The Swan Throne: I'laîntanë: Book One of Under the Eagle

By C. L. LaClair

The Swan Throne is the first part of the Under the Eagle trilogy, the epic saga of the nine hunters of the Angel of Death and their quest to shape or break the world of Tarmaan. The Swan Throne tells of a love that lent its light to a world darkened by violence and hate. It is the story of a young boy who grew into a man and a man who bravely accepted the fate lying before him. It is for those of us who have walked the paths of darkness and have found the light along the way. This story lives inside us all, because as we know, the night is darkest just before the dawn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Aug 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781512795424

C. L. LaClair

About the Author C. L. LaClair lives in the mountains of Northern Vermont, where the winters are cold and last a long time. He has had a passionate interest in the Medieval Ages since the age of four, when his mother gave him a book about knights and castles. His idea for Under the Eagle was conceived in the sixth grade in Mrs. Nolan’s Language Arts class, and he has worked on it ever since. The author is a graduate of the College of the Holy Cross in Worcester, MA, where he majored in History, and recently completed a two-year service with the United States Peace Corps in the West African country of Senegal. He holds the rank of Officer Candidate (OC) in the Vermont Army National Guard, and is currently enrolled in Officer Candidate School. He is currently completing his Masters in Diplomacy from Norwich University. This is his first book. About the Illustrator Juliet O'Neil is a local Vermont Artist and Art teacher and mother of three children. Currently her passion for art keeps her busy at the Bishop John A. Marshall School and the Stowe Ski Academy, two private schools in Northern Vermont, along with many other private groups and Art Centers. When she isn't teaching or painting, she is maintaining a beautiful horse farm with six horses and a variety of other animals.

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Copyright © 2017 C. L. LaClair.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture quotations are from the New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright © 1989 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

WestBow Press

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

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Interior Image Credit: Juliet O’Neil

ISBN: 978-1-5127-9543-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-9544-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-9542-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017910681

WestBow Press rev. date: 7/27/2017

CONTENTS

Foreword: Light and Shadow

Prologue

I. The East Wind

II. An End and a Beginning

PART I

1. Omens

2. Through Eagle’s Eyes

3. To Caranvën

4. Drums in the Mountains

5. An Old Proverb

6. To Stand Against the Shadow

7. Night and Cold

8. Among the Halls

9. Black Sails

10. With the Mist

11. Among the Fields of Gold

12. Into the Fires

13. Oaths

14. Lëanness

15. Winter’s Heart

16. A Wounded Nation

17. Footprints in the Sand

18. Dragons

19. Blood on the Snow

20. In Council

21. Under the Lighted Moon

PART II

22. Companions

23. For the Love of an Empress

24. The Storm Breaks

25. Rakîn

26. When Darkness Falls

27. To Dance with the Shadow

28. Shadowsworn

29. The Swan Throne

30. Specters of Survival

31. Dark Mountains

32. A Hunter is Revealed

33. A Change in the Winds

34. The Heart of a King

35. A Red Sun Rises

36. War in the North

37. Dark Whispers

38. Strength and Honor

39. The Color of the Pattern

40. On the Wings of the Eagle

Epilogue

I. A New Day

II. A Story Begins

The Appendices

Appendix I. List of Characters

Appendix II. Origins and the Akaëdîn Reckoning

Appendix III. The Ten Nations of Thandar and the Sea Peoples of the Rantarë

Appendix IV. The Ten Cantrevs of the Akaëdîn Empire

Appendix V. Rhômar and its Environs

Appendix VI. Rulers of the Swan Throne

Appendix VII. The Thëraîn

THE NORTH

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THE SOUTH

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For my friends and family, for without you there would be no story.

But most of all for my dearest Memere,

who has the greatest Ability

and the biggest heart

of anyone I know.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I am a man of books. When I was a child my parents frequently read to me before sending me to bed for the night, and I remember begging them to read me one more chapter before the lights went out. I believe this is what makes a good book. A good book touches your heart and captivates your mind, giving you a brief glimpse of a time and place you will never truly experience physically, but will warm and whisper to you nonetheless, calling you to return to its pages. It is the type of story you beg to hear more of. For me, The Swan Throne is this story. It is the story I want to hear, and, consequently, the story I want to write.

A good writer is influenced by their own experiences and beliefs, but also by those of other writers, whose works they reference to craft their own. These works lend their own magic to the canvas, and a fresh literary perspective emerges from the unique portrait they create. Flowing from this literary vein, The Swan Throne is the product of the books I’ve read and enjoyed. The Dark is Rising series lends its otherworldly struggle between light and dark, while set in the quiet, half-mythical landscape of King Arthur country. The vivid description and natural beauty of Brian Jacques’ Redwall series melds seamlessly with the youthful sense of awe and magic some can find in the peaceful solitude of nature. The majesty and complexity of The Lord of the Rings and The Wheel of Time permeate every chapter, and at its heart lies the powerful Christian symbolism, virtue, and self-sacrifice found in the writings of CS Lewis.

I am also a man of history. I have cultivated a passion for knights and castles since I was four, and The Swan Throne reads as a medieval epic. It is set in an age of chivalry, honor, and love, a story as heavily influenced by Arthurian legend as it is by the chaos of the Mongol conquest of Eastern Europe and the dark intrigue and folklore of Transylvania. The rugged natural beauty of the Scottish Highlands, the Carpathian Mountains, the Vermont winter, and the sub-Sahara lend their own unforgettable vistas to the story, and this world is as rich, beautiful, and real as our own.

The Swan Throne is the first part of the Under the Eagle trilogy, the epic saga of the Nine Hunters of the Angel of Death and their quests to shape or break the world of Tarmaanë. The Swan Throne tells of a love that lent its light to a world darkened by violence and hate. It is the story of a young boy who grew into a man, and a man who bravely accepted the fate lying before him. It is for those of us who have walked the paths of darkness, and have found the Light along the way. This story lives inside us all, because as we know, the night is darkest just before the dawn.

WORDS TO LIVE BY

There is a knighthood of the 21st century

Whose riders do not ride through the darkness of physical forests,

As of old, but through the forest of darkened minds.

They are armed with a spiritual armor

And an inner sun makes them radiant.

Out of them shines healing,

Healing that flows from the knowledge of the human being as a Spiritual being.

They must create inner order, inner justice,

Peace, and conviction in the darkness of our time.

They must learn to work side by side with angels.

-Karl Konig

Courage is not simply one of the virtues, but the form of all the virtues at the testing point.

-CS Lewis

By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.¹

-Luke 1:78-79

The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.

-Edmund Burke

FOREWORD

LIGHT AND SHADOW

And war broke out in heaven; [the Warrior] and his angels fought against the dragon. The dragon and his angels fought back, but they were defeated, and there was no longer any place for them in heaven. The great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent…the deceiver of the whole world—he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him.²

Revelations 12:7-9

It is said when the Fallen were cast down to the earth they landed in Ardûinan, Winter’s Realm, the chill and beautiful land of frost and snow at the top of the world. With the Fallen’s touch, fair Ardûinan was tainted, victim to the vile onslaught of corruption and decay that went ever before them. Darkness fell across the north, and death sang in its winds, the icy breath of the Serpent itself wailing over the white wastes and the still, black waters of the Werantarë. The Fallen cast their cunning nets far and wide, and as the ages came and passed those men too weak to withstand the sweetness of fallacy and desire were ensnared, their souls resigned to torment and despair. Fell creatures stalked the shadowy moors, and the peoples of the Free Nations huddled together in the gathering darkness. War and uncertainty cloaked the bright mantle of time, and the Serpent wrought for itself a new name, a name mocking the Light and reflecting its desire to corrupt all that was right, good, and true: I’Anrîm. The Shadow.

The Shadow took Ardûinan as its own, and soon it bent other lands and peoples to its will, their pride and dignity cast away and forgotten. Aman, the Black Land, arose from their burned and broken remnants, and from Caranvën, the dark city at the mouth of the river Angrën, the Shadow summoned its armies. The Free Nations stood in the Shadow’s path, their long, desperate defiance the sharpest thorn in its side, and it resolved to crush them in a great war in the heart of winter, when its influence in the hearts and minds of men was strongest. Hosts innumerable swept through the dark mountains of Aman, and for many years’ war raged across the windswept fells of Lornë and Calëdon. Sickly green lights flickered across the night sky, and the land was painted with leaping fire. Men sang as they died, but in the end the Free Nations had the victory. One by one the Shadow’s armies were broken, and its power was checked. At long last the world of Tarmaanë could embrace an age of peace and light.

But the Shadow remained. The old age waned, and uncertainty and ambition clouded the dawn of the new. There would be a second War in the North, and this time men would fall. They had grown weak and careless, too corrupted by their desire and greed. There were too few now strong and valiant enough to stand against the Shadow, and once again it would loose its hounds through the dark mountains. The Light would weep at the failure of men and the corruption of Tarmaanë, for the Shadow would suffer no rival. It would have dominion over the men and nations of this world.

PROLOGUE

I

THE EAST WIND

Far in the east a wind began, carrying with it the restless black clouds of a gathering storm. Westward the wind blew, covering the wide, blue waters of the Rantarë, the Great Sea, in shadow and doubt. The gulls and terns wheeling and screeching by day above the green isles of the Sea Peoples fell silent, and the ships moored in the harbors of Cantar and the Layënes rode nervously on the growing swell. The wind moved on, overrunning the eastern shores of the continent of Thandar and rustling the banners crowning the lofty spires of its great cities. The clear night grew dark, the stars veiled by a creeping shadow. Westward the wind blew, running its unseen fingers through the grasses in the sleeping fields of Rhôvanian and the shadowy trees of the mighty Greenwood. A storm was coming, and all the land was hushed. Westward the wind blew, and this is where our story begins.

The young hunter peered up through the swaying trees, their bare branches like bony claws reaching to tear down the Heavens. Rank upon rank of tattered black clouds marched madly across the sky, sweeping away the stars like a tide of inky murk. Flashes lit the darkening night, and the low rumble of distant thunder reached his ears, growing louder with each passing minute. Mist crept through the forest, turning the creaking trees into an army of leering specters. The Wild Hunt of the Shadow was riding for the souls of men, and where the hungry howls of its hounds sounded, despair and death stalked the land. Rivers of fear coursed through the young hunter’s resolve, threatening to drown him in their mighty flood. He was alone, and there was no one to answer his call for aid. He wanted to run, to escape the darkening forest. His senses were straining, and he could hear his own heartbeat. He was going to fail the test.

But the young hunter could not fail. He would be I’Racandîn’Al’Akaëdîn’rananh, the High King of the new Akaëdîn Empire, and his people would look to him to lead. In fact, he knew they already did. He had trained eleven years for this moment, overcoming the Academy’s hardest challenges and tests. He knew his strength, and he was confident. Even through his fear he knew what he must do. Refocusing his mind, he drew a deep breath and opened himself to the storm-swept forest. Hosts of unseen eyes watched him as he drew the long hunting knife from his belt, but he paid them no heed. Moving silently through the mist, he winced as thorns pierced his leather jerkin, scratching his skin.

No pain lasts forever, he reminded himself, his teachers’ unfailing wisdom echoing in his mind.

From the darkness to his left came a haunting scream, but the young hunter didn’t jump. It was distant, carrying on the wind.

It has my scent, he thought, backing against the sheer face of a moss-covered ledge. Another scream rose above the gale from the rocky hillside to his right. It was closer than the first, but he knew how the wind played tricks on the ears. The beasts were closing in, but he still had time.

They always hunt in pairs, but if I kill one, the other will flee. That is how they are.

Tightening the leather bracers around his forearms, he calmed his breathing and dropped to a crouch, his muscles knotted in anticipation. He thought a shape moved in the mist in front of him, but just as quickly it was gone, lost among the ghostly tendrils. It was four-legged, moving close to the ground with eyes that flashed like fire in the murk. Had he imagined what he had seen? He watched and waited, his breathing quiet and measured. A twig snapped, and there was a flurry of wings as a night bird rushed frantically through the overhanging boughs of an evergreen and off into the dark sky.

It is time. May the Light be with me.

Gripping the knife in his left hand, the young hunter moved along the base of the ledge, still crouching. Grass rustled in the night, and he could make out the faint scrape of claws on stone. There was an angry snarl like ripping canvas, and a great mountain cat leapt from the mist, its hungry maw opened wide. Ducking beneath his outstretched right arm, the young hunter rolled to the ground, driving the knife upward as the beast sprang over him. The mountain cat screamed, and it began to thrash. The young hunter felt its jaws close suddenly upon the bracer covering his left forearm, but he resisted the powerful urge to pull free. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he covered his head and drove the knife deeper still. For several long moments, his will strove precariously against his instinct for escape, but after what seemed an eternity the cat quieted and stilled, its body relaxing in the final embrace of death. The young hunter lay there, breathing heavily as the echoes of its dying screams vanished into the night. The wind was stronger now, and the trees swayed violently before the storm’s onslaught. Driving rain battered the forest, and he smiled. The fear was gone.

Pushing the dead cat off him, he wiped his knife on a huddled clump of wet ferns and climbed wearily to the top of the ledge, looking out into the approaching storm. It wailed around him, and he raised his arms in triumph to the Heavens, his heart pounding thunderously with exhilaration. Rain lashed his face, and the howling wind was almost loud enough to drown out even his thoughts. Lightning forked across the sky, and thunder rang loudly in his ears. It was the twenty-fifth day of the hunt he had chosen as his Spirit Test, and he could feel the time was near for him to measure his soul before the Light. A Spirit Test was how one discovered their Ability, the measure of all the person has done, is doing, and will do in their future, both action and thought. Often the greater an individual’s Ability, the greater their station in life, and the young hunter could not fail to meet what was expected of him. He would be the High King, and the High King could not fail.

I am not afraid. What service is mine to do?

Images flashed through his mind, and he fell to his knees, the emotion of great and terrible deeds yet to come washing over him. One image stood out from all the rest, branded forever upon his consciousness, and he knew with all his heart that it was his, and his alone. The Light had answered his call.

‘A young king lay wounded on a plain of darkness and despair, a fierce battle raging about him. The pain coursed through his body, seeking to consume what little resolve he had left. Hope was failing, and the Shadow lay over the land. The sun was setting upon the time of the Light.’

‘But even in that moment of hopelessness, the young king would not give in. Grasping his sword and forcing himself to his knees, he thrust the blade towards the Heavens with one last, desperate effort. For a moment nothing happened, but suddenly, as if in answer to his silent cry, a ray of sunlight pierced the thick clouds overhead and shone upon him, bathing him in soft radiance. Shadow and darkness fell away before him, and the tide turned.’

‘For the young king would be a powerful symbol of leadership and sacrifice amidst the darkness of the age.’

The storm passed into the west, carried on the heels of the fell East Wind. The Wild Hunt galloped on, and a soft glow colored the horizon. Birds began to chirp in the glistening trees, and a cool breeze wafted away the ghostly mists of the night. Dawn broke, its welcome sunlight filling the sky with a wash of shimmering pinks and reds. The Hunter awoke rather unceremoniously to sodden clothes, a stiff back, and a throbbing soreness in his left arm, and as he tended gingerly to his wounds he looked out from the ledge at the beauty taking shape above and about him.

My Spirit Test is over, he thought, grinning as he relived the night’s reckless events. The pelt and claws of the great mountain cat were his, and his future was set. I have proven my Ability. I will be High King.

Descending from the ledge, he dressed the mountain cat and cleaned his knife and hands in a pool of fresh rainwater under a stand of evergreens. The cool, clear water glimmered crimson in the morning light, and the reflection looking back at him was grimly distorted.

‘The young king would be a powerful symbol of leadership and sacrifice amidst the darkness of the age.’

The Hunter wondered what that meant. He would never forget the image he had seen. The king had been grievously wounded. He had been dying, and yet he had still found the courage to go on. He had found the courage to rise up. The Hunter finished cleaning his knife and rose slowly from the pool, his mind racing. Thinking about what he had seen made his head spin, so he pushed the thought to the back of his mind and busied himself with preparing for his departure. The Light had revealed everything and nothing.

Retrieving and repacking his rucksack, the Hunter changed his damp clothing, shouldered his bundled trophy, and set out slowly through the waking forest. Many long leagues awaited him to the Academy at Nanbardon, and his return would soon be looked for. Soon he would become a Youngling, a newly commissioned legionnaire in the service of the Akaëdîn Empire, and that would be only the beginning. There was much he had yet to do, and despite his injuries and confusion, his heart was high within him. The years would bring what they would, but he had proven his Ability, and he would face his future with confidence and determination. His part in the epic tale of I’Laîntanë, the Swan Throne, had come at last.

II

AN END AND A BEGINNING

The old man lay on his bed, his wrinkled, grey head propped up by a soft mound of pillows. It was quiet and peaceful in the room, and the spring breeze rolling in through the open doors gently touched the fresh lilies on the table by his bedside. Faces filled the room; faces he loved. Some faces were wet with tears, while others showed concern, looking upon him as they held the weeping in their arms. It was a sad time, for the old man’s final hour was near.

There was a slight stirring beside him, and he turned to look at the little girl who had held his hand since her arrival early that morning. She smiled at him with her big brown eyes, her face full of sunshine.

I love you, Grandfather, she whispered, her little hand squeezing his.

The old man smiled back, giving her the sly wink that had made her giggle since she was a baby. Grandfather loves you too, little one, and when he’s gone he expects you’ll be a good girl.

A tear appeared in his eye almost as quickly as one that appeared in hers, and she squeezed his hand again. But I don’t understand why you must go, Grandfather, she said softly. Mommy says you have to go live with the angels, but why can’t the angels come live with you?

The tears began to fall harder, from their eyes and from the eyes of others around the room. The old man smiled.

I’ve lived side by side with angels every day of my life, little one, he whispered to her. One of them is holding my hand right now.

Her eyes lit up into a beautiful smile, and she leaned over and kissed his old, wrinkled forehead.

Silly Grandfather, she said. You know I’m not an angel. I don’t have any wings! She sat back down in her chair, her feet not quite reaching the floor. Squeezing his hand again, she just looked at him, and smiled.

The soft breeze touched his face, and he reflected again on his life. He had done well, living as a man for others; a life of service, courage, and compassion. He was blessed to have seen the world, and touched the lives of many of its people. He had even saved lives, and, perhaps more importantly, the bright futures that went with them. He had worked for peace, and achieved great things. Leaders of countries called him friend, and to the common people he was family. At long last, his efforts had even seen him knighted. It had been a childhood dream fulfilled.

He had also married the love of his life. He had been faced with the same chance as any man, looking up at her amidst her fame, beauty, and unfailing kindness, but in that moment under the twinkling stars of the clear, cold December sky, fate had chosen to smile upon him. The years they had spent together were filled with joy and countless blessings, many of whom were present in the room with him. Almost three years had passed since she had preceded him.

Yes, his life was complete. He harbored no regret, guilt, nor desire. He was merely tired, and he knew his hour had come at last. The priest who visited his bedside that morning had administered last rites, and for a while they had talked about what lay ahead of him. The man had often wondered throughout his life what this moment would be like, but now that it had arrived, he greeted it as an old friend. As his loved ones comforted him with their presence, he counted this day among the best of his entire life.

I am ready. I am ready to be called home. They are all in good hands. I know you will watch over them for me. Someday I will see them all again, but not yet. I am ready.

A soft light appeared before his eyes, slowly growing until it filled his vision. It was not bright, just soft, warm and welcoming. Beyond the light, he could make out what he thought was an open door, with white curtains moving to a gentle breeze. He thought he had seen the door before, somewhere. It seemed so familiar. The light grew brighter, and he paused, looking behind him at the people filling the room; at the little girl holding his hand. He gave it a soft squeeze, and turning, stepped forward confidently into the waiting warmth of the light.

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The man woke gently, the early morning light bathing the chamber in a soft blue hue. It was hushed and peaceful, for the birds and the city were yet to wake. The cool breeze ruffled the white curtains opening to the balcony overlooking the sea, softly playing with the chimes hanging over the bed. Dawn was the man’s favorite time of day, the tranquil pause before the great rush when the world hushed in silent expectation for what lay ahead. Sunrise was a new day, a fresh start, a gift with which to be one’s very best.

She was so beautiful, lying in his arms; the beauty that took a man’s breath away. He loved her with all his heart. Husband and wife, they were one, companions and best friends moving together along life’s long journey. Her hair spread out on the pillow beside him was a powerful reminder of their time together amidst the summer fields outside Caerlëan, reminiscent of the golden-brown waves of barley covering the countryside. She was radiant, a warm image of the Southlands and the perfect complement to his clear, northern soul.

She stirred, opening her eyes and looking at him. Love and joy filled them as she took his face in her hands.

You are here. She said. I’ve been waiting for so long. I love you.

He smiled and kissed her, gathering her closer into his arms. Her skin put polished marble to shame, and her hair smelled of fresh flowers. It was early yet, and they had a few hours before the Maidens would come to wake their High Queen. He, on the other hand, had a host of diplomats to meet and a full day of government affairs to attend to. Had they really ruled the Akaëdîn Empire for a year already?

Wait. How can I know this? He thought, suddenly remembering a room full of those he loved and a little girl who was holding his hand. He remembered stepping forward into the light. He remembered an entire life.

Is this Heaven? He asked her, searching her face for an answer. She opened her eyes slowly, and then closed them again, smiling.

Go to sleep, she whispered, raising a finger to his lips. You need your rest. We have much to do today.

Far below the waves lapped against the rocky headland, and the breeze rushed playfully in from the open balcony. It was the dawn of a new day. As he held his wife in his arms, the High King remembered a sunrise he had witnessed many long years ago in his youth, when he had hunted a mountain cat to prove his Ability to himself and to the Light. It seemed like it was just yesterday.

Maybe that is the light I dreamt I saw, he thought, sleep stealing over him once more. But the question would remain unanswered, because he knew in his heart what he had experienced was more than a dream. It was a memory.

PART I

1

OMENS

T he fisherman frowned at the overcast sky as he gathered his empty nets back into his boat. His fingers moved deftly as he bunched them together, tracing the practiced movements his father had taught him many years before. Waves crashed against the rocky shores a half-league distant, and the white gulls screamed hungrily above. It was evening, and another long, luckless day had passed. If one thing was certain, Narëlan survived on the bounty of the sea, and he was not the only fisherman to return home with empty nets of late. These were strange times in Lornë. An unnatural summer-long drought had withered the crops in the fields, and most had been suffocated by thick, choking dust. The autumn rains, fierce and freezing, had turned the rest to mud and rot, breeding grounds for swarms of biting black flies and crawling white maggots. Not yesterday old Tamsîn, the night watchman, claimed he had seen specter-like green lights dancing in the sky during the black of the morning, and three days had passed since a pair of docile farm horses had suddenly taken mad and leapt over the sea cliffs to their deaths, their bodies broken on the jagged, barnacle-encrusted rocks below. As if these foul things were not enough, Mistress Branwyn’s pregnancy had terminated in an unexpected stillbirth, leaving her in a shock from which she had yet to recover.

Omens, the fisherman thought as he took up the oars and began rowing slowly for home. There was no wind, and the grey northern sea was dead. Omens haunting the common folk.

He studied the nets lying in the bottom of his craft as he crept across the bay, searching for tears and snags. He knew he wouldn’t find any—no Lornîn fisherman went to sea without meticulously checking for such things—but he needed to keep his mind occupied. It had been too unsettled of late, because the signs could only mean one thing.

It is happening again. It is happening just as it did before, as the stories say it did.

There was a sudden gust of wailing wind, and the boat lurched violently to the starboard. The fisherman’s hand slipped on the oar, and a sharp splinter stabbed deep into his finger.

The Shadow’s own luck, he cursed under his breath, calling to mind the old Lornîn proverb. Think of the Shadow, and it too shall appear.

Stowing the oars and spitting angrily over the gunwale, he turned to grab the length of oilcloth he kept rolled up at the base of the mast, and as his eyes swept over the surrounding sea he stiffened and gasped. Several long, disbelieving moments passed before he seized the oars and began stroking frantically for the shore, the splinter in his finger forgotten. Shutting his eyes, he tried to push the image from his mind, but it only grew more vivid and unsettling, twisting and contorting into a living nightmare.

Thousands of dead fish were appearing amidst the waves, their bloated white bodies bobbing like tenpins in some horrid game out of the Shadow’s own twisted imagination. The fisherman redoubled his efforts on the oars, willing his boat through the tainted water, a ribbon of fading red swirling in his wake. Thousands of dead fish.

Omens.

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The nobleman drummed his fingers impatiently on the railing of the balcony overlooking the grand, torchlit square before the palace. Despite the lateness of the hour the heat was still heavy and oppressive, and he fanned himself irritably with the roll of parchment he carried. The square was empty now. The vendors and hawkers filling it by day had retired for the evening, and the noise from the warren of streets crisscrossing the city had hushed. A few people still passed below the nobleman’s lofty perch, but not the one he sought. Muttering to himself, he turned to leave the balcony, the rings on his fingers glinting in the hazy light of the pale moon. He could not wait much longer, for his reply was already overdue. The treaty held the promise of a better world, a testament to the compromise of men and nations. A better world for his people. A better world for his wife and children. Long had the Selëucids been without such hope.

A shrouded dark figure detached itself from a swath of shadow in the angle of the battlement, silently raising a short bow and aiming it at the departing nobleman. He never saw the black arrow as it streaked through the growing darkness, burying itself deep in his back. With a cry of surprise and anguish he staggered and fell to the parapet, his hands clawing at the smooth stone.

No, it cannot be! There is so much I haven’t done!

But his vision began to cloud, and he felt himself drifting slowly away like a silent ship lost on a dark ocean. He thought of his family, of his beautiful wife, and the hope they had shared once, long ago and in a different age, but it was too late. That hope was gone now, and the ship vanished beyond seeing. The darkness closed in around the nobleman, and with a shudder he breathed his last. The mysterious dark figure let out a long, steady breath and melted back into the shadows, vanishing over the battlement with naught but a faint swish of its cloak.

A heavy silence descended upon the night, and after several long minutes a heart-wrenching cry of despair rose suddenly from within the walls of the palace. As its echoes faded slowly into the night, crimson-cloaked soldiers poured out of the curtained doorway onto the balcony, their shouts of anger and disbelief rending the quiet evening. Forming a protective ring around the body, they desperately scanned the distant rooftops and windows surrounding the square, but to no avail. The city remained quiet, and apart from a few shapes moving slowly in the square far below, nothing caught their searching eyes. The commander knelt and turned the body gently onto its side, recoiling when he saw the leering mask of anguish on the nobleman’s face. He jumped to his feet and backed away, terror filling his eyes. His sword dropped unnoticed from his hand. The other soldiers turned at the commotion, and they too beheld the dead man’s face. Fear overtook them, and they fled as if the Enemy itself walked in the city. They pushed frantically through the curtained doorway and vanished.

More shouts went up, and lines of soldiers with torches appeared along the battlements of the great palace, rushing about in a mad haste. A horn sounded, and throughout the city came answering calls. Doors flew open, and people spilled into the once quiet streets in disbelief. Soldiers moved everywhere, and torches lit up the murk. Sleep was long forgotten, for the night was cursed. Flickering heat lightening filled the darkness, casting the balcony in eerie flashes of pale light. The dead nobleman lay on his side, his body crumpled like a broken marionette. A bright flash lit his face, and even the weather seemed to quake. The lightening flickered wildly, and the Light wept. The Sun Throne was broken. The Emperor of the Selëucids had been slain.

A sudden wailing wind came off the sea, and the long black and white banner languishing atop the tallest spire of the palace was mercilessly torn asunder. The upper half ripped free, tossed high and out of sight into the dark sky, while what remained thrashed pitifully in the gale. But as suddenly as it had come the fierce wind ceased, and thunder rumbled over the distant plains. The Great Rains would wash over the land, and change would follow in their flood. The torn banner was carried high and far away into the storm, and the soothsayers said whoever found it would bring entire nations to their knees.

Omens.

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It had been an uncomfortable night in the Layënes. The northern breezes usually cooling the islands had not blown for over two months, and the hot, dry winds out of the southwest were unabated and severe. There had been no rain in weeks, and the crops in the terraced fields lining the slopes had long since withered, their fruit turned to dust and rattling dry husk. It was early yet, and the shipwright was one of the first into the streets. He had not slept a wink, but he did not feel there was any point in trying to get in more fitful, sweat-drenched sleep before the bells sounded the sunrise.

Walking briskly down the curving cobblestoned streets, he arrived at a small courtyard overlooking the bay far below. It was covered with a strange, soupy fog, but then again it seemed as if the weather itself had been stood on its head of late. It was eerily unnatural, and he hurried on his way.

His workshop was on the waterfront near the wharves. It was a long, vaulted building with one end open to the sea, but he liked to call it his workshop. Many ships had been crafted there, and he was well-known for his skill. Amongst the Sea Peoples, shipwrights were held in high esteem. They alone possessed the power to marry a man and woman, and they also reserved the right to denounce any one of the Sea Lords before the ships’ court. Chuckling, he imagined what would happen to the first fool to attempt the latter.

The fog was thick in the lower quarters of the city, but he reached his workshop without delay. Thousands of mornings he had made the long trek down to the bay, and he knew the route by heart. Unlocking his storefront, he entered and looked around. A half-finished cutter lay in the slipway, and boards, rope, and barrels of pitch were stacked high against the walls. The smell of sawdust filled the air, and it almost felt cooler inside than it did in the street. Inspecting the cutter, he moved to the end of the workshop and pulled the winch that opened the door facing the sea. Sunlight flooded in as it slid open, and he shielded his eyes against the sudden brightness. The fog had lifted after all.

Squinting, he looked out across the bay, and then gaped at the horrible sight before him. The usually deep-blue water of the Rantarë was stained crimson, and dead fish washed against the wharves. There were dead birds, too. Terns and gulls, their feathers stained with a thick, ruddy murk. A tepid breeze rolled in through the open door, and with it came the heavy stench of death and vile decay. The shipwright staggered backwards, clutching at the wall. His heart raced, and his mouth moved in silent disbelief. Bells began to peel throughout the city, but they were frantic and alarming, not the peaceful chimes that usually rang the dawn. In moments, the entire Sea Clan would awake and witness what had come to pass. The Shadow lay upon them once again. The shipwright retched, gasping for breath as he pulled the door shut and fled back into his workshop. There would be no work today. Today he would not be anywhere near the sea.

The Blood Tide, he thought, wincing at the words.

Omens.

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The first flaming streaks of dawn lit the lightening sky, bathing the vast grasslands in a soft pinkish light. The chirping flocks of birds making their home among the grasses flitted about, their songs filling the cool morning air. It promised to be a beautiful day. The two huntsmen heeled their horses over the crest of the hill and paused, surveying the surrounding landscape with watchful eyes. The red deer had run that way after it took the green-fletched arrow behind its front shoulder, and its trail was fresh. The larger of the two riders bent down in his saddle, studying the waving grass below. Fresh crimson droplets glinted in the early morning light, and he wheeled his horse around and galloped off to the southeast, waving at his companion to follow.

The trail led towards a small grove of trees, and drawing near, the huntsmen dismounted and nocked fresh arrows to their recurve bows. The larger man flashed hand signals, and they split up, skirting opposite sides of the thicket. It was quiet, even the birds had hushed, and the wind had subsided. The smaller of the two hunters, the young boy dressed in knee-length grey trousers and homemade blue woolens, looked up into the pink sky and murmured a few words asking the Light to help him find success on his first hunt. He was the one who carried the green-fletched arrows—his father’s arrows were yellow—and the hunt would be his. He was young, only six years, and he was eager to boast to his brothers when he returned with a handsome stag lying across his saddle.

Pausing, he knelt and carefully examined the ground for blood or trampled grass, telltale signs marking the beast’s passage. He didn’t find any, and like a seasoned hunter, he surmised that his quarry was lying hidden in the thicket. Gritting his teeth in determination, he drew up his bow and crept inside. No more than fifty trees were grouped there, but for a boy who lived amidst the rolling grasslands the people of the Caenantarë, the Dancing Sea, called home, it seemed like a great forest. He crouched under the lower branches of an evergreen, and listened. Hearing only the whisper of the wind through its needles, he crept forward like a cat, and as he rounded a moss-covered boulder his heart leapt impossibly in his chest.

A large lioness was looking back at him, her head rising slowly from a gaping wound in the stag’s neck. A low growl rumbled in her throat, and she drew herself up, tail twitching and teeth bared in a snarl. The boy wanted to run, but he could not move. He wanted to scream, but no sound came from his throat. His eyes widened, and the bow dropped from his hands.

I am going to die, he thought, his mind numb with fear.

The lioness stopped growling. Blinking, she seemed to consider him for a moment, her mighty head cocked slightly to the side. Apparently satisfied, she gave a great toothy yawn and bent down, closing her mouth around the arrow and wrenching it free from the stag’s shoulder with a twist of her mighty head. Stepping over the carcass, she approached the boy, dropping the arrow at his feet. Raising her right claw, she reared and raked it across the front of his chest, shredding his woolens. He felt a twinge of pain, but nothing more. He almost wanted to laugh, for either this was a dream or he was surely going to die.

The lioness turned, a soft purring coming from her throat. From the bushes beyond the boulder emerged three furry cubs. Wobbling forward they stopped, peeping curiously at the boy with quizzical brown eyes. Licking a particularly disheveled cub with motherly affection, the lioness grabbed the stag in her jaws and left the grove, the three cubs tumbling after her as she vanished into the long grass. Still dumbfounded, the boy slowly opened his shredded vest, staring at the four parallel cuts across his chest. Heart racing, he bent down and picked up the arrow the lioness had dropped at his feet. It was marked with her teeth, but it remained unbroken. Fetching his bow, he moved silently back out of the grove in search of his father. Even if it was a dream it didn’t matter. He still had a powerful story to tell.

The wind blew, and the grass danced and sighed as it passed. The plain was silent, save for the birds flitting between the leafy scrubs dotting the landscape. Everything appeared the same, yet everything had changed. The One Marked by Lions lived in the wide lands of the west.

Omens.

2

THROUGH EAGLE’S EYES

F ar below, the foothills and lower slopes of the great Marsûlanh , the Mountains of the Sun, were aflame with the colors of autumn, marching away to the east and west and vanishing beyond the horizon. The air was crisp, and the frosty scouts of impending winter dusted the high mountaintops, unfurling their ascendant white banners defiantly before the ebbing power of summer. It was midday, and the sky was the deep, clear blue of the north.

The Eagle was riding the wind, a silent observer soaring over the lands below. The crisp air ruffled its feathers, and with a long cry it wheeled and sped north through the mountains, threading its way through the great peaks rising around it. Sheer cliffs glistening with fresh snowmelt swept by, and small cascades tumbling down the steep slopes sparkled in the sun. The Eagle rounded a spur of one of the larger mountains, called Ben Mancandîn by some, and let out another cry as the hallowed Northlands of Thandar swept into sight. A vast expanse stretching away to the horizon, it was a beautiful and hard land where men feared what came with the mist, and dreaded what was revealed in its wake.

Here the Eagle was king, and it surveyed its vast domain with a keen and piercing eye. Far to the east a faint, twinkling ribbon of blue marked the coast, and away to the north the grasses of the Plain of Lances, the heart of the kingdom of Lornë, swayed slowly in the breeze, golden-brown at the lateness of the year. Beyond the Plain rose more mountains, dark and jagged and threatening. The Mouth of Night and Cold, the Shadow’s Pass, lay in those mountains, and the Eagle would not venture there. Letting out an angry cry of defiance, it wheeled off to the west.

Movement far below caught its eye, and the glint of sunlight on steel flashed among the fiery foliage. The Eagle swooped lower and spied a long column of armored horsemen stretching along the winding track through the woodland. Two banners led the column, the first a white swan on a shining golden field, and the other a golden harp on green. The Eagle let out another cry and soared back towards the mountains, vanishing among the snow-capped peaks. Peace there was still, but there was darkness on the horizon. A storm was coming.

The High King watched the eagle disappear into the mountains high above, and his gaze drifted down the steep, rocky slopes until it came to rest on a great ivy-clad standing stone. A lone raven sat atop it, silently watching the column wind its way upwards towards the pass.

A good omen, he thought, suffering a grin. The raven dares not challenge the eagle. Studying the brooding bird, he commented to the man riding beside him.

To see the world through an eagle’s eyes would be a blessing indeed, don’t you think?

The other chuckled, drawing the reins of his black charger tighter around his faded leather gloves. That may be, little cousin, but I fear not even the eagle sees everything.

They rode on in silence for a while, the hush broken only by the clink of armor and the clip of horseshoes on the wide paving stones. Faint tones of muffled conversation drifted over their shoulders from farther back along the column, and a breeze ruffled the banners riding before them. They were almost at the border now, and the land rose sharply towards the Passes through the Marsûlanh to the nations of the south. Turning in his saddle, the High King could make out the wide highlands of Calëdon stretching away behind them, and the Plain of Lances beyond.

It is an untamed realm, the north. Full of mystery and memory, and a lingering sadness.

The shrill blast of a horn interrupted his thoughts, and a few moments later an answering call sounded from higher up in the pass.

We are almost home, little cousin. Tonight we dine in the Empire, and, by my reckoning, seven days will see us in the City of Kings. That is, of course, if that bumbling plow horse of yours can keep pace with Ranger. He reached down and patted the shining black neck of his charger, smiling fiendishly. The High King chuckled.

"Jach, the Livônin wouldn’t want to see one of their great destriers bested now, would they? Especially by my bumbling plow horse. Well, if we fail to escape the crowds you’ll no doubt attract, we’ll be lucky to see the city before the First Snow."

Jach grinned. Our company shall see us to the frontier, he announced with a flourish, digging a fresh strip of jerky from his saddlebags. "And then, Constan VII Mar-Acad, Ranger will set the pace."

The High King shook his head in amusement at the sly emphasis on the words, but he was really quite used to it. Since his youth, he had suffered routinely under his older cousin Jacham’s keen wit, and if he thought the onslaught would have abated somewhat upon his elevation to the Swan Throne, he was mistaken. Constan VII Mar-Acad was the twenty-fifth ruler of the Akaëdîn Empire, and for Jach to address him by his title conjured up images of their Great-Aunt Cecilia chasing a certain pair of mischievous boys with a broom after they filched one freshly-baked blueberry tart too many from the kitchens of Hilltop House.

They are not very kingly, Constan mused, but I cherish those memories. I wonder if Jach remembers all the times we raced down the snowy hills and pastures of Rhômar on sledges. He always seemed to go the furthest, and often at my expense. He caused the most spectacular crashes. It’s a wonder the two of us are still alive!

Greatest among Jach’s many titles was that of the First of the Palëndîn Order, an institution tracing itself back across the pages of history to Akaëan. Akaëan was the name of a powerful civilization far across the deep, troubled waters of the blue Rantarë, and before it was broken and swallowed by an angry sea, each ruler raised to Akaëan’s Swan Throne was advised by their nine closest and most trusted friends. These persons were known as the Palëndîn Order, or the Nine. The First Palëndîn possessed the greatest Ability of his or her peers, and there was no questioning Jach’s merit. He was the First Palëndîn of Constan VII Mar-Acad, and the High King was blessed to have him at his right-hand.

The steep sides of the pass rose high above them, and a stream rushed through a stone culvert under the highway before cascading down the slope with an echoing din. The harsh, lonely calls of a raven echoed off the mottled grey cliff faces and the rugged landscape of broken boulders and blasted bracken, and the wind was chill and bitter, the cold breath of distant Aman itself. The crest of the pass stood well above the tree line, and far below and to the north, glinting like a far-away beacon amidst a fiery autumn sea, Constan could make out the Hall of Dunstafanage on its rocky tor. The beautiful glen in which the city was built was famed for its herd of black deer, and several handsome stags had been spotted browsing in the heath along the highway. The Calëdonîn claimed the deer were descended from the legendary harts of Ardûinan, driven south many ages past by the taint of the Fallen. Only in Glenrûhanh, the great Glen of the Deer in the southern foothills of the Temples, were the deer of the Northlands more abundant.

A collection of proud stone buildings appeared ahead, neatly constructed around two crenellated watchtowers and a long, arched hall. The tower on the left flew the same golden harp on green leading the column, while its twin flew the white swan on gold. Soldiers clad in the mottled greens and browns of the wild emerged from the buildings, saluting and crying out as they lined the road. They were Akaëdîn Silver Legionnaires, accomplished and highly-trained warriors who were also known as Rangers throughout Thandar.

High King Constan! High Lord Jacham! Welcome home!

Constan raised his hand to acknowledge the growing crowd, and Jach did the same, striking his breastplate in the legionary salute. Calëdonîn lancers appeared among the Rangers, and they too looked on as the leaders of the two nations passed them by. Long had the soldiers of Calëdon fought side by side with the legionnaires of the Akaëdîn Empire, and they would do so once more.

Reining in their mounts in the wide courtyard between the two towers, Constan and Jach saluted the officer who commanded the company of lancers that had ridden with them since their departure from Dunstafanage early the day before. Swordarm Gareth Andinias was clad in gleaming steel ringmail with a fine green cape, and the lines drawn across his weathered face betrayed the many years he had captained the lancers of the Hall’s legendary Free Companies.

Lord Gareth, Constan spoke, his calm green eyes betraying a constant, underlying worry. The Light shine upon you. It has been an honor, my friend. The Pact will live again.

The Light shine upon you, Lord Constan, the Swordarm replied. We will stand united against the Shadow, as our fathers did of old. He clasped the High King’s arm in friendship, his proud face grim and sad. I am glad you came, my friend. I am glad you too saw what we’ve seen in the sky, and heard what we’ve heard in the night. We will prepare our people for a fell winter. He raised his gauntleted fist into the air, and immediately the neat ranks of horsemen behind him thrust their lances towards the distant peaks soaring high above, their enheartened cry echoing throughout the pass.

Calëdon and the Empire!

Nodding one last time to Constan and Jach, the Swordarm of Dunstafanage spurred his mount and galloped back the way they had come, his lancers following in a clattering and glinting mass of silver and green that rounded a rocky cliff face and was lost into the waiting vastness of the north. The High King and his First Palëndîn watched them go, and raising their hands once more to the cheering crowd, turned their horses back along the highway and passed between the towers into the lands ruled by the Swan Throne of the Akaëdîn.

Seven days, Constan thought, quickly calculating the leagues marching on ahead. Seven days until we reach Sîlandë, Lightwilling. We have been away for too long.

The southern mouth of the pass was narrower and steeper than its northern end, and the highway broke into a series of switchbacks as it began its slow decent. Wisps of low-lying cloud swept by overhead in the cool mountain air, filtering the sunlight into a rippling golden haze. Jach rode ahead to inspect the riders of the column’s vanguard, and Constan found himself surrounded by a thick knot of Chosen. The veiled knights in sable armor were legendary throughout Thandar, and Constan still felt a boyish sense of awe whenever he was near them. The Chosen were selected from among the finest soldiers of the Phoenix Legion, and they served