Blood of the Gods

By Thomas Storm

After the destructive aftermath of the Siege of Karalis, Trystan of the Blade's name is whispered in hushed awe across the five realms of Varkuvia, but Trystan pays no mind to the bards that spin tales of his heroics. A new threat has arisen in the east, one more powerful than even Trystan can contend with, and time is quickly running out before it will consume everything in its path. Knowing the lives of their people hang in the balance, the Five Kings devise a dangerous plan that can cost them everything or, hopefully, give them the edge they need in the inevitable war to come. Trystan and his closest companions in the Order of Acrium find themselves once more thrust into the heart of danger. The fate of the realms rests on the edges of their blades. They must either emerge victorious or watch everything they cherish burned to ash. Blood of the Gods is a tale of endless courage, intricate characters, sorrow, magic, and treachery, for when the descendants of the gods return to claim what's rightfully theirs, no one is safe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641385527

Book preview

Prologue

Five years before the siege of Karalis

The smell of spring floated on the crisp morning breeze. Sunflowers dotted the rolling green hills, and dandelions drifted lazily through the air. Beneath the boughs of a blossoming willow tree, father and son circled each other. The clacking of wooden swords crashing against one another splintered the peaceful spring morning. White petals floated from the hanging branches, landing softly in a small pond of murky water.

Tibault blocked a lunge with his wooden sword, his son stumbling past him. Footwork, boy, he admonished. How many times must I tell you?

Recovering quickly, his son spun around with wooden sword raised, undeterred by his blunder. Tibault masked his soaring pride behind a reassuring smile. Approaching his twelfth name-day, Mykel was already showing signs of a promising swordsman. His reflexes were astonishing for his age, and his strength far exceeded his thin physique. Puberty will add weight to his frame, observed Tibault, and growing a few more inches will increase his reach. Then he will rival even the best swordsmen.

His son lunged once more. Tibault smacked aside the wooden sword and whacked the boy on the side of his head. Footwork, he said again. The power of the lunge should come from the weight of your back foot. There you go, he praised, blocking a better attempt.

After an hour of practice, Tibault took a step back, raising his wooden sword in front of him. Mykel raised his as well, acknowledging the end of sparring. Tibault walked over to his son, clasping him on the shoulder. You are improving every day, he said. Soon enough, you will be the one giving me the lessons.

Mykel rubbed at his sore shoulders, sweat dripping from his face. Must the swords be this heavy? he complained. I can barely lift my arms.

Drawing his son close, Tibault ruffled his hair playfully. They are as heavy as they need to be. Give it a few more weeks, and you will see it pay off. Your agility will increase, and the muscles of your arms and shoulders will strengthen considerably. Then that sword will feel like a feather in your hand.

Ripping off his sweat-drenched shirt, Tibault walked over to the small pond and knelt down at the water’s edge. Cupping his hands, he splashed the refreshing water on his broad face and thick arms, washing away the dirt and grime covering his body. He watched the water cascade down his hairy chest, his eyes straying to the many pale scars that crisscrossed his upper body. Twenty-five years ago, he had enlisted as an infantryman in the army of the Stone Realm. He had fought multiple skirmishes against the tribesmen raiding along the borders and had fought in two pitched battles against the vicious Argarians of the Storm Islands. His many scars were testament that he was a man to meet his enemies head-on, not giving an inch of ground.

His superior officer had begged him to enter the trials to be inducted into the Order of Acrium, but Tibault politely refused him every time he asked. He was content as a simple soldier, sharing in the camaraderie with brothers-in-arms he knew for years. After his twelve-year contract expired, he collected his pension with his meager tract of land. He then traveled west and settled down in the small town of Yaros in the Wood Realm, under the protection of the righteous King Eryk. Taking up occupation as a logger, he fell in love with his present wife, Katelyna.

In the thirteen years that followed, Tibault experienced a joy he did not know was possible. Not normally a sentimental man, he still remembered the raw emotion that threatened to overwhelm him the first time he held his son in his arms. From the second he laid eyes on Mykel, he had loved him, and he would continue to love him until the day he passed from this world. Mykel, and his ten-year-old daughter, Kara, were his pride and joy, and he spent every free moment possible with them. Looking up through the branches of the willow tree, Tibault saw that midday was passing them by.

After quickly rinsing his dirty clothing off in the pond, he threw back on his wet shirt and walked over to Mykel. His son was lying on the ground, kneading the tired muscles of his arms and legs. Come on, lad, said Tibault. It’s time to be heading home.

Father and son walked side by side back to the town of Yaros, the miles flying by as they chatted amiably during the short journey. As they came within sight of the small cabin they called home, Tibault halted. Let’s say we have a little fun, he said. The first one to make it to the front porch doesn’t have to set the table for supper.

Mykel nodded, his shaggy brown hair falling in front of his eyes. All right, are you ready? Ready. Set. Go! Tibault lightly shoved Mykel’s chest, propelling him backward as he took off toward the cabin.

Mykel screamed his frustration, gamely following on his father’s heels. Chuckling to himself, Tibault slowed down just enough to let his son catch up. His wife, Katelyna, was waiting for them on the front porch with their daughter, Kara, at her side. At the last possible moment, Tibault slowed down even further, allowing Mykel to race past him onto the steps of the porch. Mykel jumped up and down, shouting his triumph.

Catching his breath, Tibault walked up the stairs and knelt in front of his daughter, a straw doll clutched in her childlike hands. How’s my little princess doing today? he asked.

His daughter spun away from him, a sullen look on her face. Confused, Tibault looked to his wife for an answer. Katelyna had put on a little weight in the years since they were married, but her eyes were as vibrant as ever, and her smile still lit up even the darkest of rooms. She shrugged her shoulders. Someone is upset she didn’t learn to use a sword, she whispered.

Is that all? asked Tibault. He turned to Kara. I have an idea. How about next time Mykel and I go to the willow tree, you come with us. How does that sound?

Her face beaming with excitement, Kara gave a smile filled with missing teeth that only the young and elderly should possess. Throwing her tiny arms around Tibault, she hugged him tightly before racing inside the cabin. Chuckling, Tibault turned and kissed his wife upon the lips. What’s for dinner, my dear? he asked.

It’s looking like stewed rabbit tonight, she responded, wrapping her arms around his neck. Though dessert is yet to be decided. A sly wink accompanied the words.

Gross, complained Mykel.

Go inside, instructed Tibault. His son needed no further urging and soon disappeared from sight. The crunching of boots on dirt caught Tibault’s attention, and he turned to see his neighbor, Jarus, walking toward the porch. You head inside too, my darling wife, he told Katelyna. I will be in momentarily.

Katelyna spun from his embrace, moving gracefully toward the front door. Tibault lightly slapped her rear end, causing Katelyna to yelp in response. She turned to blow him a kiss, a devilish look in her eye, and then vanished inside the cabin. Sighing, Tibault turned back toward Jarus, who was just reaching the foot of the porch steps, a wide grin set on his rugged face. With his heavy shoulders and broad chest, Jarus looked every inch the logger he was.

Thinking about making another baby, Tibault? asked Jarus, extending a callused hand.

Tibault gripped the outstretched hand warmly. The thought has crossed my mind a time or two, he said. What can I do for you, Jarus?

Jarus leaned against the railing of the porch. I’ve heard some rather troubling rumors in the last few days. A large group of tribesmen has ventured down from the Northern Woods, invading the Stone Realm. They have already ransacked several villages and routed nearly a thousand infantry sent against them. King Markos has requested for the Order of Acrium to come to his aid. They are being gathered even as we speak.

That is certainly troubling news, agreed Tibault. But it shouldn’t concern us. We are miles away from the border of the Stone Realm.

I was getting to that, continued Jarus. Everyone knows about the deadly reputation of the Order, the tribesmen included. Upon hearing word of their involvement, many small bands of tribesmen broke off and began ravaging the countryside, seeking easier prey. One of those bands struck Merla just the other night. Dozens of homes were put to the torch and many are rumored to be dead or injured.

Tibault tried to keep the shock from his face. Merla was only three days ride from them. I appreciate the warning, he thanked his neighbor. Tonight seems like a good night to sharpen my sword and keep my door barred.

Jarus nodded. As my grandfather always said, ‘When danger is near, sleep with your ax close at hand.’

The two exchanged a few more pleasantries before Jarus bid his farewells. Tibault, his thoughts troubled, watched Jarus move off toward the next house. After some time he moved off into his cabin, setting the locking bar firmly in place behind him. After making sure it was securely in place, he turned to find himself staring into Katelyna’s worried face.

Is everything all right? she asked, concerned.

Just a minor precaution is all, he reassured her. Let’s go eat.

The small family sat around a worn out table of pine, the smell of rabbit thick in the air. The chunks of rabbit were rich with flavor and Tibault downed them with gusto. After draining his mug of ale in a single swallow, Tibault belched loudly. His children giggled in response, while his wife gave him an admonishing look.

Gods, but that feels better, declared Tibault, patting his full belly. He turned to Mykel. Did you tell your mother what you want to be when you grow older?

The boy shifted uncomfortably, his face blushing crimson. Well, what is it? prompted Katelyna.

Mykel pushed his remaining rabbit around his bowl, avoiding the question. I want to join the Order of Acrium, he said, sheepishly.

The boy’s a natural, Tibault chimed in. He has something special, Kat. If he works at it, I really believe he can do it. Can you imagine our son being a warrior in the noble Order of Acrium? If that’s not something to be proud of, then I don’t know what is.

His son smiled at the compliment, though Katelyna’s face showed she wasn’t amused. Have you considered how dangerous that would be? she asked Mykel. The Order only fights the desperate battles others refuse to. Your life would be in constant peril and you might never see us again.

I know that, mama, said Mykel, instantly demure again.

Papa, what’s that? Kara suddenly asked, pointing toward the front window.

Tibault followed his daughter’s finger, looking toward what caught her attention. A soft orange glow punched through the glass of the porch window. Curious, Tibault moved cautiously toward the front of the cabin. Dusk had fallen outside, the sky a deep red mixed with purple. Gazing through the window, the first thing he saw was a home at the edge of Yaros in flames. Dark figures darted in between the buildings. His eyes narrowed.

A woman stumbled into his vision, the look of fear on her normally kind face. Seconds later, a broad shouldered man emerged from the shadows behind her, bearing her to the ground. A cry of helplessness pierced the air. What was that? Katelyna asked, moving behind Tibault.

Take the children upstairs, whispered Tibault, his alert gaze sweeping the outside of the cabin.

The window suddenly exploded inward, shattering glass across the floor. Tibault grabbed Katelyna in a bear hug, shielding her from the flying shards. Something bounced off the floor, landing against Tibault’s foot. He stared down into the vacant eyes of Jarus, the logger’s severed head leaking blood to the floorboards. Kara’s high-pitched scream echoed throughout the cabin. The wooden door of the cabin shook violently, the locking bar almost dislodging out of place. The wood cracked down the center as the action outside the door was repeated.

Get the children upstairs, Tibault told his wife. The wooden door splintered behind him. Now!

Come on kids, Katelyna insisted frantically. Grabbing her children’s hands, she pulled them toward the stairs.

Mykel tore his hand free. Let me help you, father, he said, his face set.

Tibault fought back the tears entering the corner of his vision. Angry voices filtered through the shattered window. Follow your mother upstairs, he commanded, his voice more gruff than he intended.

He watched his wife carry the crying Kara and the protesting Mykel up the stairs. I love you, my family, he whispered. Whirling around, Tibault moved to the secret compartment set into the wall where he kept his sword hidden. Ripping the sword loose of its sheath, he watched as the flames from the burning homes outside played along the length of the cold iron. One final dance, he told the sword.

The hinge holding the locking bar in place suddenly burst from the door frame, bouncing across the floor. The ruined door followed, collapsing with a loud bang. A brute of a man stumbled into the cabin, his close-set eyes scanning the cabin for its inhabitants. His beady eyes locked to the sword held in Tibault’s hand, and then he lumbered forward, the bone ax in his hands swinging behind his head. Tibault ducked under the murderous arc, the ax head carrying on to lodge into the wooden wall. The brute grunted as Tibault’s sword pierced his heart.

Tibault ripped the blade loose, the brute collapsing to his knees. Another tribesman entered the cabin, wearing a fur-trimmed helm. The first thing he saw was the sword clutched in Tibault’s hand, fresh blood dripping from the blade. He hastily moved into the cabin. Tripping over the fallen door, he fell directly into the path of Tibault’s rising sword. The sword entered the man’s jugular, exiting through the back of his neck. Tibault tried to wrench the blade loose, but try as he might, it would not budge.

Flashing metal entered the corner of his vision. Releasing his hold on the hilt of his sword, he swayed backward as a knife ripped through the fabric of his shirt. Grabbing ahold of the wielder’s wrist, he screamed angrily in the man’s face. Swinging him mightily, the knifeman connected sharply with the wall, jarring his shoulder out of place. Ripping the knife from the man’s grasp, Tibault slammed it all the way to the hilt into the knifeman’s temple. He let the body sag to the floor.

Pain erupted from Tibault’s shoulder blade, blood gouting into the air. Screaming in pain, he turned as the tribesman was bringing his arm back to deliver another blow. Tibault kicked the man in between his legs. The tribesman fell to the floor in anguish, his hands holding his groin. Stiffening his fingers, Tibault slammed them into the fallen man’s throat, collapsing his windpipe. The tribesman’s face turned deep purple, his fingers scrabbling at his throat as he tried desperately to take in air. He collapsed sideways.

Agony flowed through Tibault’s shoulder. He gritted his teeth against the pain as four men barged into the cabin. Several others could be seen crowding behind them on the porch beyond. Tibault swallowed his despair and focused on the four in front of him. Each of them carried iron swords and wore the gray fur cloaks of the northern timber wolves.

A heavyset tribesman, standing near the stairs, gazed at the dead bodies spread around Tibault. Kill him, he instructed the others.

The crackling scream of an adolescent boy punctured the air. Mykel leapt from halfway down the stairs, Tibault’s hunting knife clutched in his hand. The heavyset tribesman turned as Mykel slashed the knife toward his face. The blade tore into the tribesman’s cheek, splattering blood across the wall. The tribesman cried out in rage, and before Mykel could make another move, backhanded the boy across the face. Mykel careened sideways, his head bouncing off the wall. He crumpled to the floor and did not move.

Bellowing his fury, Tibault charged into the tribesmen unarmed. Distracted by the sudden attack of Mykel, the first tribesman turned directly into a crushing right cross. He spun through the air, landing heavily on his side. The next tribesman slashed his sword forward. Tibault grabbed the plunging blade, the iron ripping the flesh of his hands to shreds. Ignoring the pain, he dragged the tribesman forward, shattering the man’s nose with a powerful head-butt. Cold steel slid in between his ribs.

Tibault’s face spasmed in pain, blood choking his airway. He spit a mouth full of blood at a tribesman as another sword plunged into his chest. He collapsed to his knees, he eyes fixed on the unmoving body of Mykel. My son, he whispered. A sword chopped into his neck, half-severing it and ending his defiance.

Breathing heavily, the tribesmen surrounded the fallen body of Tibault. Varos, a middle-aged warrior with a bulbous nose, stared at Tibault with admiration in his eyes. He was a tough bastard, he praised.

He’s a dead bastard, snapped Rygel, the heavyset tribesman. His hand clamped to the cut on his cheek, seeking to stem the flow of blood. Kill the runt, loot what you can carry, and torch the place. The sooner we put this town behind us, the better.

Whatever you say, muttered Varos. He moved to the unconscious body of Mykel, hefting his sword. Sorry lad.

Mykel groaned as Varos approached him, his eyes fluttering open. The first thing he saw was the lifeless form of his father, blood drenching his body. Hot tears streamed down his face as a cold rage brewed in the depths of his soul. He heard Varos speak and something deep inside him snapped. Time slowed. Varos’s boot steps reverberated across the floor. He heard the whisper of cloth on cloth as Varos drew his arm back to deliver the killing blow. Mykel rolled at the last second, the sword plunging into the floorboards where Mykel had been moments before.

Rolling to his feet, Mykel found himself face-to-face with Varos. The tribesman met the boy’s unrelenting gaze and reeled back in horror. No longer were Mykel’s pupil’s pearls of black, but had transformed into crosses of blackest night. The other tribesmen laughed at Varos. Scared of a child? jeered Rygel.

Before any of them could react, Mykel ripped the sword from Varos’s grip and plunged it through the tribesman’s heart. Mykel slid the sword clear, letting Varos fall to the ground. The others stood transfixed, staring into the dead eyes of Varos, unable to understand what just happened. Mykel spun on his heels. Winding his arm back, he threw the sword through the air. It lanced through Rygel’s open mouth, flinging him backward.

Scooping his father’s hunting knife off the floor, Mykel darted at the tribesmen. The knife slashed open the throat of a tribesman with a drooping moustache, and then plunged into the light brown eye of another. Finally coming to their senses, the remaining tribesmen rushed forward. Mykel blocked an overhand cut with the hunting knife, and grabbed ahold of another tribesman’s wrist as he attempted a lunge. The power in his grip shattered the bones in the man’s wrist to dust. The tribesman stumbled backward, clutching his broken limb.

Mykel snarled, cutting the Achilles tendon of a tribesman. The haft of an ax suddenly connected with the top of his skull. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as he collapsed face first onto the blood soaked floor. The surviving tribesmen stood warily by, casting nervous glances at one another.

He was a demon, said one.

Are you going to kill him? asked another.

I’m not going to do it, responded the first. He swallowed hard, placing his fist over his heart, the tribal sign to ward off evil spirits. His terrified eyes scanned the dead bodies sprawled across the floor. Demons haunt this place. We should put it to the torch and send the demons back to the underworld.

The others nodded and hurriedly exited the cabin. Moments later, flaming torches came flying through the broken window and open doorway. The flames licked at the wooden walls, black smoke rising toward the ceiling. Within a matter of minutes, the cabin was up in flames, beyond the hopes of salvaging.

Mykel’s eyes slowly opened. His vision swam in and out, blood caking the side of his face. Thick fumes choked his lungs as sweltering heat bathed his face in sweat. Desperate cries of help floated down the stairs, ringing mercilessly in his ears. He desperately tried to push himself to his feet, but his strength abandoned him all at once. Darkness entered the corners of his vision. And then he collapsed to the floor. The flames continued to eat at his home. Before he lost consciousness, he heard a trumpet reverberate somewhere in the distance, followed by the stampeding of horses.

Chapter One

The deck of the wooden cog swayed perilously beneath his feet, causing his grip on the railing to tighten. A wave crashed into the side of the ship, misting his bearded face with the salty spray of the Okhelm Sea. Tumultuous waves danced all around the Blue Mist , rocking the modest trading cog back and forth. A sudden breeze caught in the sail, billowing the canvas outward. The wooden cog picked up speed, slicing through the choppy waves.

Kaleb’s bright blue eyes scanned the vast Okhelm Sea, his furtive gaze searching the horizon for any signs of land. As always, he was met with only open water for as far as the eye could see. Another wave collided with the ship, dousing his shoulder length hair in seawater. Kaleb shook the water loose from his hair as a wet dog would to dry itself off. A shiver ran up his spine. He had only been standing upon the deck for a short period of time, yet his clothing was soaked through.

Iron gray clouds hung in the sky, blocking out any warmth from the sun. I have forgotten what the sun feels like, he thought miserably. He was almost two weeks into his voyage, and he had learned early on that the only weather the north knew was dreary clouds and persistent rain. It doesn’t get much more north than this, he thought sullenly. No, that is not true, he told himself. His focus switched to the northern horizon, and the destination of his journey.

Storms coming in! shouted Grolos, captain of the Blue Mist. He turned to Kaleb. Better get below deck, lad. Wouldn’t want you tumbling overboard.

A jagged bolt of lightning in the distance accompanied the captain’s words, disappearing among the waves. The slow rumbling of thunder issued forth, rolling over the Blue Mist. Kaleb nodded to Grolos, wrapping his damp cloak around his shivering frame. As he moved toward the staircase set beside the mast, he caught sight of Carus, a sour faced sailor with some fifteen years of experience.

Carus halted scrubbing the deck as Kaleb walked by, his head quirking up. That’s it, land rat, scamper away to safety, he said through rotting brown teeth. Wouldn’t want that pretty boy hair of yours getting tussled up.

Kaleb ignored the mocking laughter from the other sailors as he descended the stairs. A lantern swinging precariously below deck connected with his shoulder as he reached the foot of the stairs. He grabbed ahold of the swaying lantern, seeking to steady it. Cursing, he released it immediately, the hot metal burning an imprint into his palm. The sailors laughed at his stupidity, yet another jape they would add to their collection from the past couple of weeks.

Angry with himself, Kaleb stormed to his assigned cabin, pretending not to notice the barely concealed hostility in the stares of the sailors he passed. Fighting down his building anger, he shut the door behind him. This was how it had been since the beginning of the voyage. The sailors hated him for his noble birth, and took every available opportunity to remind him of that hatred. He tore his soggy clothing off, flinging the various garments to the floor. Drying his hair with a linen towel, he sat down roughly upon the edge of a straw filled mattress.

A rat scampered across his foot. Jumping, Kaleb kicked at it wildly, missing wide. The rodent squeaked noisily and bounded out of sight. Images of the rat gnawing at his flesh invaded Kaleb’s thoughts. He leaned back on his mattress and thought of anything else to distract his mind. His bed shifted awkwardly as the Blue Mist was caught by a surging wave. Kaleb’s hand twitched, nausea cramping his stomach painfully. It is not seasickness, he knew as he fought down the sudden discomfort.

Swirling in the depths of Kaleb’s body was a power that relentlessly sought control. It was there when he slept and it was there when he ate. No matter the time of day, it struggled to overwhelm him, to dominate him. It had become a constant battle inside him. And he was slowly losing. His body convulsed, his hand clenching into a fist. Relax, he told himself. Breathe, damn you. He finally calmed down, the feeling passing. He sagged back against the mattress, his heart pounding inside his chest.

The nausea I can deal with, he thought. It was when the head pains assaulted him that he was unable to maintain control. The last attack occurred three weeks ago when he was traveling to the port town of Borso, before booking passage on the Blue Mist. He was camped in a small stand of pine trees, the calm night air full of chirping crickets and hooting owls. A fire was spread out before him, flickering lazily, and he was content for the first time in months. That was when the intense pain had erupted inside his skull, blinding his vision. Blood flowed from his nose, his fingers digging frantically into his scalp. And in that desperate moment of agony, the power inside him surged forward, taking control.

The calm orange flames of his campfire were transformed into sapphire blue, slowly growing in strength. Crackling blue flames rose gradually into the air, swirling unsteadily before him. Kaleb screamed in hopelessness as he lost all sense of control. Flames burst into the air, whipping past Kaleb, devouring everything in sight. The pine needles of the majestic trees went up in flames, the blue fire running up the lengths of their branches. The animals of the woods fled, screaming their terror. Kaleb had lost consciousness, collapsing to the grass as the peaceful stand of pine trees changed into roaring flames of nightmare blue.

He awoke the next morning, his face pressed deep into the grass. A majority of his clothing burned away in the inferno, leaving him with only singed pants, though his skin remained undamaged. Rising to his feet, he saw that only the grass beneath where he had fallen remained unblemished, while the rest was scorched black. An island of green in a sea of desolation. His eyes swept the destruction he had caused, his gaze resting on several charred bodies of birds, rabbits, and other various woodland creatures. The smoldering pine trees were blackened through, their tops looking like tar covered spear points. A smoking branch cracked and fell to the ground beside the stunned noble. Tears streamed down Kaleb’s ash covered face. A place of serenity and life was ruined because he could not learn to control the destructive force vying for supremacy inside him.

It was not the only incident the power had taken over. Nearly two months ago, during the daring rescue of Prince Leon from the Bale Fort, his powers were revealed for the first time. This new discovery had allowed Kaleb, and those accompanying him, to spirit the prince away, but it wasn’t until the race back to Karalis that the full extent of his power was realized.

They had been within sight of the fortress city of Karalis, the pursuing tribesmen right on their heels. Kaleb’s mount, exhausted near to death, collapsed beneath him, flinging him hard to the ground. He came to his knees, staring incomprehensibly at the tribesmen bearing down upon him. His companion, the swordsman Trystan, rode back and attempted to aid him, but Trystan could not possibly understand the power heaving inside Kaleb. That was when the unrelenting head pain had assailed Kaleb, and he unleashed the full fury of his power upon the harassing tribesmen. Over one hundred men were consigned to the fiery bowels of the underworld, and Kaleb slipped into peaceful unconsciousness.

For close to a month Kaleb remained in a coma while the bloody siege of Karalis had raged on unbeknownst to him. During the abyss that was his coma, he caught glimpses of distorted and peculiar visions. He dreamt of a strange cavern aglow with brilliant lights, and of a golden-haired man with golden eyes gesturing for Kaleb to follow him. The last vision he remembered, he was standing back in the strange cavern, the ground vibrating all around him. Massive eyes materialized in the air before him, filling the cavern. The eyes flared with a fierce light, causing Kaleb to shield his face. A deafening voice shouted his name, and Kaleb screamed in pain. The noise persisted, bringing him to his knees, his ears ringing in agony.

His eyes had snapped open, his body molded into a feather mattress. He had no recollection of how he ended up there or what was taking place in the world outside. Thunder shook the foundation of the Keep of Karalis, rain whipping at the thick walls. The sounds of battle filtered through to him on the currents of the storm. He attempted to stand, but his legs turned to water beneath him, and he collapsed to the bed. He then noticed how unbearably dry his mouth was and how feeble he felt. The bulging muscles of his arms and pectorals had deteriorated to almost nothing. He felt weaker than an infant did.

The screams of the dying forced him to try to walk once more. He walked on shaky legs like a newborn fawn taking its first steps. He felt as though his legs would give out any second, but he had pushed on with a gritted determination, and was even able to strap on his dual swords. The battle was at its climax as he emerged onto the courtyard before the Keep of Karalis. Even weakened as he was, he could see the gate was breached and the Varkuvian defenders were only moments away from being swept aside. He drew his sheathed swords, and felt the stirrings of the power within him, seeking once more to dominate him.

No, he had thought resolutely. With every ounce of his concentration, he was able to manipulate the power for the first and only time he could recall. And with him finally in control, he was able to use the raging storm to his advantage, hurling bolts of lightning into the massed ranks of the attackers. The enemy fled soon after, and he single-handedly turned the tide of battle. The following day, the eastern armies and savage tribes broke off the siege of Karalis, retreating back to their homelands. Kaleb’s control over his powers was fleeting, and soon enough, it became a constant battle inside him once more. He retired to his room within the keep, closing himself off against any intruders.

Six days after the siege of Karalis was over, a polite knocking came at Kaleb’s door. He was surprised, for most people refused to visit him, unless it was to bring him his food or change his chamber pot. The servants and soldiers of the keep were terrified of him, constantly averting their gazes from him. Go away, he answered, testily.

The door swung open despite his objections, and Trystan entered. A bandage partially covered his companion’s head, and he was limping heavily, but it wasn’t Trystan’s injuries that drew Kaleb’s attention. The steel armor Trystan wore was freshly polished, the five interlocking circles on the front of his breastplate shining like burnished silver. A white cloak of freshly fallen snow fringed with white wolf’s fur was clasped at Trystan’s shoulders, dragging on the floor behind him. Only the first master in the Order of Acrium is allowed to wear that cloak, Kaleb thought astonished. The first master pulled up a chair beside Kaleb’s bed.

Trystan fidgeted anxiously as he sat down before Kaleb, his hand smoothing out the wrinkles of the white fur cloak. He is still the same man as when we were a part of the Order, observed Kaleb. He is not comfortable with leadership. Moving up in the world, I see, Kaleb remarked with a strained smile.

How are you feeling, Kaleb? asked Trystan, ignoring the comment.

The smile slipped from Kaleb’s face. It is growing worse, Trystan. There was a brief moment when I thought I could control whatever this is, but I was mistaken. I know one day soon I will lose control again, and the thought terrifies me. If I do not learn how to properly use these powers, then I am afraid of what will happen.

"You are a Verillion razeem, Trystan stated. Kaleb stared at him blankly. A sorcerer, explained Trystan. I do not believe you can learn to control these powers on your own. You need someone to teach you, to guide you, or it will eventually overwhelm you."

Kaleb chuckled. "And who exactly will train me to become this razeem? Perhaps we should ask one of the servants outside. They seem to love me, from what I’ve seen. Or maybe someone from this new nation of Verillions will volunteer to help me."

Do not even jest about that, Trystan said, his face darkening. Do not underestimate these Verillions, for they are nothing like their ancestors. They razed the city-state of Seren to the ground in less than a day, killing countless innocents in the process and are more powerful than we can possibly imagine. We do not have the exact numbers regarding the strength of their forces, but we already estimate that tens of thousands have emerged from the Eternal Desert. The Verillions are the future enemy, of that I am certain.

That may be true, but what do you suggest we do about it? We cannot hope to defeat them as is.

The Five Kings have fully reinstated the Order of Acrium, and, as you can see, have already proclaimed me as first master, began Trystan. Tomorrow morning, I ride to the Fortress of the Van with the other newly anointed masters to oversee the operations there. I must start bringing in fresh recruits as soon as possible so that I may train and organize them. This is not a role I desired, but it is the one that has been thrust upon me. We each have a role to play in the upcoming days, and I will play mine to the best of my ability. As will you, Kaleb.

What do you mean? Kaleb asked incredulously.

You will be leaving tomorrow as well. Instead of riding south with me, you will travel north to the port town of Borso. From there you will book passage to the Northern Woods. Do you know what the tribesmen call you? he asked. Kaleb shook his head. "They call you Toraz, a demon possessing golden eyes that cannot be harmed by any mortal being. But you are not the only Toraz the tribesmen spoke of. One of the prisoners we captured spoke of another Toraz that lives in the wilderness somewhere around a village called Oosel. He insisted that this Toraz has lived in these parts for years, and was even able to provide witnesses that share his beliefs. I believe this so-called demon is in fact another razeem, one untainted by the Verillion nation. You must seek this mystery person out, and have him or her teach you how to control your powers."

You got hit harder in the head than I realized, Kaleb said. You want me to travel weeks, possibly even months, to a village located in the most savage of lands, populated by a warlike people that despise everything about us, just because a tribesman spun a fanciful story for you. I would be risking my life based off a rumor. Why would I willingly do that?

Because you will die if you do not, Trystan stated simply. This power will win eventually, Kaleb, and when it does, it will destroy you. How much longer can you possibly hope to keep it at bay? This is your only option for survival. Travel north to Oosel, find this Toraz, and learn to harness your powers.

Kaleb leaned back in his bed, thinking over everything Trystan told him. I will do it, he said finally. My father will not be pleased if he discovers you are the one that sent his only son away. He isn’t exactly a forgiving man.

Lord Rickart’s desires are no longer important. In the coming days, all of Varkuvia will learn just how outclassed they truly are when facing the Verillion nation. When that day arrives, we will need every ally we can call upon. If you can learn to control these powers and bend them to your will, then you will be the most powerful weapon Varkuvia possesses. We need you, Kaleb.

Then it is settled, Kaleb said, forcing another smile. He extended his hand. Take care of yourself, first master.

"You as well, razeem," Trystan responded, gripping Kaleb’s wrist in the warrior fashion.

Kaleb was heaved back into the present as another wave took ahold of the Blue Mist, the hull of the ship groaning noisily in protest. He had accepted an impossible mission, one that would most likely lead to his death some way or another. His body convulsed once more, and he closed his eyes against the pain. The people of the immense Northern Woods were broken up into nearly thirty different tribes, each with their own set of values and customs, and were in a constant state of war with one another. But there was one thing they hated above everything else, even their rival tribes, and that was the nobility of Varkuvia. For centuries, the nobles of Varkuvia treated the tribes like sport, sending hunting parties into the Northern Woods, and tracking down tribesmen as if they were animals. The women they found were brutally raped and murdered, and the men’s heads were cut off and brought home like trophies. In the rare occasion a noble died in one of these hunts, an army would be gathered, and the tribe responsible would be put to the sword, their villages burned to the ground and their people sold into slavery. Any Varkuvian noble foolish enough to be captured by the tribes was tortured to the point of insanity, before having their limbs hacked off and sent back to their family in pieces. And Kaleb, the only son of one of the most powerful lords in all the realms of the Five Kings, was traveling into the heart of the Northern Woods. If his identity was discovered, not even his uncontrollable powers would be able to save him.

Closing his eyes, Kaleb pushed such disturbing thoughts from his mind. Instead, his thoughts drifted to days past, a more peaceful period in his life, though he did not appreciate it at the time. He did not think of the bitter years spent with his father, Lord Rickart, who was not only a brutal man, but had also murdered his mother when he was a child, but instead thought of his days in the Order. The Order of Acrium was the pinnacle achievement for any warrior in all of Varkuvia. They were second to none on the field of battle, and were a fountain of hope to the people for over three hundred years. Each warrior was considered a hero, though Kaleb was more consumed with personal glory than valiant heroics. He had dreamt of becoming the greatest swordsman in the history of the Order, greater than even the Legendary Arturri. But then came the dreary day when the Five Kings disbanded the Order, dispersing the deadly warriors back to their various homes in shame.

For six months after the disbandment, Kaleb had housed nothing but bitter thoughts about all that was denied to him throughout his life. All that changed the fateful night when his closest friend, Prince Kastor, was murdered while paying Kaleb a visit. That was the night Kaleb first discovered the Brotherhood of assassins known as the Sons of Vikundo, who were tasked with hunting down any disbanded warrior of the Order. So it was that Kaleb began his journey to King Markos’s capital of Karalis, with the hopes of claiming his vengeance against Lord Drogos, the leader of the Sons of Vikundo. Kastor was murdered over two months ago, and the world had drastically changed since the young prince’s passing.

Kaleb’s eyes slowly opened, the clanking of the watch bell echoing throughout his cabin. I must’ve dozed while thinking of the past, he thought, sleepily. Groaning, he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Standing groggily, he caught his reflection in a full-length bronze mirror. His beard and hair, normally groomed and attended to by servants, were both disheveled and growing longer by the day. His eyes, usually sparkling blue, were dull and sunken into his skull. He stared in disgust at his wasted body, his muscles nonexistent. The power raging inside him was slowly beginning to take its toll on the noble. His sleep at night, fleeting as it was, was filled with torment and he rarely ate, for fear that he wouldn’t be able to keep his food down. If I keep going at this pace, then I will not last much longer, he thought, despairingly.

The insistent ringing of the bell snapped Kaleb back to attention. He quickly dressed in a long sleeved wool shirt, breeches, and thigh length boots. Lastly, he checked the edges of his dual swords, and, satisfied, strapped them on. Ducking out of his cabin, he followed the procession of sailors making their way up the stairs. Rain lashed at his face as he walked onto the deck. Narrowing his eyes, he saw that the storm was still at its peak. Dark clouds blotted out the last remnants of daylight and the unnerved Okhelm Sea rocked the trading cog violently.

Black sails off the port bow, Kaleb heard a voice scream. He looked up to see a sailor leaning from the crow’s nest, gesturing vigorously toward the front left of the Blue Mist. Black sails! the lookout yelled again.

All thirty sailors of the Blue Mist gathered at the front of the ship, talking in hushed whispers. Kaleb pushed his way through the bunched mass of bodies. Many voiced their protest at being jostled, and Carus even shouldered Kaleb heavily. Regaining his footing swiftly, the noble stuck Carus with a withering stare before continuing on his way. After being shoved and cursed at numerous times, Kaleb finally made his way to the front railing, moving alongside Grolos.

The captain’s gaze was locked onto the horizon, searching for what caught the lookout’s attention. Kaleb joined him, his blues eyes attempting to penetrate the dark gloom of the storm. The shifting Okhelm Sea constantly swelled and dropped, making it nearly impossible to see anything. Lightning lit up the storm-filled sky. And then Kaleb saw it. A massive longboat with jet-black sails was navigating its way toward them through the rising waves. Dozens of oars dipped smoothly into the Okhelm Sea, propelling the longboat forward. The lightning bolt flashed off the warship’s ram, which was shaped into a clenched iron fist. And then darkness consumed his vision once more. The sailors’ voices rose in a panic around him as they clearly witnessed the same thing he had.

Argarian raiders, Kaleb told Grolos.

Aye, agreed the captain. "That would be the Iron Hound, the pride of the Argarian fleet, and a terror for honest sailors like myself. Over seventy-five raiders can be carried on that behemoth, each a veteran from a score of battles."

Can we outrun them? asked Kaleb.

Grolos shook his head. "Even without the disadvantage of the storm, we would be unable to. The Blue Mist is swift, and faced with any other longboat we might stand a chance of escaping, but the Iron Hound is a built war machine, designed to chase down and crush fleeing ships."

Can we at least negotiate with them?

The captain fixed Kaleb with a quizzical look. You haven’t had much dealings with the Argarians, have you lad? They are the scourge of the sea and we are caught in their domain. There will be no negotiating with the likes of them. They will rip our hull to shreds with that monstrous ram, board and kill every last one of us, and then relieve of us of all the goods we are carrying. Look around you. He gestured to the terrified sailors of the Blue Mist. These are good, brave men, but they are not fighters. They will fight valiantly when the moment comes, but they will die nonetheless.

I appreciate the optimism, said Kaleb, sarcastically, but I was trained by some of the finest instructors this world has to offer. It is not in my nature to allow for a defeatist attitude. He looked out to the Okhelm Sea, deep in thought. "We might be able to use this storm to our advantage. The Argarians won’t be able to get a clear hit at us with that ram while the sea is shifting the way it is. They might damage their own longboat in the process if they attempt it. I believe that they will move up alongside us, and use grappling hooks to pull us in close. This wind will make it extremely difficult for their archers to do any damage, so they will have no choice but to board us and fight hand-to-hand. Since the Blue Mist is a common trading ship, they won’t expect much resistance. And in their moment of carelessness, we will board the Iron Hound and bring the fight to them."

"Board the Iron Hound? Grolos asked, aghast. Bring the fight to them? Are you deranged? We cannot possibly hope for victory against that monstrosity."

What other option do you suggest? shot back Kaleb. That we simply lay down our arms and offer our necks to their axes? This plan, as insane as it seems, might give us a chance to live to see another sunrise. Is that not worth fighting for? Is that not worth dying for?

And what if you are wrong and they decide to ram us? inquired Grolos, still skeptical.

Then we are all dead men anyways and it will not matter.

The captain chuckled, shaking his head. The gods will certainly name me a fool for saying this, but I am with you then. What do you need from me?

Find your seven best fighters and send them to me, instructed Kaleb. "I will lead the attack, but I will need stout men by my side. Spread the word and make sure every single sailor is armed for battle. I don’t care if they are carrying a piece of wood, just as long as each of them is holding a weapon. After you have done that, change the course of the ship and aim it directly at the Iron Hound. It’s time these bastards learned the measure of the men they are dealing with."

I will see it done, promised Grolos, extending his hand.

Kaleb briefly shook the captain’s hand, and then turned his focus back on the Okhelm Sea, waiting for glimpses of the Iron Hound. His mind drifted as Grolos addressed the gathered sailors, laying out Kaleb’s plan. The noble’s stomach suddenly flared in agony, his face distorting in pain. Not now, he pleaded with himself. As he fought down the persistent discomfort, Carus moved alongside him. Kaleb instantly found himself becoming agitated. He was in no mood to deal with the sour sailor with his malicious remarks and rotting teeth.

Quite a situation we’ve gotten ourselves into, eh, land rat? asked Carus, nervously.

Turning toward the sailor, Kaleb saw that Carus’s face was pale white, his eyes widened in fear. He is about to soil himself, thought Kaleb. Instead, he said, I have been in worse, and I am still here to talk about it. Once the action starts, make sure to keep moving, he advised. The element of surprise will be our only advantage, so use to it to the best of your ability. If the gods are with us, then we might just make it through this.

Carus licked at his trembling lips. What if the gods are not with us?

Then we will walk side by side in the underworld, responded Kaleb, but you can be damned sure that a score of Argarians will be accompanying us.

He moved past the shaken Carus, making his way to the middle of the deck. The sailors scurried around him, arming themselves and preparing for the coming battle. The Blue Mist gradually turned as Grolos redirected the ship toward the Iron Hound. Kaleb could now see the sinister outline of the longboat, the image lodging doubt into his heart. There is no way we can prevail, he thought. Forcing such despairing thoughts from his mind, he drew his dual swords and waited for the inevitable clash of ships.

Within minutes, the Iron Hound came fully into sight and Kaleb heard the taunting shouts from the raiders as they crowded the deck. As the enemy vessel drew closer, he watched the oars of the longboat expertly lifted from the Okhelm Sea and quickly stowed away, so they would not splinter and break against the