’s excitement had been replaced with frustration and he was about ready to leave when he heard rustling in the grass. He turned to see Sir Lyon N’Dai slowly making his way to where Andros stood waiting. Lyon’s eyes never left the prince’s as he paced forward, his fingers stretched out sliding through the long grass in front of him.

Andros was clearly irritated. I am to be your king. I shouldn’t be kept waiting.

Lyon brushed off the prince’s irritation with a swift laugh. I had matters to attend to, Your Highness. Your uncle, he is distrusting of our northern cousins. He wants guards every fifty metres, changed at two-hour intervals.

My uncle is a suspicious fool; since his wife died, he is ever so paranoid. He needs a new wife to keep him busy.

The king and his family are our greatest concern. We are here to keep you safe. Lyon lowered his head, his dark brown eyes looking up at the prince’s sullen face. He’d reached Andros and the two of them were inching closer. Lyon slowly raised his head with a smile. We are here to protect and serve Your Highness.

The prince interrupted, To obey.

Suddenly, Lyon pulled the prince towards him. Their lips met, and their hands started to explore. Lyon, with his strength, pushed the prince back onto the wagon behind him, causing both of them to catch their breath. Andros could taste the sweat on Lyon’s lips; the prince could feel himself hardening as Lyon ran his hand up his tunic, over his chest and around his throat. His lover’s free hand slid inside his trousers.

Lyon whispered into his ear, What would you have me do?

Take me! Andros commanded, his voice hissing sharply in the darkness. Before he knew it, Lyon had turned him over so that his face pressed against the hard wood of the wagon. Lyon’s hard kisses across his neck sent a cold shiver up his spine.

For a brief moment, Andros didn’t care about his family, his honour or his desire to be king. Finally, the prince had got what he had been waiting for.

Chapter 2

Heading South, into the Unknown

Splintered faction of House Da’Menaeon, royal family of Valanor

Heading south across the borderlands towards the Flentian Mountains

Rumour has it, the Antilion women don’t shave. They let it grow thick and bushy. I hear it is because their husbands are more interested in books and boys than in their wives. They prefer little cocks to big plump tits. Prince Lucian smiled at his elder brother.

I think their husbands will love you then, little brother, and if that rumour of yours is true then we shouldn’t find many men down south at all. Prince Lassander laughed. They will all be dying out.

The brothers looked almost identical, yet they were separated by nine months. Each had shining blonde hair down to their necks, teeth as white as pearls and slender faces. They looked younger than their twenty-one years. Both were fully dressed in Valorian armour, clad in single steal cuirass breast plates, each with carved images of a muscular torso embroiled onto them. Their Phrygian style helmets were of a crystal blue, with a waterfall of silver plume, which fell from the crest of the helmet to the soldiers’ backs.

Angered by his brother’s reply, Lucian shot back, When we get to Allamantya and then to Antilion, their women will be dying to get their hands on this. His left hand grabbed between his legs. They have never experienced a real man before; we know men of Valanor are equal to two of Allamantya.

Aye that is true, Brother. But what of that dear young maid you left back home? What was her name again? Frona. Won’t she be devastated, you marrying an unpruned southerner? Lassander smiled as he directed his horse around some rocks in front of him.

Frona? She wasn’t one of mine. She was that girl from Varia, the one who wore that chastity belt. Bloody good job she wore it too. I tried for nearly an hour to get it off before I gave up. My balls were the size of my fist by the time I left.

I bet she wept until her heart’s content, Lassander replied with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. So who is the lucky lady that you have been courting these past few weeks? Lassander was always forgetting which girl his brother was seeing. He moved from one to the other like food at a buffet.

Euterpia is her name. Pale skin, green eyes and a figure even a priest of the gods at the White City couldn’t turn down. Oh, and those red lips… like roses they were, thick and beautiful… Mighty talented she was with those lips. Lucian thought back to those intimate moments they shared together.

She sounds a fine lady to me. One our dear mother would be proud to see you wed.

You are telling me you aren’t interested in their women in the slightest? Uncle Damidar told us to enjoy everything life has to offer; he said the gods are cruel and cut our lives short. So it is down to us to bask in the moment, no matter how short. Lucian felt proud in the way he had replied to his brother.

Enjoyment to you is bedding a different girl every week, a noble’s daughter, a fisherman’s wife or even an unflowered priestess of the gods. To me, enjoying life to its fullest is to spend time with my wife and son, watching my Melaina smile, seeing my son, Zander, walk for the first time. What you didn’t realise when uncle told us that, is that he meant for us to enjoy life in our own way. Lassander’s reply made Lucian lost for words; he had no answer for his brother’s comeback so he opted to bring the conversation back to Euterpia.

Lassander was third in line to the royal throne of Valanor, his mother Lorella was the younger sister to King Vincinicus. He, by now, had become a little bored of his brother’s escapades with his latest female conquest, so he was admiring what was out in front of him. Far on the horizon, were hills of yellow sand, rocks and desert flora. Behind that horizon was Allamantya, a land only his ancestors talked about, a realm of hatred and evil. I guess soon I shall see how evil they are. Behind him a sea of blue and silver followed; however, this was a sea that wasn’t made up of water, but soldiers.

On the horizon, he saw a rider heading towards them. His brother was still talking about Euterpia. Lucian, Lucian, look. He pointed out in front of him. Prince Gabriel, he’s back.

****

Gabriel was clad in starlight blue armour. A breastplate hemmed with diamonds and pearls. His grieves rose from his ankles to his knees. He wore no helmet. Long blonde hair floated from his head as he rode towards Lucian and Lassander on his white horse. The smooth defined muscles on the horse could be seen as it galloped towards them. A mighty beast, one fit for royalty.

Lassander and Lucian spoke at the same time, My prince. They then placed their right hands over their hearts and bowed their heads.

Gabriel, we were starting to get worried, you had been gone awhile. I thought maybe you had run into some trouble with those southerners. Lucian had a genuine concern in his voice.

Fear not cousin, it would take more than a southerner to do away with your prince. An air of arrogance came from Gabriel as he spoke. He knew himself to be a formidable warrior and he would always let others know it.

The road ahead is clear. No signs of an ambush, Gabriel said as he turned his horse around and rode alongside his cousins. All three were as close as brothers. From their youth they had fought, studied and flirted with