The Shattering Sword: Book One of the Red Star Prophecy

By Forrest Taylor

A king doomed by Prophecy...

A warrior haunted by his Past...

And a boy who will become a Legend...

The Shattering Sword:
Book One of The Red Star Prophecy

There are rumors of a rebellion in Sydia, and a prophecy threatens King Sevak’s reign. In an attempt to stave off the uprising, the king sends his soldiers out into the far reaches of his realm.

In the small village of Sunflower, Attur spends his afternoons watching the king’s Royal Guardsmen. When war calls the soldiers away, Attur is left to sit on his ridge and dream of adventure. Mina is his only solace. She walks with Attur along the river at night, talking of what their future holds. One night they return to find raiders in Sunflower, and Attur is struck down as he tries to protect Mina. He wakes to find Mina missing and his parents murdered.

A legendary warrior, revered by some and feared by all, drifts through Sunflower. Attur, now alone and without direction, joins the warrior on his journey, leaving behind the only life Attur has ever known, determined to find Mina. He soon learns that he is part of a prophecy, one that calls for the death of King Sevak. While his homeland moves closer to the brink of civil war, Attur must accept his destiny, or fight his future.

For more information, please visit www.theshatteringsword.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 18, 2002
• ISBN: 9781465321664

Forrest Taylor

Forrest Taylor lives with his family in Northeast Florida.

Book preview

THE

SHATTERING

SWORD

BOOK ONE OF THE RED STAR

PROPHECY

FORREST TAYLOR

Copyright © 2002 by Forrest Taylor.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 04/01/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Part I Sunflower

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

Part II The Blackheart

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

Part III War is Coming

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

69

70

71

72

73

74

75

76

77

78

79

80

81

82

83

84

85

86

87

88

Epilogue

For Hap

and Sue

PROLOGUE

Mascar leaned against the mantle, stared into the fire. Asilla’s face flashed in his mind, the whisper of a memory that had long ago lost all traces of human flaw. She was even more beautiful now, in the echoes of his memory, a porcelain goddess with bright green eyes and dark curls of hair that framed her perfect face.

There were so many other things Mascar should have been focused on . . . He tried in vain to deny the memory of Asilla, but she always forced her way in.

Your Grace. A voice called to Mascar from somewhere outside his memory.

Mascar, the voice, this time with more resolve, came again.

Mascar turned to find his general standing before him. Jon of Nesbitt, he said earnestly. Come in, come in!

Are you well, Sire?

The general, ever so perceptive . . . Was it mawkishness he sensed in Mascar’s countenance, or the pain that pulsed behind a king’s ineffectual façade?

Asilla, Mascar said. She loved her fires.

Jon smiled, forced.

She would sit here for hours, watching the flames. Sometimes she would read or-- A wave of pain stopped Mascar, forced his eyes shut.

My lord!

Mascar sensed Jon move toward him. The king held up his hand, halted the general.

The pain abated. Mascar opened his eyes, looked upon Jon through a veil of tears. I’m all right, Jon.

A lie. He was far from all right. Mascar could, in fact, deal with the memory of his dead wife. The constant pain inside his head was another matter. Mascar rubbed his forehead, squeezed his temples with thumb and forefinger. If only he could wring out the pain.

Such folly.

She enjoyed the little things, Jon. Mascar sighed. I miss my wife.

We all miss the queen, Sire.

Not like I do.

It is time, Your Majesty, Jon said.

Yes . . . yes, of course. Mascar had nearly slipped back into stupor. He crossed the room, placed his hand on Jon’s shoulder. Send word to the Guardians. I shall call upon the oracle.

Yes, Sire. Jon bowed, turned, and left the room.

As he watched the general go, Mascar brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. His hand lingered there; he could almost feel the pain pulsing beneath. It was as if a snake-–a constrictor--had found a way inside his head, wrapped itself around his mind, and now lay waiting . . .

He left the study, pausing at his reflection in the hallway mirror. Let it begin, he said aloud.

As if you have a choice.

It was a tired old man that answered Mascar from the mirror. Age had burrowed into his skin, gray had salted his black hair. Mascar eyed the image with contempt for a moment before leaving the mirror to haunt someone else.

As he made his way through the castle, Mascar’s thoughts drifted to impending war. It loomed on the horizon, an ominous dusk that signaled the end of the fleeting days of peace in his kingdom of Sydia. Mascar would welcome war, for he would then be able to channel his grief into rage once more, just as he had when seeking vengeance for the death of his queen.

Never would he have believed that he would long for the days of old, when the tribes of Sul, Baq-Tu, and Vurgals laid siege to Sydia. Seven long years it had taken to defeat the allied bands of savages--the Red Triangle. Red for the bloodshed that followed them, Triangle for their position on the map--a natural border of evil flanking Sydia to the north, west, and south.

Mascar felt a great swell of pride in his chest, for it was his army that had finally rid the kingdom of the murderous threat and ended the Red War, just ten short years ago. Mascar of Aegland, First King of Sydia, had defeated the Red Triangle once, and if a second Red War was what the savages wanted, he would gladly give it to them. He would again drive back the devils that wished to rob him of his crown.

Some men say it was Asilla’s death that drove you to victory.

Mascar slowly nodded to himself, agreeing with the voice in his head. It had been bitter rage that filled Mascar’s heart, and where grief had tried to take root, revenge had been the weed that refused to grant it purchase.

Mascar sighed. He did not care what men said. They were not at the battleground outside Handel More, when Mascar had received word that Asilla had died. They had not seen him after the battle, crying in his tent like a child, bathed in the blood of a thousand men.

When the savages were at last defeated, the glowing embers of hate had died away, and the hollow shield of revenge had turned to dust. Mascar returned to a castle without a queen, and to a son without a mother.

But from where this time, mighty Mascar, will you draw your strength?

Mascar began to answer the voice, but pain stopped him. The snake . . . Mascar bent at the waist, fearing for a moment that his knees would buckle. There was a ringing between his ears and his stomach felt light, as if it might rise into his throat. Mascar took several deep breaths, waited until the pain and the ringing subsided enough for him to stand straight. He took two slow, careful steps, making sure his legs were steady enough before moving on through the corridor.

He stopped at Sevak’s room. The young prince was asleep. Careful not to wake him, Mascar eased into the room and stood over his son, watching the boy who would one day be king. Mascar leaned over, brushed the brown rings of sweat-soaked hair from Sevak’s warm brow, and kissed him softly on the forehead.

It seems like only days ago Asilla told me you were to have a sibling, Mascar whispered. Not to be. He took a deep breath. Not to be.

Mascar left Sevak’s room, made his way beneath the castle using stairways he had had built and tunnels that had been carved into the earth long before his time. Four Guardians, their deformed faces hidden behind masks of twisted leather, stood waiting for him at the base of the last set of stairs. The Guardians, neither man nor beast, were all the more menacing in the flickering light cast by their torches. Their massive frames rocked slowly back and forth as they looked from Mascar to the tunnel behind them and back again. Each bowed to Mascar before turning to lead him into the shadows, their torches carving out a path through the darkness.

The air beneath the gulf was thick with moisture, and their trudging echoed through the black. Soon the ground beneath Mascar grew sodden; water slithered in through any fissure it could find. Every sound, every smell, and every step reminded Mascar that he was in a place never touched by the sun.

The Guardians stopped well before light from the Dark Hall bled into the tunnel. Their heads swiveled on thick necks, searching the shadows for threat. Mascar would have sensed their fear, had it not been writ so clearly in their wild eyes.

He moved past them into the illuminated cavern. Once on the other side, he immediately heard the serpents in the shadows, felt their insidious gaze upon him. Mascar ignored those things watching him, crossed the grotto toward the small opening on the far side.

He contemplated the Light illuminating the Dark Hall. It had no detectable source, and in the underworld, a world without luminosity, it should have brought warmth instead of the chill that traversed his skin whenever he approached this place. It was the shadows, however, not the Light, one needed to worry with.

He ducked through the small portal leading into her den. Hissing snakes slithered away from his feet. Rodents squealed their alarms. Shadows quivered above. The room, as always, was alive.

The oracle sat with her back to him, closer to one of her fires than Mascar himself would have dared. He could feel the intense heat on his face from across the room. How did she tolerate it?

Welcome, King Mascar, she said.

You send word of a prophecy?

You are direct, my good king.

The prophecy involves my son?

The oracle stood, her head tilting as if not attached to her neck, and stared at Mascar from behind matted hair. Her face had once held beauty--Mascar had known of that beauty, perhaps better than any man--yet she had seen a great many seasons, and her powers had not been kind to her appearance.

That worries you, yes? she asked, the s at the end of her sentence slithering off her tongue.

The room grew warmer, the shadows longer, darker. Mascar steadied himself, shifting his weight onto the balls of both feet. Of course it worries me. Speak to me of your foresight.

Your time is short, my good king. How is your head?

Mascar stopped himself from reaching up to his temple.

She noticed the hint of movement and smiled beneath her veil of hair. She pointed to his face. More pain to come for you, I think.

I thought your prophecy spoke of Sevak?

Sevak shall be king, and his reign you would be proud of.

Mascar lowered his head, and the witch was beside him, and behind him. He stepped away from her, catching a glimpse of her face--speckled with dark marks like the reptiles with which she shared the cave.

Sadly, you will not breathe to see it, she said. But, then again, if you were to live, he would not be king.

Her hair swung over her cheeks, and she was again hidden. The Great Sword will be lost--you cannot stop it. Shattered, taken by three enemies--the Red Triangle.

Without order or approval, Mascar’s right hand moved over the Sword at his side, closed tightly around the hilt. The oracle circled him, studying the Great Sword, symbol of Sydian unity and power. Mascar’s head began to swim.

Sevak will be fearless--a warrior king, like you before him. He will spill the blood of his enemies, and take back the Great Sword . . . forge it again.

She walked away from Mascar, slithered onto a half-charred table, and rested her head on an outstretched arm. Power will corrupt King Sevak, though. The gods will seek . . . him . . . out.

Her yellowed eyes closed, and her breathing slowed as if asleep.

Mascar slammed his fist onto the table. Why do you bother me with this, woman?

The startled witch sprang from atop the table, disappeared into the darkness above. Flames rose higher, the fires grew warmer still, and yet the shadows deepened. The room began to hiss.

If I am to die, what can I do for my son? Mascar asked, searching the shadows. She was climbing, her back against the wall, high enough so that she looked down on him.

But you can do for your son, she said, clinging to the rocks behind her. There will be four born, to fulfill the prophecy. All under the same sign--on the night of the Red Star’s heliacal rising. You shall know them.

I must kill the children? Mascar asked.

Harm the children you must not, for the gods would rain down terror upon you. Wipe your seed from existence, they would.

I grow tired of your prattle, Mascar growled. I can have you dead long before my time comes.

King Mascar, I can read the pain upon your face, the oracle said. It almost seemed as if she was taunting him.

Has she cursed me? Put the pain in my head herself?

The snake . . .

Constrictor.

It wasn’t the first time the thought had entered his mind.

You have grown tired, she said, her voice suddenly full of compassion, as if she sensed his thoughts. I can help you. Send the children away, the four. Far, far away. My changelings will watch over them.

If I send them away, why the need for changelings? Mascar asked.

No answer came for some time. Sweat beaded across Mascar’s brow. The oracle’s silence intensified the sounds of things that scurried and crawled and slithered about the lair.

The four will seek each other out.

Mascar tried to follow the voice back to its source, but he had again lost her in the shadows. How do we keep them from finding each other?

There are ways, my good king. She was on her hands and knees on the ceiling, crawling about as if it were the ground Mascar walked upon. My power is far reaching, if need be. Not strong enough to save you, though, from the pain inside your head.

She was taunting him again.

Trejan walked with Waitkus through the castle, the rhythmic thumping of their boot heels echoing through the hall like a talent-less drummer boy struggling to keep a beat. They strode past the paintings of the Fathers of Sydia, great warriors from Aegland who had crossed the Darvyan Sea to forge a new nation. And forge a new nation they had, side by bloody side with King Mascar.

Trejan had not been old enough to join the Guard when the Red Triangle first made war with Sydia. He had always longed for the day when he could test his mettle against the savages. Perhaps this mission would provide the opportunity.

I’m nervous, Waitkus said, interrupting Trejan’s thoughts. You nervous?

I wonder if my portrait will someday adorn a wall in this castle, Trejan said, ignoring Waitkus’ question.

Waitkus shifted his gaze from Trejan to the nearby painting of Urstel the Conqueror.

Curious, Trejan lied. He was nervous, though he saw no sense in admitting it.

What?

I am curious, Trejan said again. Not nervous.

Curious, huh?

We’re good, you and I, Trejan said. Soldiers, I mean.

And? Waitkus asked.

I figure this is our reward.

For what? Getting caught with a girl in the barracks?

Trejan stopped. I told you, Waitkus, that was not my fault.

Waitkus took a few more steps before turning to face his friend. Maybe not, but it was damned and sure your idea!

Trejan stared at Waitkus with mock contempt, only for a moment able to suppress a smile. Yeah, he said, I guess it was.

Waitkus waited for Trejan to reach his side before continuing down the hall.

Still, though, Trejan said, "You were drunk."

Not a rarity, Waitkus answered.

They descended the wide stairway that led into the east foyer, then walked out into the bailey. The rising sun was bright in the morning sky; it warmed Trejan’s face briefly before he walked into the long shadows cast by the stable buildings. A cobblestone path wound through the gardens, eventually giving way to the soft gray sands of the stables. Trejan touched a blood-colored rose as he passed the last of the bushes, leaving the flower dancing in his wake and his hand wet from the cool morning dew.

Rusk and Justim had arrived at the stables ahead of Trejan and Waitkus and were already saddling their horses.

Mornin’ Waitkus said as he walked past his fellow soldiers. Neither Justim nor Rusk returned the pleasantry, which did not seem to bother Waitkus. It certainly did not surprise Trejan, for both Justim and Rusk were gruff in demeanor. If not for the levity Trejan and Waitkus provided, the four of them would have made for a sullen lot.

Trejan fixed his gaze on Rusk, who stared back from under a furrowed brow and thick, black eyebrows. He looked angry, as he always did.

Gentlemen, Trejan said, looking away from Rusk long enough to nod at Justim, who returned the gesture.

Rusk simply stared at Trejan. We wait for General Nesbitt, he finally said, turning back to his horse.

Trejan looked to Waitkus, who had paused, saddle in hand, long enough to listen to what Rusk had to say. He shrugged, tossed the saddle up onto his horse’s back.

Trejan walked slowly through the stables, looking over his lot of horses and wondering what business they had riding with General Nesbitt. They had been promoted, at least in terms of responsibility. Not everyone was afforded the privilege of riding with Nesbitt, a man who, in addition to commanding the most powerful army in the world, was said to be one of the king’s closest friends.

With the buzz of excitement in his belly, Trejan chose from his lot of horses a white-muzzled mare named Face, short for White-Face. He walked Face outside to where the others were saddling their mounts.

What are our orders? Trejan asked of Justim.

To wait for General Nesbitt, Rusk answered brusquely. He tightened the cinch around his horse’s belly, causing the dun to take an uneasy sidestep.

Trejan glanced sharply at him, but Rusk did not meet his gaze. It was a bad sign when Rusk was able to annoy him so early in the day. Trejan knew better than to let Rusk get to him, but he would not be talked to in such a manner. Rusk shared rank with Trejan, and being fortunate enough to receive an order directly did not grant him the right to treat Trejan as a subordinate.

His disposition remains, Waitkus said, pausing to tighten the cinch, unchanged. A disarming smile crept across his face as he stepped away from his horse.

Trejan forced a smile in return, largely in an effort to calm himself. If he fought with Rusk every time the brooder said something surly, Trejan would have to make a career out of pugilism rather than soldiering.

It was then Rusk turned to look at them, saw their smiles. I wonder if you will find the situation so amusing, Rusk said, when General Nesbitt informs you of our task.

Trejan felt the smile fade from his face. He had not entertained the idea that the mission might be one he ought refuse. Rusk was always uptight; his apprehension had occasionally been warranted.

Trejan ruminated on the subject while saddling Face, and the possible purpose of their mission continued to dominate his thoughts as he checked his gear. Several times Trejan had to re-check something because he was so deep in thought he forgot what he had or had not inspected. Years of preparation gave one the ability to do certain tasks, like checking your gear, automatically, but even the most seasoned soldiers preached the values of attention to detail.

What if it was an assassination? Trejan had yet to kill a man, though he had seen death enough to wonder what it would be like to extinguish the life of another. The closest he had come had been in Le Mornada, when a group of rogue Vurgals had attacked an outlying village, killing twelve men. The Vurgals had beheaded the victims, leaving the heads on tall pikes outside the village to signal they would return. Trejan had been part of the group assembled to hunt down the raiders, which they did, two days north of Le Mornada at the base of the Black Mountains. The Vurgals were promptly hanged, but Trejan had no part in that. He had merely served as a sentinel at the rear of the detachment. The image of those severed heads, all bloated and covered with flies, was one he had never forgotten. He also carried with him still the memory of the hung Vurgals; their necks had been stretched to such a point that Trejan would not have believed it had he not seen it with his own eyes.

A sentry arrived, but the only word he brought was an order to ready General Nesbitt’s horse, a task Rusk readily accepted. The general arrived moments later but proved as uninformative as everyone else. It was obvious something weighed on Nesbitt, perhaps the gravity of their task, but he refused to grant insight as to what it was. The lone order given was to follow him. You will be informed of our task once outside Federal, he said.

Two of the king’s advisors joined their small squad in the outer ward, and together they waited in silence as the drawbridge was lowered. They then rode across the ramp, out of the capital city.

You did it, Desrei! Tru held his son high, looking over the newborn from the bottom of his tiny feet to the gleaming top of his head, awash in slick waves of dark hair. Tru’s face felt as if it might burst from his smile as he turned to his wife. You did it.

Desrei smiled as well, though Tru could sense the pain beneath. We did it, she said.

Tru kissed his son’s forehead, tasting the salt of childbirth on his skin, and it was with more than a bit of reluctance that he handed the infant over to the midwife, Quinza. He stared after Quinza for a moment as she went about the business of cleaning his son.

Tru turned back to Desrei. She was watching Quinza work as well, but her eyelids sat low over her eyes. She fought to keep them open. Tru kissed her forehead. We did it.

The Nex River snaked down through the mountains, its flowing waters providing a hum loud enough that Trejan could hear it over their horses. Occasionally a creature would scurry off in the darkness, warned well in advance by the sounds of the soldiers’ approach. Here and there a trickling or a splash, probably where a rock or downed tree tried to impede the river’s progress, but aside from that, Raybon Gap was quiet.

The day had started hot, up through the mountains, as the midday sun baked their backs. Their descent on the shadow side was in the face of a stiff wind, and Trejan was then as cold as he had been hot. As they picked their way down through alternating patches of forest and rock, the sun set somewhere behind them, though dusk reached them long before.

When they were a cable or so from level ground, bells rang in the distance. Trejan at first thought it was an alarm of some sort, but slowly discerned the source of the sound were cymbalums. He lifted his hand to the back of his ear, cupped it so that he might extend the range of his hearing.

Hear something? Waitkus asked.

Ignoring him, Trejan squinted into the distance, concentrating just a bit more than was necessary. He prided himself on being able to hear things before anyone else. His eyesight and sense of smell were also better than most, though at the moment he could not catch a whiff of smoke or glimpse of flickering firelight.

Cymbalums, Trejan said. And rebecs. Festival, perhaps.

How far? Waitkus asked.

Not sure. I can hear laughter, though. And voices.

General Nesbitt led them to a ridge providing both a view into and cover from the valley below. Atop the ridge one needed not tremendous sight to see the bonfires, and their drifting smoke was thick headed skyward. Men, women, and children danced together around the fires. In the distance a group played the instruments Trejan had heard. A group of boys shoved one of their own toward a crowd of girls. Exposed and alone, the boy sheepishly approached the girls, who were no doubt giggling as only girls could. After a few moments of pawing at the ground with his foot and looking back to his friends for encouragement, the boy held out his hand to one of the girls. She put her hand in his and allowed him to escort her toward the fires. They fell in line with the group of dancers and the other boys, inspired by their friend’s success, approached the girls as a group.

Trejan found himself smiling. It was interesting at first, watching the nameless town celebrate the rising of the Red Star. But it was not half the fun of being there. The festival in Federal was no doubt in full swing. It had been weeks since their departure and upon leaving Trejan had not considered missing the celebration.

Let us get this over with.

Trejan kept glancing at Nesbitt, hoping the order would come, but the general simply stared into the valley. His attention did not seem to be on the festival--was he searching the cottages?

Hours passed. The revelry took its time to die down, but music and laughter were finally quelled by wine and fatigue. Still, the general waited.

The last fires were put out, and moon and star lit the night enough so that the smoke could still be seen, drifting gray against the dark blue sky. Another hour passed before General Nesbitt finally stood.

There, he said, pointing past where the festival had taken place. Of the meager cottages that lined the valley, only one still held light.

Finally.

Following the general’s lead, they mounted their horses and rode down into the valley. Nervous as he was, Trejan still felt the power derived from a collection of men and steel and horses moving together as one. Five entities in unison became thunder, bringing a quietus in black.

This was, of course, excluding the advisors. None of the soldiers--not even Nesbitt, Trejan surmised--viewed the advisors as part of their detachment. They were necessary evils, but definitely not working soldiers.

Nesbitt led the way, followed closely by the advisors, and then Rusk and Justim. Trejan and Waitkus brought up the rear, riding just above the dust swirling in the wake of the lead horses.

The black water of the Nex, glittering under the light of moon and star, was soon before them. Nesbitt’s horse was first into the river. The others followed close behind. Water splashed up and rained down around them, looking very much like diamonds in the ethereal moonlight.

Trejan fell even farther to the back, waiting for Waitkus to reach the river’s middle before entering. Face was not the best horse in water; Trejan cursed himself for selecting her. The horse had panicked on him once before, nearly drowning both of them in the Canundris River.

Waitkus’ horse was struggling up the sandy beach on the far side when the river reached Trejan’s boots. The cold water barely splashed his knees at its deepest point, and he crossed without incident.

Waitkus waited for him on the far bank, turning his horse to follow the others once Trejan was across.

Waitkus, Trejan called after him.

What? Waitkus asked, turning his horse back around. The silver mare grew impatient, wanting to follow the others or be rid of the river, or both.

Do you fear what we must do?

Afraid? Waitkus asked with a laugh. The mighty Trejan Farmer is afraid?

Not afraid of what we will encounter. Not tonight, anyway. Trejan looked back across the river. It was the next night he feared, and the night after that. He would not think twice to slash the life from a sleeping enemy soldier, but it was becoming evident no such foe awaited them on this night.

Come on, Waitkus said, spurring his horse after the others.

Quinza, Tru said as he approached the midwife.

I know what you will say, good sir, and I thank you for your concern, but I will stay the night. She looked up from the fire she was stoking, tucked a strand of her black hair behind her ear. If you permit, of course.

It is late--

And there is still much work to be done. Take this time with your family. She smiled, patted him on the arm. Your new family.

Tru smiled in return. You drive a hard bargain, Quinza.

She handed him a rag, cooled with clean water. See to your wife.

Tru returned to the bed and with the dampened cloth wiped away the sheen of sweat from Desrei’s forehead. Their child’s cries had silenced, and mother and son slept, both worn from the journey into life.

The door ruptured inward. Splinters flooded the room, wood and dust everywhere in an instant. Quinza and Desrei screamed, their voices coming together as one.

Two soldiers leapt through the opening.

Tru stood, stepped in front of the bed. The soldiers’ uniforms . . . Were they Royal Guardsmen?

The men looked Tru over, then glanced at the midwife. For a moment it was quiet. Tru’s son began to cry.

The dark-haired soldier looked down at the child. He motioned to the other man, who then approached the bed. Tru grabbed his arm, and the soldier spun to face him.

Something tore at Tru’s stomach, cold at first, then searing heat. The skin at the small of his back stretched before being torn. He looked down--a sword was buried to the hilt in his belly.

The soldier ripped the sword from Tru’s stomach. The corner of the bed passed through his grasp, and Tru fell to his knees, then onto his side. He must have pulled one of the blankets down on top of him, for the world went dark. He fought for breath as he struggled with the blanket, unable to find the strength to pull it from his face.

Tru’s son was crying again. Someone screamed. Was it Desrei?

Desrei.

I love you, Tru said with his last breath.

Trejan stepped through the open portal, stumbled over the downed door. He quickly regained his balance, stepped off the door onto the dirt floor. He tried to take stock of his surroundings, but Rusk’s pained grunt demanded all his attention.

Rusk recoiled from a woman holding a long black blade out in front of her, trying to protect her child. She swung the blade back and forth, screaming and crying and slinging drops of blood all over herself, her child, and Rusk. The same blood formed a straight red line from Rusk’s forehead to his chin.

As he stepped back from the bed, Rusk covered his face with his right hand. He inspected the hand, covered in his own blood. Rusk, one of his eyes bathed in the blood, glanced quickly at Trejan.

The midwife jumped at Rusk from behind, swinging at him a crude brown jug. She missed with the jug, and Justim caught her by the wrist with his left hand. He plunged his sword into her stomach with his right hand, withdrew it as she fell. The woman landed with a dull thud.

Rusk wrenched the infant from its mother’s arms, blood dripping from his face onto the child. The woman briefly caught hold of Rusk’s jacket, but he spun away from her, nearly dropping the child.

Trejan could feel the color leaving his face. A sick, cool paleness crept over his skin, and his stomach lurched into his throat.

Rusk might have sensed that Trejan was growing ill, for he gave the child to Waitkus even though Trejan was closer.

Here, Rusk said. Take the child!

With much trepidation, Waitkus took the infant. He then turned to Trejan for instruction, received none. He stared at Trejan for a moment, then stepped onto the door and hurried out of the cottage.

The mother struggled to get out of bed, trying to fling back the covers and pull herself up at the same time. Rusk shoved her back onto the bed so hard the woman’s nightshirt flew up, exposing her naked bottom-half and still-swollen stomach. She kicked her feet in the air as Rusk worked at her throat with his knife.

The woman suddenly stopped kicking. Rusk turned away from her, blood still dripping from the blade of his knife and the tip of his chin.

I must be away from this place.

Trejan put one boot, then the other, on the downed door, using the doorframe for balance. He exited slowly, and with each step the contents of his stomach crept farther into his throat. When Trejan’s boots touched the ground outside, Waitkus was giving the crying baby up to Nesbitt.

Rusk, the left side of his face now entirely covered in his own blood, shoved Trejan out of his way. The advisors watched Rusk’s bloody face with apprehensive horror--they had seen nothing like it.

Burn the cottage, Nesbitt ordered. He urged his horse toward the small dwelling, tossed his torch onto the straw roof.

The advisors were the only others holding torches, but they made no move toward the house.

Do it, Nesbitt scowled at them.

One of the advisors offered his torch to Trejan. He-here, he stuttered, take mine.

They wanted nothing more to do with the mission, and neither did Trejan, but he could not refuse the general’s order. He took the torch, threw it into the already spreading fire atop the roof. Justim took the remaining torch and did the same. The small dwelling caught fast.

Get on your horse, Trejan, Waitkus said as he climbed into the saddle.

Who were those people?

Trejan!

Trejan climbed onto his horse and followed Waitkus into the night.

Mascar and Jon Nesbitt followed the Guardians to the Dark Hall, where they, as usual, stopped at what they considered a safe distance. Mascar stepped past them without hesitation; Jon followed him.

Mascar halted Jon at the opening. I must go alone.

Jon gave the infant over to Mascar, and the king entered the Hall.

Ignoring the shadows and things that lurked there, Mascar hurried across the Hall and entered the oracle’s den.

She had been anticipating his arrival; she hid not in the shadows this time. The oracle stared at Mascar through her tangled web of hair. Bring me the child.

The oracle pushed hissing snakes off a stone slab, gently laid the child atop it. From a burlap sack she produced what appeared to be a brown leather strap, slid it under the infant’s neck. The strap, like the snakes she kept, slithered in the witch’s grasp. She released the strap, and it closed around the boy’s neck to form a collar. The collar shimmered once, then went void of movement.

Mascar watched the child, waiting for it to cry out in pain, but the infant showed no signs of discomfort.

The oracle turned to the shadows at the back of her cave. Come, Lloqui, she said. Up from the shadows!

A figure twice Mascar’s size moved in the darkness; two black shadows in the form of monstrous wings spread in opposite directions, engulfing the walls of the cave with their enormity. One of her changelings.

The shadows trifled with Mascar’s vision, for the changeling seemed to shrink as it entered the light. By the time the creature reached the oracle, it appeared human. Aside from the gray nictitating lenses covering the changeling’s eyes, giving it the blank, dull stare of a day old corpse, the creature wore the façade of man.

The oracle gave the infant to the changeling. Take him far away, Lloqui, she said. You are the watcher.

The changeling briefly looked down at the child, and when it again lifted its gaze, the gray was gone from its eyes.

PART I

Sunflower

1

Malik, Irl said with a smile, recognizing him for the first time. It has been a while since your last patronage.

Aye, Malik said. It has been a while.

Ale?

Mulled, if you have it.

The thin barkeep filled a blackjack and slid it down the bar toward Malik. He opened his hand and halted the blackjack’s slide. Foam slopped over the edge, ran down over his scarred fingers. He kept his eyes on the blackjack in an attempt to avoid conversation with the barkeep, for Malik was in no mood to talk. It pleased him when Irl walked off without trying to stoke the fire of meaningless palaver.

Malik turned the blackjack up and swallowed a hearty gulp of the warm ale.

Trejan Farmer?

The voice was strangely familiar, and the words stuck in his back, sharp as any Sul dagger. Malik pursed his lips against the rim of the jug as he listened to the silence falling upon the Dead-Eye Inn.

He lowered the blackjack onto the bar, doing his best to look disinterested. He glanced toward the voice and knew immediately there was going to be trouble.

A short, stump of a man in a yellow tunic approached without hesitation. Through a wide smile the man said, Trejan Farmer! It is you! The man’s sweaty palm fell on Malik’s shoulder. Thank the Lord of Our Days I’ve found you!

Malik looked menacingly at the man’s hand. I do not know the man you speak of. Remove your hand or you will leave here without it.

The man stepped back from the bar, his jaw open wide enough to put a fist through, which might not have been a bad idea.

But, Trejan, it’s me--Kraus, he said.

My name is Malik, and there are people in these parts that speak of Trejan Farmer as they would the Dark Queen. Mind your tongue, or you may join her.

Malik finished off the ale and pushed the blackjack towards Irl. Fill it.

A gold coin followed the order, bouncing across the bar and landing against the blackjack.

Th-this is ridiculous, Kraus persisted. Trejan--

The back of Malik’s hand cut the man’s voice off with a slap. Kraus’ head snapped back, blood and spit spewed from his thick jowls. His feet came off the wooden floor. His shoulders struck the ground before anything else.

Damn you, fat man! Malik pushed away from the bar and stood over Kraus, sword naked in hand. I will separate that considerable head of yours from your shoulders!

The threat was empty, the sword not drawn against Kraus, but against the other men in the tavern, for every man knew the name Trejan Farmer. Fortunately, few knew his face, for in every tavern in every city or village there were men who would challenge him, seeking either notoriety or revenge, driven by hatred or potvaliancy. It was bad luck running into Kraus in a place as seedy as the Dead-Eye in a town as perilous as Brodla.

Kraus cowered