Rings of Silver: Tome III

By John P.R. Hughes

The Daemon Glaive, the black sword torn from the heartwood of the Tree of Lore to slay an angel and claimed by Ghul, the Daemon King, through which death by age and pestilence was released into Erilan, has been spirited away by Ash and Blackthorn. Though robbed of the mighty, necromantic token, Ghul is undaunted, and his campaign in the War of the Daemon Glaive to wrest dominion over Erilan is certain to end in nothing less than utter triumph. The hosts of the western alliance are too few in number to rebuff Ghul's vast swarm of daemons, dark warriors, and necromancies unless a prophecy is fulfilled.

This prophecy foretells great knights, mighty heroes, and unknown allies will unite to vanquish the Daemon King and destroy his dreams of a tyrannical empire, yet it seems a futile hope as countless fiends of Ghul's swarms gather in the passes over the Iron Mountains, preparing to sweep away their meager foes. Yet Ronan, the wizard once known as Eridal, casts his spells in hopes of raising a legendary king from a black curse in which he slumbers, perhaps the fulfillment of the first verse of the augury of the Drakestone Prophecy.

The final tome in the Rings of Silver trilogy, Daemon Glaive brings together all the history of Arcana and the mystery of Drakespawn, the previous titles in the series, to an enthralling and thrilling conclusion, wherein the fate of Erilan is revealed in the destinies of its villains and heroes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798889603924

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Conclave of Kings

The sun shattered the flat gray light of dawn’s harbinger in a scintillating radiance of deep violets, pastel scarlets, and bright gold as it rose above the edge of the world. The prismatic beauty drifted among the snow-covered mountains upon the northern tier of Erilan, bringing illuminated clarity to banish night’s shades and, perhaps, its terrors. Far above the blue-white peaks, a falcon soared on slate gray wings, her fathomless black eyes in a crown of dark plumage sparkling in the morning’s glory. She spied the strange mountain, far below her, carved into a majestic edifice of towers, battlements, ramparts, and crenelated walls in stark contrast to the wild pinnacles about it. Her high, shrill, and haunting shriek pierced the gentle dawn, for, at last, she had found the journey’s end.

Tucking her wings, she dived, racing the wind, and she aimed for the narrow window highest in the castle, which was a mountain. A sudden, her mighty wings cupped the frigid air and brought her to a soft alighting upon the back of a huge throne in the highest hall of janwin, the Halls of the Wind. From her sharp yellow beak, she dropped a leather pouch upon the seat. She cocked her head to peer at her loosed burden, and to be certain, it was where she knew it should lie. So doing, she preened her feathers a moment and then vaulted from Tor’s throne through the arrowslit, screaming her triumph into the radiant dawn.

Ronan’s gray eyes lifted from the crabbed script of Ur characters upon the scroll, written in a faded, rusty ink or some other ichor the wizard did not wish to contemplate. He tilted his head, listening to the raptor’s cry, accompanied by Thor’s grousing at the din. The crow poked its head from the hood of the wizard’s greatcloak until the falcon’s scream faded away, then resettled itself in its preferred roost.

Ronan noticed the dawn’s light filtering through the shuttered window in the small chamber he had claimed for his own. He sighed. Another night had passed in his study of sorcery, and he was uncertain he had gained a whit of understanding from the terrible grimoires and scrolls he perused through the dark hours. He rose slowly, his bones creaking, and replaced the scroll upon the shelf filled with similar writings and blew out the oil lamp.

Many leagues west and south of janwin, in another great and ancient castle, events that were auspicious, portentous, ominous, and woeful coincided in Loreldin. The first of these to begin was the trial of Queen Elsbeth II for high treason and misdemeanors against the realm sovereign over the Green Land, Aradin, and Avalos, those which she ruled or warded. The queen herself demanded the trial whilst her vassals, both noble and common, pleaded, petitioned, and legislated against such a dire reckoning, but Elsbeth would not be swayed. Trials of this nature had long been defined, by royal decree through the ages, to require four reviews: secular, liturgical, doctrinal, and punitive.

Tribunals of such disputes were highly unlikely and quite rare in Loreldin’s benevolent monarchy, but some few had been convened in the history of the fortress city, though none in the last four centuries. Scholars and barristers spent many hours in musty archives to unearth precedent and proceeding, though none did so with any relish. They presented their findings to Elsbeth, at her insistence, and she readily agreed to the terms of previous trials concerning crimes of which she had already deemed herself guilty.

The doctrinal review consisted of a legion of clerks, archivists, librarians, and pages in search of the pertinent documents on which to compare and contrast Elsbeth’s alleged crimes with those of similar circumstances that might reflect comparable detail. Scribes penned a ponderous volume containing these findings, conclusions, and recommendations they submitted to the tribunal. The secular review consisted of interrogations by six elected members of merchant, guild, and city councils that questioned Elsbeth at great length and summarized their conclusions that also went to the Tribunal. The Tribunal itself was a council of thirteen High Jurists drawn from members of the other reviews and would consider the queen’s guilt or innocence and prescribe her punishment, or lack thereof.

Lastly was the liturgical review, a lone priest of the Lirathian, Gromican, or Amanian order charged with discerning the defendant’s moral and spiritual constitution and its influences on their guilt or innocence of the alleged transgressions. Although Elsbeth was of more Ockland heritage than Galadorian, she did not object to the bald round Lirathian priest that arrived from Aradin to serve as her inquisitor.

Elsbeth II composed her features as she sat in her study at the soft rap against the closed door.

Come, she announced.

The door creaked open, and the red-cassocked barefoot priest shuffled in, closing the access behind him. He smiled benevolently, then said, Greetings, good Queen. So generous of you to accept my request for this audience.

Elsbeth made no reply, only regarding the odd, portly man as he settled himself in the chair opposite her. He glanced about the study, pausing a moment when his gaze fell upon the battered and dented table at her left hand, the furnishing that once supported a crystal skull under a black silk drape.

It was not an invitation, Priest, Elsbeth at last began. It was a requirement in the proceedings of my prosecution. And I will admit, your interview holds the greatest trepidation of any I will face. It is one thing to disclose the unforgivable deeds I have performed as queen, as a matter of fact. It is quite another to face the black motivations that taint my soul that led to the pursuit of my treason.

The priest studied her for long moments, his face an expressionless mask. At length, he stood, saying, This is a dreary and shadowy chamber, lady. Is there no window? Await. There is one, behind yon tapestry. Let us speak in Lirath’s light.

That window I had sealed many years ago. It cannot be opened, Elsbeth hurriedly said in a breathless, fearful whisper.

Is that so? the priest replied.

Casually, he tugged on the faded tapestry that ripped away from the line of iron nails along its border, letting it fall to the floor. The tapestry had hidden a heavily boarded section of the wall secured with stout spikes. The priest effortlessly pulled away the planks without the screech of protesting iron or the splintering of wood. The now-open window overlooked a courtyard dominated by a circle of standing stones, allowing the study to be filled with the red-gold radiance of the midday sun. Elsbeth hissed as if pained by the illumination.

My apologies, good Queen. It will take but a moment for your eyes to adjust.

He turned to watch Elsbeth squirm uncomfortably in the warm brilliance but then slowly ceased the worst of her twitchings.

How did you do that? Elsbeth quietly asked.

Few barriers withstand Lirath’s blessing, lady. Never is his light ever far from any hand. Yet at times, it is the hand of a friend that must remove the weak and tenuous barricades that have shaded one’s soul.

You have not removed the barricade, Priest, only exposed the curse, Elsbeth softly rasped.

And that is a fine start, the bald man said brightly. He returned to his seat and smiled at Elsbeth, unperturbed by the black orbs that were now the queen’s eyes or the tiny fangs that protruded over her full lower lip at the corners of her mouth.

Can you not see what I am? she growled menacingly.

I see what you are well enough, daughter. As for the horrific mask you now reveal unto me, it is no more than that, a mask you were made to don by a vile man who claimed to love you.

It matters not how I have become what I am, a lamia by another’s bite. Elsbeth lifted her gown, revealing her lithe, shapely legs, and touched the small scar upon her thigh. The healers thought it a wound from a spit fork, but I knew, even then, what it heralded. She lowered her hem and said, What matters is that I did nothing about it and accepted the vile taint, becoming a blackhearted fiend that corrupted Loreldin from within.

Have you the will and the courage of the Ockland and Galadorian nobles whose blood yet courses through your veins to confront and dispel this curse?

Elsbeth wept, her tears a viscous crimson. "Perhaps, if this was the only I must face. You know not of the draken that strove for my heart, mind, and soul through a crystal skull that was in my possession for many years. I have not the strength to undo them both. Best I am found guilty and burn upon the stake they prepare for me. Know you they name my prosecution the Tribunal of the Bonfire? They ken that I may only be cleansed in a fiery death."

The priest laughed softly, shaking his head. Do you recall when you contracted the red pox as a child? When you were certain Grom punished you for some iniquity within your spirit, and you would surely perish, you fervently prayed he might release you from your torment?

How can you know that? It occurred an age agone.

The priest shrugged dismissively. Is it not enough that I do?

Elsbeth weakly sighed, her eyes slowly reverting to their beautiful and sparkling green. Then you know me well by means I cannot ken. You know also of that which darkens my soul. Yet I see the light of hope for my salvation in your eyes. Tell me, good priest, what must I do?

The second monumental event of this time began on 11 Arifol, 696, when John Dire, king of Direland, arrived before the castle of Loreldin with a corps of warriors behind him. He was obliged to wait upon the sward before the gates as a score of Xandrian armsmen, followed a nobleman under the portcullis and a company of cavalry, headed by a lancer he felt he should recognize, followed the ranks of armsmen. The king impatiently sat his bel as he took his eyes from the slow-moving procession to glance about. His grin was ironic, noticing a column of riders approaching Loreldin from the west and a quartet of riders a furlong behind him to the south, apparently awaiting as he did for entry into the castle.

A fortnight past, John Dire had vividly drempt of a round table that lay in a chamber adorned with the banners and regalia of the Green Land, Fayvel, Aradin, Avalos, Xandria, Loreldin, Clovis, and his own battle standards. Eight kings sat about the great slab of oak, inlaid with marble and onyx, with the alternating black and white hexagons of a Towers board. Eight sets of pieces of gold, silver, bronze, copper, brass, iron, lead, and a varnished wood—he believed cherry—were scattered haphazardly across the spaces. The center of the table, and therefore the board, was pierced through by a black sword. John Dire required no seer to interpret the omen.

Some hours later, having been granted entrance through the great south gate of the castle and after his knights were settled in the wondrously appointed rooms named barracks by the Loreldin warriors that were their escorts, John Dire and a lone captain were summoned to an audience.

It would seem your premonition held merit, my liege, Hallis, captain of Direland’s cavalry, said quietly to John Dire as they were led along ornate passages by a castle guard in red and gold livery.

In truth, I hoped it was some fevered malady or a bit of underdone pheasant that brought about that queer vision. Perhaps, we will find it was, and those that entered before and after us were on errands of their own, the king replied hopefully. If, truly, the seven other kings assemble for counsel, then our greatest fears are no longer hearthside tales and rumors.

Hallis’s reply was dubious. I might have believed the first of your conjectures save the two columns I spied entering the castle as you refreshed. One was a band of Nameless led by Baron, and the other was a corps of knights on bels under the black horsehead banner of Clovis.

Then it is true, my friend, though that accounts for only seven of the eight I drempt assembled at that table. Who think you the last?

Hallis tilted his head slightly, considering. There was no queen? Loreldin is presently under Elsbeth’s sovereignty, despite this tribunal she endures.

John Dire shook his head. No, he replied. Perhaps some steward has been named of which we are unaware, but I am certain it was eight kings.

And the sigil of a ninth, the Daemon Glaive, driven through the table. Hallis shuddered. It is a fell portent, my liege.

So it is, Captain, John Dire solemnly replied. And by your sharp eye, espying the nominal kings of Clovis and Fayvel, one that we will ken anon.

John Dire was unsurprised when he and Hallis were ushered into a large, unadorned chamber save a great, round table carved from the bole of a massive oak. Sixteen straight-backed chairs fashioned from the same wood surrounded the polished surface, only four being occupied. At the side farthest from the door sat a young warrior in an ornately garish, ceremonial platemail. His short, pale hair accentuated his blue eyes in a grim, handsome face. To his right was a strongly built woman, red-haired and green-eyed, though one was covered by a black leather patch.

King John Dire, the young man hailed. Be welcome. I am Quillin, currently lord marshal of the host of Loreldin in these unsettled times. This is my high captain, Bianica. Here also are Blackthorn and Ash, representatives of the Croe that dwell in Silver Lake, he continued, indicating the warrior costumed in antiquated bronze ringmail and feathers of a red-winged blackbird adorning his straight, sable hair. Beside him sat a maid, the scars upon her face unable to detract from her obvious Galadorian heritage. Wilt you join us?

Well met, and aye, John Dire replied, pulling out the chair from the table opposite Quillin. This is Hallis, my captain of cavalry, and he has some acquaintance with Blackthorn and Ash, as do I, by his report. Quillin cocked an eyebrow at this but said nothing. You spoke of unsettled times and your seemingly transitory assignment. Has this ought to do with the tribunal of which I have heard rumors?

Quillin nodded slowly, a slight frown creasing his lips. Both have everything to do with the uncertain doom of Queen Elsbeth II and the tribunal that decides it. Loreldin’s line of succession may be broken, and should that occur, who might say what the morrow brings? But I believe your errand here, at this time, is of far greater concern than the fate of a lone monarchy. Let us await. However, for the others to arrive, we need not tread the same paths twice.

The king of Direland agreed and did just that, listening to the introductions of five other kings and their captains as they arrived. There was Gabriel, king of the Adonai from Valhor, Kirk, high steward of Aradin, baron, lord captain of the nameless out of Fayvel and Cristov, one of the many barons of splintered Xandria. The chair beside Christov was not taken by one of his captains or advisers, however, and the man that took the seat was introduced as Earl Barriston. Most curiously, John Dire thought, was the mere lad who sat the chair beside him, introduced as Connor the Young, king from far Ockland for whom his regent, Fion, spoke.

Over the course of a score of days, the counsel that became known as the first Conclave of Kings revealed many things to John Dire. The leaders of these kingdoms, save Blackthorn and, curiously, Barriston, were inspired to gather at Loreldin through remarkable dreams similar to his own that varied in detail but not interpretation. The possibility of malevolent sorcery as the source of these dreams was debated and rejected. He listened to tidings and tales, prophecies and poems, disagreements and debates. Narratives were woven together from various sources concerning Ban, the Ank, dragons, the Daemon King, the Death Sword, Vardis, lamia, sorcery, and necromancy.

In the end, no consensus was reached save upon three things; the Daemon King, again, sat upon his throne in Darkstone and would undoubtedly wage a war of conquest, a high king must be chosen to marshal all the hosts of the free folk of Erilan to oppose Ghul’s machinations, and lastly, the selection of this king would not be easily made without time for long deliberation. So it was that the first conclave concluded, allowing all in attendance, save Connor the Young, to return to their own lands for counsel, contemplation, and decisions to be made among the candidates, their courts, and their vassals. They were to return to Loreldin in six months and resume the discourse and render their ultimate conclusion.

Far better this, Earl Barriston pronounced at the small feast marking the end of the conclave, than to rush into some uninformed, undeliberated, and rash decision. Mark my words. In six months, all this fret and bother will have become yesterday’s follies.

Bianica pulled at Quillin’s sleeve as they sat at the long table with the other nobles of the conclave as the earl stood, wine goblet in hand, making his farewell proclamations. He is a snake, she whispered.

Quillin grinned crookedly. You think him the one at which the bard’s tale hinted? That seems a bit far-fetched, does it not? He came to counsel as the lesser of two Xandrian nobles, deferring to Christov.

I cannot defend my conclusion, love, but I know he is an evil man and bears close watch.

As you say, my heart. He shall be watched. More wine? Quillin asked, his expression thoughtful, recalling the tale of the Scarlet Rose Bianica had passed along to him.

The third portentous event began as the second with a dream, though this one, to Elsbeth, was a nightmare. She awoke from it screaming for Regan, whom she knew warded the door to her bedchamber this night. The captain of guards burst into the room, sword drawn and calling her name.

Here, Regan. Here, she cried.

He quickly strode to the side of her bed but saw no imminent peril. I am here, my Queen. Why did you cry out?

She made no reply save soft whimpers, giving no indication of wound or injury. He needed light, he thought, slightly panicked. As he listened to her breathing, slow in the near darkness, he withdrew momentarily to ignite a taper from a bracketed torch on the wall in the hallway and returned to light the small oil lamp on Elsbeth’s bedside table.

The soft glow of the lamp illuminated her bloodless visage, wet with tears. I drempt of another of the witch’s warnings, Regan, the pale, gaunt man in the black cassock. He lurks in the darkest abyss, seeking to return to Erilan through the covenants of the crystal skulls, though mine was broken. Instead, he will transmute mine own bones into quartz to gain his entry into this realm and, by them, join with the shadow, bringing utter ruin to all of Ea. She buried her face in her hands, weeping uncontrollably.

Regan sat upon the bed and tenderly gathered his queen in his arms. Gently stroking her hair, he soothingly whispered to her, It was but a bad dream, child. Nothing can harm you. I am ever near.

What if he truly manifested here, just now, Regan? How many heartbeats would have passed before my spirit was again ensorcelled? Tenuous enough is my hold on sanity and soul as the priest guides me away from my damnation. They allow me no weapon, Regan. They have taken even the long pins for my hair.

I am sorry, my Queen, Regan softly said, releasing her from his embrace. That was but one of the draconian terms to which you agreed when the tribunal began. They fear you will evade punishment by taking your own life. By both the tribunal and your own decree, there is nothing I can do.

They will have little chance to condemn and burn me if some abyssal demon makes me his vassal and arms me with his sorcery, Elsbeth venomously retorted. Her sobs stole her ire, and after a moment, she timidly said, Give me your dirk, Regan. I will hide it under my pillow when I sleep and secret it by day in the little niche of which only you and I know, she whispered, with a tilt of her chin toward the far wall. Perhaps it was only a nightmare, but I will rest easier if I have, at least, some small means to defend myself until you can reach me.

Regan stood and drew the plush chair from under the small writing table nearer Elsbeth’s bed. He settled himself wearily upon it. I will stay here beside you through your nights, my liege. Surely, there cannot be but a few more before this farce is done.

Elsbeth coughed a disdainful laugh. Oh, aye, my Captain. There are to be many more. My noble tribunal now begins to squabble, like jackals over a fresh corpse, as to which sweet scraps of my kingdom they might claim for themselves. My fate is writ, and I do not resent it. I only wish to go to my death cleansed of the taint that wrought it. Give me your dirk, Regan. Let me ward my soul until it is released from its torment.

Her faithful captain sighed heavily. Rest now, my Queen. I will ward you ’til the dawn.

Where will you be come the Silent Hour on the morrow? How often in these months have you guarded my door? They know you are my most loyal subject and a hardened warrior. Who will ward me when next I sleep? I have seen the inattentive, surly lot they send in your absence.

I will speak to Quillin or the tribunal. I am certain they will agree to my temporary reassignment as your lone sentry.

Elsbeth shook her head. They will not. They will assume you are an accomplice to some devious plot I scheme to execute my escape. Please, Regan, she begged. It is such a little thing. I swear it my last request unto you.

Regan stared into Elsbeth’s lovely face a moment, then he said, I will consider your request if you will sleep now. I am not relieved until two tolls.

Elsbeth smiled a curious smile, but Regan said nothing. Gramercy, my guardian. They have left me my books and fine brandy. Avail yourself of both in the hours of your arduous task.

Regan returned her smile. I just might, at that.

Again, Elsbeth awoke, but now midmorning sun filtered through the shutters of the windows of her bedchamber. Under her cheek, through the pillow, she could not mistake the bulge. She slipped her hand under the downy headrest and withdrew the three hands of keen, blued steel, its hilt wrapped in scarlet leather. She rose quickly and crossed to the wall opposite her bed and bent low. Wedging her fingertips into a mortarless crevice, she carefully pulled free the hinged facade of a stone block, revealing it to be a thin plate of cleverly painted wood concealing a large niche in the wall. She hurriedly placed Regan’s dirk within the secreted recess and closed the panel as a soft rap sounded upon her door.

Queen Elsbeth? Half an hour before your first interview, the voice of an unfamiliar servant called tremulously through the door.

I am awake, she called. I need but a moment.

Elsbeth II, queen of Lorelden and Warden of the western kingdoms, endured the Tribunal of the Bonfire for 237 days without resolution. Some would claim her own guilt, and certainty of condemnation forced her hand on the following, fearing the scourge of cleansing fire. Others espoused she was murdered when the Tribunal was preparing to exonerate the queen, and certain members of the jury realized this would abruptly end their quest for power.

Few took note of the guard who was found inconsolably weeping in the queen’s bedchamber on that dark morn after having discovered Elsbeth with his own dirk thrust into her breast. Yet upon learning of the grief expressed by the captain of guards and the evidence of his own weapon, one of the Tribunal’s jurists conveniently averred it was a sign of profound remorse and laid the charge of regicide at Regan’s feet. When they found the captain of guards hanging by his neck from a coarse, heavy rope long before a warrant was issued, the matter was dismissed, for the man’s guilt was apparent, though his motive was elusive.

With his presence no longer required, the Lirathian priest made his farewell, not to the Tribunal, but to Quillin, saying Elsbeth’s soul was now free of the corruption of the dark spirit and of a curse of which the lord marshal was unaware. Yet he warned of another fiend lurking unseen but nigh at hand, seeking a way into the world. Quillin was horrified, realizing he had forgotten he crossed a wide sea to protect Elsbeth from Reislen, only to have become enthralled with crystal skulls, dark spirits, and his command of Loreldin’s host. He had vowed to ward the queen, and she was dead, and he knew not who had truly slain her.

Less than a month after the death of Elsbeth, eight kings again gathered in their second conclave in Loreldin. Little was accomplished save the exchange of tidings collected from the various kingdoms. Gabriel spoke of Aegin nomads amassed on the northeastern border of that region, as they had been for some time, without apparent aim. Vague rumors of caravans passing along the Crystal River from the northern tier and traveling well south of Darkstone inspired no great consternation, assumed some Magran venture to trade with the few hamlets in the White Mountains.

Direland, Fayvel, and Xandria had even undertaken short rangings into Shadowreach and found no daemons, let alone swarms, amassing at the passes of the Iron Mountains. It seemed the Daemon King was content with the ruin of his ancient enemy in the great forest and had no further intention to stray outside the Broken Land. Some of the assembled began to doubt the significance of their portentous dreams, and the second Conclave ended after but nine days without any consideration of a high king.

In the abundance of caution, the kings agreed to convene a last time six months hence, though the urgent impetus to prepare for war had waned. That final conclave lasted, but three days wherein nearly all those assembled concluded some magical hoax or witch’s trick was responsible for their ludicrous flights of fancy, and in that epiphany, more Wejan tales were recounted about the round oaken table than any true counsel concerning a high king. Some few allowances were proposed for vigilance, and a meeting, rather than a conclave, was proposed, but little of consequence.

In the small hours of the last night of the conclave, Ash found herself at the counsel table with Connor the Young, Bianica, and Erin, the greater kings and nobles, having departed that mid of the day. She stared into her flagon of ale despondently. There would be no muster of hosts under a high king’s banner. The omens, her prophecy, and tidings from the east had all been relegated to fancy, such as that which Bianica now told. It was a sad and hopeful tale she named the Scarlet Rose, and the two young men listened in rapt attention.

And now, every third year, Annitha’s white roses bloom in scarlet, Bianica, captain of Ockland armsmen, concluded.

Erin, the blue-eyed captain of the Aradinian lancers, nodded, his blond hair tied back from his face with a simple, leather cord. A noble and inspiring yarn, Captain. But methinks it lacking in the magics of a true hearthside fancy. For those, one need only look to the Wejan tales.

Bianica smiled. I remember those fondly if they were told here on Erilan as they were in Ockland. My grandsire often told them on winter nights before a merry fire, whittling at some bit of wood, he would transform into a lovely little representation of a beast or bird. I played with those as did other children with dolls and tin knights.

Did your grandsire tell the one of the pisken?

Bianica tilted her head thoughtfully. No, she said. I do not think he ever told that one.

I am not much of a storyteller, and I could not hope to spin the yarn as prettily as you did your own, but I will tell it if you care to hear, Erin replied.

It is a good one, Connor put in, taking a sip from his flagon.

Bianica nodded. I would greatly enjoy listening, good Captain.

Ash knew the tale well, though ever, any telling of any story transformed, or transmogrified, with the teller. She thought that most curious, like the interpretations of prophecy and omens, were shaded by the interpreter’s own influences, demeanor, and experiences in life. Hearing Erin’s rendition would tell Ash much about the young man. She refilled her flagon from the large jug of sweet, mild ale and settled back to listen to Erin’s rendition of the piskin.

Long ago, in a dark and forbidding castle of black stone, dwelt a witch of great skill in the darkest of magics. Oh, she was malicious. She was devious. She was cunning and vile. Her attendants were dire wolves, dred ravens, and foul rats, and she wrought pestilence and peril upon the bright kingdom that surrounded her tenebrous stronghold set at its very heart. Now the folk of this kingdom knew something of from whence the woes of their lands arose, but the witch had cleverly concealed her lair, and her scouts and sentries alerted her whenever some questing knight or mighty hero entered her dominion seeking her end. Each of these she captured and bent to her will, melding not only their spirits but their bodies as well, to her lowliest minions, to become werebeasts of wolf, rat, and raven.

Connor had leaned forward, his elbows on the round table listening intently. Bianica sat back in her chair, sipping from her flagon with a slight smile on her lips. Ash, however, furrowed her brow. Erin’s composition seemed to be a melding of his own, confusing several of the Wejan tales. She said nothing, however, and Erin replaced his flagon on the table after a long pull and continued.

Now there was a lad in a small hamlet within the bright kingdom that was always getting into trouble, and his name was Merrywise. He had been sent into the nearby forest to fetch firewood after having been caught filching a pie that was cooling on an unattended windowsill of a goodwife married to the blacksmith. He went to his punishment dutifully, as he had been caught fair and square, and he knew the rules of his own game even if no one else did. He had toted three loads of deadwood back to the goodwife’s cottage, thrice that of what had been his punishment, when he spied a great knight in gleaming platemail riding a black stallion barded in forest green and gold. So struck by the knight’s presentation and bearing was he that he followed the knight at a trot.

An honorable pie thief. Connor chuckled. But what of the knight’s heraldry? I am unfamiliar with knights and warhorses in gold and green.

Bianica laughed. It is a tale, young King. If the heraldry does not suit you, put what colors you wish to cloak and barding once you hear of this knight’s deeds.

Ash mused, pondering Bianica’s words. So true it was that men looked back on history and prophecy only to color it as they thought proper long after the deeds were done. She, too, would be colored should her true sight be ignored, and Erilan was, again, decimated or even subjugated under the Daemon King. She could not allow that. If this Conclave dismissed the Path that would lead to victory over the shadow, there were other lords upon Erilan that might be swayed to the cause. If those lords deemed the threat as did the Conclave, there were the Croe of siloch she was certain believed in her prophecy. And if none of them chose to follow, Eldwin would not abandon the fight. When her distraction abated, Erin was nearing the conclusion of his tale.

But Merrywise told the witch he was only a peasant and certainly not worthy of joining her ranks of minions. I have not the shadowy stealth of your rats, the celerity of your raven’s flight, nor the claw or fang of your wolves. The knight came to you with all those attributes in one way or another. It was wise for you to take him, but I have nothing to offer, Merrywise said.

The witch studied Merrywise and asked what was in the large pouch at his belt. He replied they were only posies he plucked to give to his sweetheart. Well, then, the witch said, before you become my slave, I will grant you those things that will make you a fine servant in my ranks. Here is the rat’s shadow, the raven’s wing, and the dagger of the wolf, she said, weaving her magics.

A foolish tactic, Bianica said reproachfully.

Connor nodded. Deny your enemy your greatest strength. That is a tenant of King Wil, said to have been spoken at one of the first counsels pertaining to the dragon Ebonax.

Erin’s sage nod was ruined by the mischievous grin, but he went on.

Merrywise took to the air on raven’s wings, shadowed by the rat’s stealth. He emptied his pouch of the witchfrost blooms upon the spellcaster’s minions, for the knight had told him that herb would thwart the witch’s thralls. With the wolf’s dagger, Merrywise struck off the head of the wicked witch and alighted amidst the throngs of what her minions had become. They were bright, tiny fairies, beautiful and winged, each raising a bloom of witchfrost that became perfect gems, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, diamonds, and amethysts. All fled as the black castle collapsed. The fairies, who became known as the piskin, spread throughout the bright kingdom, bestowing their treasures on those they found worthy of their gifts and their ire upon wicked folk such as the witch. As of Merrywise? His gifts from the witch disappeared when she drew her last breath, and the trek back to his hamlet was a long one.

Connor clapped, Bianica smiled crookedly, and Ash only shook her head. The young king’s grin slowly faded away, and he said, That is a tale like one of Abdul’s or Colin’s. Evil is dispelled by good and a happy ending. The tales from my homeland are not, so evil never wholly vanquished.

What tales are those? Ash asked.

If you are unaware, I was born and raised in the hamlet of Redhill in Wintermarch. My father, also named Connor, revealed his noble bloodline when he and King Patrick did battle with the blue dragon. Patrick took me as his heir, my sire slain by Cerulax, as the king had no son of his own to ascend to the throne of Ockland. So the tales of which I speak are from the cold desolation of the White Mountains.

Are the tales of Wintermarch so very different than those of the rest of Erilan? Ash pressed.

Connor took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. "They are, indeed. All are terrifying and gruesome, collectively known as The Tales from the Nighthound, and none that I know have pleasant endings."

Never heard of such, Erin replied. What is a night hound?

The Night Hound was both the name of the tavern where the tales were told and the name of the shapeshifting proprietor, who strove against his curse by warning his patrons of the evils lurking in the northern tier, or so the preamble of any of those stories begin. They are horrible tales of evil malice, foul murder and slaughter, devious and demonic specters that ever plague Wintermarch.

Sounds lovely, Bianica said wryly. What can you tell of them that will not visit nightmares upon me in my sleep?

Very little, Captain. Even the descriptions of the fiends and phantoms would disturb your rest, Connor gravely replied.

Then I will retire from this pleasant company by your leave, my liege, Bianica said and rose, nodding a fair night to Eric and Ash.

Ash grinned, bemused. She watched Bianica depart and wondered how a battle-hardened armsman, such as she could be the least bit frightened of any fabled monster out of a collection of fanciful tales. Had she not faced a draken? Her grin disappeared, realizing the captain had done battle with a thing she likely never believed possible, losing her eye to a mythical horror. Mayhap, she did not wish to consider Connor’s tales might hold some grain of truth and there were other monsters awaiting her in the world.

When Bianica had passed through the doors of the chamber, Connor asked, Should I go on?

Oh aye, good King, Erin said with a laugh. Aradinian lancers hold no fear of scary stories.

As you wish, Connor said with a slow, grim nod. I shall tell you the tale of the ill-fated band of Nameless that encountered not one, but three, of the terrors of the Nighthound. I know this recount to be true, for it was my great grandsire that led the doomed company as they scouted the foothills north of Redhill for signs of daemons.

Ash stifled her grin by sipping from her flagon, well versed with the mummer’s mask the young king now donned by her years traveling in the carriage of Ronan the Wise. She knew not what purpose Connor entertained, but she said nothing as the tale unfolded.

Under a full moon, its silvery illumination conferring an eerie glow to the newly fallen snow rode six Nameless warriors. From the slopes of the mountain, pinnacles about them echoed the bays of what they first supposed wolves, yet they quickly realized the abyssal wails could not arise from any natural lupine throat. It was a pack of haiks, huge, and terrible mastiffs wrought in black necromancy that stalked them, and the warriors’ mounts, their eyes rolling in terror, bolted wildly, their riders helpless to regain the horses’ heads.

Poor riders, the lancer muttered, or poorly trained mounts.

Suddenly, the great, black hounds coalesced from the shadows all about the Nameless, ripping at the destriers’ fetlocks and bellies, splintering bone and tearing out entrails with their yellowed fangs. Within heartbeats, all the horses were felled, as were four warriors, and the haiks paused to tear apart their victims, gorging upon warm, quivering flesh. The pristine snow was blackened with Nameless blood and gore that steamed in the frigid air under the light of the uncaring moon, and the two surviving warriors kenned they would be next in the haiks’ feast.

Erin had leaned forward in his chair as Connor’s voice slowly lowered, and his pace grew mesmerizing, as if reticent to allow his words to carry any further from the table than they must, fearing to summon the nightmares by the mention of their name. They must have survived, Erin hissed. Otherwise, no one could have recounted the tale.

My grandsire and his sergeant, drawing their swords to take at least one of the nightmares with them into the abyss, suddenly heard the whinnies of a pair of warhorses but rods from where they stood. They turned about, beholding emaciated, white horses tossing their heads as if beckoning them to mount and escape their bloody doom. Hope and terror blinded them to the beasts’ conformations, ragged holes in their coats exposing gleaming bones and orbits filled not with limpid eyes but rather embers of ruddy flame. The beasts were pooks, specters of destriers that carried evil knights into battle when their hearts pumped red blood, cursed to forever lure riders onto their backs and carry them to the gates of death.

The cavalry captain’s visage paled. Horrified noble warhorses could be so cursed, no matter who they bore onto a battlefield. Ash suddenly kenned the young king’s ploy, slowly drawing Erin closer, his tale subtly tailored to his audience of one. She did not know what jest would arise from the conclusion of Connor’s story, but she leaned back in her chair, intent upon not falling for the mummery.

Connor’s voice was now little more than a whisper as he said, Yet these pooks did not carry the Nameless unto death, for they had been summoned by the foulest of demons arising from the abyss. The cursed destriers galloped on the very wind, sparks of crimson trailing behind them from their hooves like falling stars, bearing my grandsire and his sergeant over the spires of the White Mountains to alight upon a field wherein lay a shadowy tarn. The cursed warhorses vanished, abandoning the warriors upon the shore of the eerie lake that began to ripple and roil, small waves of viscous, corrupted water lapping at their armored boots. From this bubbling cauldron of evil rose a ghist, a skeletal demon with bulging, madly rolling eyes, and it drifted over the surface of the tarn to enthrall its newest minions. Yet the fiend did not lose its dark arcana right away, asking first a question in its sepulchral voice, the words in no way corresponding to its denuded, clacking jaws.

What did it ask? Erin breathed, his wide-eyed countenance mere hands from Connor’s own.

The young king’s reply was a malevolent, rumbling murmur. Who has stolen my soul?

What did your grandsire say? Erin asked tremulously.

Who has stolen my soul? Connor repeated, his words nearly inaudible.

Who? Who? Erin whispered, nose to nose with the young king.

It was you! Connor roared, watching the Aradinian lancer tumble over the back of his chair with a squeak like a frightened maiden to crash against the stone floor.

The Ockland king’s unbridled laughter slowly diminished as Ash stood, barely concealing her own amusement, and righted Erin’s chair before helping him to his feet. The proud lancer who did not fear scary stories was flushed scarlet, though there was a rueful grin on his lips.

A sly and tawdry jest, Your Highness, Erin grumbled, and one I can hardly wait to play upon a certain sergeant of mine.

Apologies, good Captain, Connor said. At least you did not wet yourself as did I the first time I heard that particular tale. It is not one strictly from the night hound, for those indeed are gruesome and without mirth, but I thought this one more suited for the pleasant evening.

So it was, Erin replied, and Ash nodded her agreement.

Little of true consequence came of the third conclave save that Quillin proposed the maintenance of dedicated batteries of riders to carry any messages should new tidings surface throughout the kingdoms, and to this, all agreed. The kings also reluctantly promised to gather once more, six months hence, unless circumstances in their own lands prevented the trek and they departed Loreldin, all sure some circumstance would arise, or be invented, so they need not return.

Only Connor the Young remained in the castle, for Fion was pleased with the swordmasters of Loreldin, who advanced the king’s skills rapidly. He had engaged two such masters, as well as a bowmaster, to contracts that extended to the turn of the new year, when he, Conner, and the five hundred Ockland knights would return to Clovis. Blackthorn and Ash were the last of the Conclave to take leave from the beleaguered kingdom, their farewells brief and doleful, knowing their efforts to seat a high king had been in vain.

We have failed, Ash whispered softly, standing on the battlements of Loreldin, watching the last disappearing columns of the king’s warriors marching away in the bright dawn.

In this, aye, Blackthorn replied. "Yet, perhaps, we were mistaken in the interpretation of your first verses. Only one, the last, seems wholly elucidated. We must possess denhel, the Death Sword, come the final trial."

We are uncertain even where it lies. How can we hope to attain it?

Blackthorn sighed. "I know not, save it is not here. I aver we should return to siloch and commence our own quest. With your and Daka’s divination, Geron’s battle prowess, and my unsavory skills, I believe we might locate one last relic and divest it from whoever has stumbled across it."

Ash laughed brightly, a merry sound in a dolorous castle. Like that tin cutting from a privy chute you identified as Olin’s kite shield. I knew not you attempted to steal it until years after. That Avalosian sea captain caught you, dead to rights, and you would have swung from his yardarm had you not promised Ronan would pay an exorbitant price for a worthless scrap of metal.

Blackthorn managed only a wan grin. I believe, should my surmise prove accurate, not even Ronan could extract me from the wroth of who now holds denhel should I be discovered in the acquirement of this particular relic.

Then you truly believe he has it? Ash quietly asked.

Rin and irin. Mordis and dragons. By what other means could Ghul summon those dire allies save through the Daemon Glaive?

Ash shuddered, considering the possibility. I pray you are mistaken, Eldwin. Yet we have one hope to reclaim the accursed blade. Ash nodded, as much to herself as to Blackthorn. "Yes. To siloch. There, we will find our answers."

Perhaps our errand will be completed, the Daemon Glaive in our possession, before the proposed meeting convenes. That will turn their hearts and minds, knowing Ghul is vastly weakened, and the hour to rid Erilan of his malice has arrived. Then shall they ken they must seat a high king to rally all the armies to one banner and destroy the Shadow.

We shall see, Ash replied with a sigh.

Chapter 2

In the Halls of the Tael of Air

The wizard stood upon the wide terrace high on the eastern slope of Tor’s keep, leaning on his white staff. A light fall of fine snow was all that remained of the howling blizzard that raged over the White Mountains two nights ago. That, and the weird drifts, carven into fantastical shapes by the wild wind, burying portions of the terrace under rods of snow whilst sweeping others wholly bare, were the last remnants of the brutal storm. He strode to the edge of the railless precipice, carefully probing the icy path with the butt of his staff, like a blind man with a longcane, and stared out to the east along the line of peaks glinting in the morning sun. Below him, a falcon circled, its shrill cry echoing through the soaring pinnacles all about him.

Ronan sighed in resignation. His study of the sorcerous writings would take him no further. Although it had brought him a fair understanding of the tenants of the shadowy arcana and an unrivaled knowledge of his own wizardry, the bridges between the two were utterly lacking, and he saw no means by which to meld the two into the spell he envisioned to break the curse upon Galador, whose still pristine corpse had lain under the mountain for nigh seven centuries.

Ronan had entered Tor’s abandoned fortress over a year ago, passing the alabaster sculptures of Toran warriors that guarded every portal of the Halls of the Wind. He endured no malice from the strange warders, but the sense of their awareness gnawed at him. In the War of the Moon, King Kira divided his Toran ranks, leaving a third in janwin, for they simply refused to abandon the citadel. Not even Kira kenned the magics that transformed these warriors into silent statues about the doors, windows, and gates of his halls as he led the remainder of his host to war. And yet there Ronan found the eerie effigies still, as the bel with no name carried him into the secret vale of janwin.

The wizard first explored the airy chambers and wide passages delved into the mountain before descending into the underhalls to search for the long, spiral stair that led to janwin’s lowest crypt, a tomb delved by the Tael of Air in the Years of Forging. At the head of the stair was a small golden door scribed with Lirath’s sigils and the inscription Beyond this door, a king rests. Those that had glimpsed this epitaph assumed it was for Tor, himself, though his doom left him without mortal remains, his body becoming the flesh of his children, or so the tales went.

It was Kira who suggested Galador be laid in this wondrous crypt when he was slain by the merest touch of the black sword at the end of the War of the White Crown. He had met his doom on the isle that Ara had banished from Erilan, imprisoning the Daemon King and his glaive upon the still, gray sea nigh death’s gates. Yet when Galador learned of this, he quested for the accursed isle, wishing to destroy both Ghul and the black sword so neither might somehow return to the mortal realm.

The War King found the isle and the daemon, but when he touched the hilt of denhel, the curse upon it slew him in a matter of heartbeats. Eridal, Kira, Hardin, and Hart had carried Galador’s corpse to the Halls of the Wind and interred him in the crypt where, it now seemed to the wizard, he would lie ever and anon, for Ronan could cipher no arcana to dispel the dark magic which bound him in lifeless slumber.

The events following that mournful quest had gone terribly amiss, for Ban had come upon them after Galador was entombed along the trail that led out of the White Mountains. Kira and Hardin were slain, Hart left for dead, and Ronan cast down from the mountainside, the black sword flung out before him in the fall. The wizard lay broken and denhel near, so Ban supposed he need only to be certain of Eridal’s demise and collect the glaive from wherever it lay in the vale below him.

It was Ara that arose from the waters of the tarn in the vale, black sword in hand, to thwart Ban’s victory. She hid both wizard and Daemon Glaive in a cavern she secreted, and the Sand King found only Ara, attended by a bedraggled crow, beside a brook that fed the tarn. When Ara would reveal nothing of his enemy or his prize, Ban sought to destroy her. Yet she eluded the Vardis, reverting to her watery essence upon which he could find no purchase. Legends said that the Tael of Water had fled Ea to escape Ban’s wroth, and only some few doubted it, for no tales of Ara existed beyond that moment.

Upon his return to the Halls of the Wind, nearly seven hundred years later, Ronan found the mortal remains of the high king as he had left them. Upon the six-sided lapis dais in the furthest depths of Tor’s delving lay Galador, as if in enchanted sleep. His flesh was whole and uncorrupted, his field plate unrusted, and even his cloak and boots untouched by the ravages of time. Ronan first attempted to settle the white crown wrought from lorlin upon Galador’s brow, more for a symbolic gesture than any true part of the spellcraft he proposed to undertake. To the wizard’s horror, the crown broke with the sound of a tree struck by lightning as he approached the dead king, its halves falling to the mosaic-inlaid floor of the tomb.

The wizard had left the crypt then and had not returned, determined to prescribe, define, and comprehend all the magics that surrounded his aim of raising the high king from his gentle repose. He had done so for well over a year now, and though he had made great strides in his understanding of necromantic sorcery, the influences of elemental wizardry, and the lore of the Ank, he sensed there remained some fundamental tenant he had failed to discover, much less consider how it might be applied.

Ronan awoke in the gloaming from a dream of a falcon, having slept the day away after another futile night of study. He might have slumbered longer had it not been for the raucous cawing of a crow outside the door of the small cell in which he slept. Be silent, you infernal nuisance, he bellowed at Thor. This is my first significant rest in a fortnight. The crow ignored the wizard’s protestations and continued the racket until Ronan arose with a mind to thoroughly thrash his familiar.

The wizard need not dress, having failed to disrobe when he retired. He simply pulled on his boots, draped his cloak over his thin shoulders, and snatched up his white staff, contemplating any number of gruesome murders for the bird. Thor fluttered away as Ronan burst through the door, menacingly advancing on the crow with his staff in one hand, wielding it like a cudgel. After several such fluttering retreats by Thor, Ronan realized the crow had some purpose to its game, leading him into the underhalls of janwin.

What mischief are you about? Ronan murmured but followed the hopping, flapping crow onto the spiral stair that led to the tomb, the golden door flung wide.

Ronan descended the stair hurriedly, and upon reaching the last step, he noticed the door of the inner sanctum, also golden and engraved with the symbols of the Angel of Light, stood ajar. He was certain he had resealed the chamber when he retreated from it many months ago, and this gave him pause. The soft light that emanated from the marble pillars within the crypt spilled out upon the landing, and here, the wizard stood for a long moment. Thor clamped onto Ronan’s shoulder with sharp, little talons, its beady, black eyes intent on the small crack. Warily, Ronan pushed the door open with the butt of his staff, peering into the subdued illumination.

The chamber, supported with columns of white, glowing marble that ran along either side of the aisle leading to the dais seemed undisturbed. Galador’s body remained on the six-sided altar, unchanged. Yet behind it loomed a shadow, undefined even in the arcane illumination of Tor’s masonry. Warily, Ronan entered, calling a stronger light from his staff. The blue brilliance revealed the nature of the shadow even before its eyes cracked open, burning with silver fire, and its wings arched over its serpentine neck. It was a drake, and Ronan stared at it, stupefied.

For long moments, the drake and the wizard regarded one another, silent and motionless. At length, Ronan boldly asked, Why are you here? expecting no answer. And yet the drake replied, in a sibilant, echoing rasp.

Are you the one come to save us? Long have I and my kin bartered the tokens and relics of forgotten ages seeking to gain the true Path for this river of destiny. Others have deceived or openly opposed us, and now our fate, as well as yours, dances upon the edge of the sword. Are you the one come to save us?

Ronan’s momentary bewilderment swiftly faded at both the appearance and the speech of the sildak, and his reply was without tremor.

I have come to awaken the one true king so that he may lead the children of the blood against the Dark Angel’s betrayal of the true Path. I do not deceive or oppose you or your kin if this, too, is your aim. If it is otherwise and your endeavors succor the shadow, Silver Drake, I will destroy you.

The drake rumbled, and Ronan could not discern if it was a sigh, a laugh, or a sentiment beyond his ken. Then take this, the drake intoned. It is the last gift to the living I may grant. Use it well, Eridal, wizard and last man of the blood. Ever the drakes have opposed the Dark Angel’s machinations and those of his apprentice, the Daemon King. Ofttimes, our gifts were misunderstood, misused, and even mistakenly bestowed. This one shall not be so, for the embodiment of all hope on Ea burns in your breast. Farewell, wizard. I return from whence I came, certain my last gift has come into the proper hands.

With a cry, the wizard brought his arm over his eyes as the drake vanished in a blinding flash of silver fire. The brilliant illumination slowly faded, and Ronan’s arm lowered, his vision clearing of the sparkling nimbus. When his eyes again accustomed to the subdued light of the crypt, before him lay a huge tome upon an argent podium, bound in blue leather and titled, in white, The Writ of Tor.

Thor cawed from his perch on Ronan’s shoulder, the call echoing eerily in the silent tomb. As the wizard strode to the pedestal, the crow nestled into the hood of Ronan’s greatcloak as its keeper opened the cover of the great volume and began to read.

How long he stood there, quickly turning pages, Ronan could not guess, but he did not pause in his rapid perusal until he reached the end of the tome. He closed the cover, intending to begin anew, but he hesitated, feeling the gnaw of thirst, hunger, and fatigue. He shook his head, realizing this task would not be accomplished in one day, nor even a month of days. He must come to ken the whole of this writ, and the task could not be rushed.

Gramercy, you bedraggled, black pestilence. Lirath only knows when I would have returned here without your urging. You have gained many hours, none of which I will waste. But this must be a careful, methodical undertaking. I will have but one opportunity for success. Let us to sup and then bed, to begin again refreshed on the morrow. Thor’s reply was little more than a sleepy grousing, apparently convinced what was good for the wizard was not necessarily good for the crow.

After several rereadings of Tor’s volume, with many a parchment filled with the wizard’s notes, Ronan struck upon his solution. Within the Writ, Ronan discovered the tenant he had overlooked amongst many secrets and revelations of the Tael of Air’s skills and musings at which, he believed, even Hart would be astounded.

Tor’s children had arisen wholly made and imbued with their sire’s knowledge and skills, genderless and without the hope of procreation, seemingly certain in their place upon Erilan. Yet Ronan glimpsed Tor’s own uncertainties and conjectures upon life and the nature of Ea with which he chose not to burden his children, a ubiquitous failing in most sires and dams of any age. Better to grant them the skills and knowledge to survive rather than hinder them with the ability to ponder and question the nature of their existence.

Certainly, the adamant prohibition of a child sticking their head into a pot of boiling