Zachary was ten the first time he held a sword. His father insisted on sword lessons for both his sons, claiming that despite all the protection they had, there could come a time when they would have to defend themselves. Amilton approached the lessons the same way he approached most things in life—with a bored indifference. Zachary, however, had looked forward to them for as long as he could remember. He saw them as his means of escape. At five years older than Zachary, Amilton may have been bigger and stronger, but proper training could level the playing field. Sure, Zachary would never use a sword on his brother, no matter how tempting the thought sometimes, but he was well aware that his training would not only involve the use of a weapon. He had seen other sword masters and knew they could defend themselves with just about anything, including their own two hands, if necessary.
He had his first lesson the day after his tenth birthday. It was a clear fall day with a hint of a breeze in the air, and the Weapon who took him to the practice field gave a rare personal opinion that it would be a perfect day for training. The practice field was empty when they arrived except for a man in black standing to one side, a steel blade in his hands. Zachary recognized him as Arms Master Linden, the man who trained every future Weapon before they left for the Forge. He swallowed his nerves and forced himself to stand tall as his father taught him. "Prince Zachary. I had been warned you would likely be early," the man said, exchanging a look with the Weapon who followed Zachary.
"I just want to learn, Arms Master," Zachary said.
"Of course, of course." The Arms Master scrutinized him carefully, and Zachary forced himself to stand even straighter. "You have never held a practice sword, have you?" Linden confirmed.
"No, Arms Master."
"As I suspected." Linden was quiet for a few seconds, and Zachary waited with bated breath, hoping he would turn and retrieve one of the practice swords so they could begin the lesson. Zachary was trying not to seem too eager, but it was hard after his anticipation of the day. Finally, Linden spoke, but it was not the words Zachary expected. "Alright. Ten laps."
"Laps?"
"You do know how to run, don't you?"
"Yes, but-"
"No buts. I want to see you run ten laps around this field. And no cutting corners either. I add two laps for each corner you cut." Zachary simply stared, and the Arms Master clapped his hands together. "Come on, get to it. They told me you were a smart kid. This should be easy." Reluctantly, Zachary set off at an easy pace, jogging around the field. Inside, he was angry and confused, wondering if Amilton was somehow behind Linden's instructions. His brother knew how much Zachary wanted to learn to use a sword, and he was the type of person who would take sadistic pleasure in turning the lessons into something horrible. However, it seemed odd that Amilton had convinced Linden to go along with his schemes. Everything Zachary had heard about Linden indicated that the Arms Master was a harsh but fair instructor, ensuring his students reached the top level of swordsmanship. It was why he had asked to train under Linden instead of Hinder as Amilton did, for Hinder tended to be softer on the trainees under her tutelage. Maybe there was something more to the laps, something that Zachary did not yet realize.
That thought gave Zachary a new determination, and he quickened his pace. He finished the laps faster than he had expected, slowing to a stop just in front of Linden. He was panting hard, and sweat poured from every part of his body despite the coolness of the morning, but it felt good. He felt alive, capable of anything. Perhaps there had been a reason for the laps after all.
Linden next led Zachary in a series of stretches that the young boy completed with a new determination. When Linden finally deemed him limber enough to begin, the Arms Master walked into the fieldhouse, emerging a few minutes later with a wooden practice sword. Zachary's eyes followed the fake blade carefully, and when Linden held it out, his hands automatically wrapped around the hilt, taking the weight of it. Though it wasn't a real sword, it seemed to sing to him, welcoming him. It felt natural in his grip, like an extension of himself. He held it for a moment, listening to its song until Linden's words broke his concentration. "Now, you're going to put both your hands on the hilt, like this and. . ." Linden trailed off, his eyes focused on Zachary's grip of the blade.
"Did I do it wrong?"
Slowly, Linden shook his head. "You, in fact, did it exactly right," he said, sounding a bit breathless. Movement behind Zachary caused the Prince to glance in that direction. His Weapon had stepped out of the shadows, his eyes also locked on Zachary's grip on the sword. Slowly, Linden and the Weapon looked at each other, and Zachary wished he knew what they were thinking. "You are sure you've never held a sword before?" Linden clarified.
Zachary shook his head. "Father would not let us touch even practice blades until we were ten." Linden should have known that. It was what had delayed Zachary's lessons so long.
Linden nodded. "That is. . . most interesting," he finally said. Zachary furrowed his brow, but Linden soon distracted him from asking additional questions by beginning to instruct Zachary on the proper stance with the sword.
Zachary awoke suddenly. He was disoriented for a moment, his eyes struggling to focus on the fabric of the tent above him. He had reached the D'Yer Wall with nearly a hundred additional soldiers almost a week before. Since that time, he had been spending most of his days with Colonel Rowen, the commander of the troops in the south of Sacordia. Though Rowen agreed that Blackveil was definitely a threat, he expressed concerns with other areas as well, citing the ports as particularly vulnerable. He did not have any evidence that Rowen's assessment was correct, but Zachary agreed with the uneasiness his general felt, and he worked with Rowen to come up with a plan to position the troops strategically so they could deal with both Blackveil and any potential threat from the sea. Neither Zachary nor Rowen could place their finger on why they felt such actions necessary, but a particularly superstitious young soldier provided a likely answer over the flickering campfire one night. "It's this wind," the man had said. "This wind is not natural, and it's bringing something not of this world with it."
Superstition aside, there had been a brisk wind blowing in from Blackveil, and it did bring magic with it. Some of the magic seemed harmless, such as the magic that had sent eating utensils suddenly scurrying across the table one night, but other magic seemed to either have malicious intent or, at the very least, the potential for harm if not carefully controlled. Zachary had witnessed such magic first hand on his second night there when the dim coals of the cookfire had sprung to life hours after the cooks had doused them for the night, quickly destroying the nearby cook tent and scorching a large patch of earth before the soldiers had managed to put out the flames. Witnessing such events convinced Zachary more than anything else that he needed to find a way to repair the wall.
To that end, he had spent the time not with Colonel Rowen with Alton D'Yer, talking of how the repairs were progressing. He could tell Alton was frustrated at his inability to do anything about the breach, and Zachary noted with some concern that the previously even-tempered young man was much more volatile than when he had left Sacor City. The soldiers told hushed tales of how Alton would sometimes stay up all night shouting at the wall, even going so far as to physically attack it as if trying to beat it into submission. Alton had not done anything similar since Zachary had joined the camp, but the king felt that was simply because Alton did not want his king to feel he was not of sound mind. Certainly, Blackveil made everyone in the camp feel uneasy, but perhaps its impact went deeper than that for some.
Shouts outside his tent brought Zachary back to the present, and he rose swiftly, grabbing his sword. As he started to step outside, two black-clad figures blocked the exit to his tent. "Sire, you should stay inside the tent," Donal told him.
"Donal, move," Zachary said, his voice carrying a note of command. Donal hesitated, but he knew better than to disobey a direct order. He moved slightly to the side, letting Zachary exit the tent. Immediately, he and the second Weapon, a newer recruit named Gregor, fell into step beside the king, unsheathing their own swords.
"Will you at least get behind us, Sire?" Donal questioned. Zachary forced his ire down, reminding himself that they were just doing their jobs. Wordlessly, he stilled his steps for a moment, allowing them to slip ahead. Together, the three approached the sounds of battle, tensed and ready to spring.
The scent of blood reached Zachary's nostrils suddenly, and only years of training kept it from choking him. His eyes, now adjusted to the dark, quickly picked up the dim outlines of their enemies in the moonlight. He felt Donal and Gregor spread out more, giving him room to maneuver, but he did not look at them. His attention was focused on the melee in front of him, the enemy that was trying to cut down the Sacordian soldiers. His soldiers.
With a half-snarl, half-growl, Zachary surged forward. His sword plunged into the unprotected belly of the enemy in front of him, and he slid it out quickly, already spinning to meet the next soldier. His second opponent had more warning, and he met Zachary's first stroke with his own weapon. However, warning did not make up for skill, and Zachary easily forced the opponent's sword to the side. With a flick of the wrist, his sword sliced cleanly through his opponent's neck, and the man dropped to the ground immediately. The song of the sword pounded in Zachary's head, a song he had heard since he first took up the blade almost two decades before. He did not like killing, but he loved his kingdom, and he vowed to destroy any threat against it.
Almost of its own accord, the sword swung to Zachary's right, catching an invader who had been sneaking towards him on that side. The unfortunate man lost an arm with the first slash of the blade, and with the second, he lost his life as well. Zachary's next opponent proved to be a more able swordsman than the first three, and Zachary engaged him confidently, enjoying the familiar dance of swordplay. His feet moved in patterns that had long since become muscle memory. He rocked back on a particularly forceful thrust from his opponent, letting his whole body absorb the blow as his heel transferred it to the ground. A slight forward motion followed, his blade flicking his opponent's away from his flesh with ease. His movements were sure and precise with no motion wasted. A second opponent joined before Zachary had managed to finish the first, and he welcomed the challenge, feeling a thrill of delight hum through the blade. Zachary had fought multiple people before, for it was a necessary part of sword masters training. He had, in fact, fought up to three at once, and they had all been much more skilled than his current opponents. The only thing which had allowed his opponents to survive thus far was the fact that they were unpredictable, at least at first, but Zachary was starting to sense their patterns. He could tell now that when his first opponent used too much power in his blows, he overextended himself, leaving his left side vulnerable. And so on the next thrust, Zachary gave a bit less resistance, lulling his opponent into leaning into the blow. That was all it took; a quick strike on the man's left side left him dead, and his opponent followed soon after.
Zachary continued to cut his way through his opponents, his pace furious. After slaying nearly a dozen, he suddenly found himself with no one in front of him left to fight. He paused, blinking out of the stupor that had settled over him. The blood that had been pounding in his ears quieted to a dull roar, and he realized that the sounds of battle had faded as well. Dead men were strewn all around him, but it was difficult to tell who was a friend and who was a foe in the dim light of the moon. Zachary did know that many of the men lying dead had met their fate at his hand. Normally, he would have quickly pushed that thought aside, but in the current case, it seemed to comfort him. He had helped save his people today, in a much more concrete way than he usually did. Sure, everyone always told him that his decisions helped thousands of people, but it was hard to see the impact of those. Battle, however, was easy to understand. The simplicity was a welcome change.
Now, however, Zachary knew that he needed to assume command. He could be a warrior in battle, but when the fighting was over, he needed to be a king. "Colonel Rowen, report!" he called, his voice carrying easily in the quiet that had settled over the area after the intensity of the battle. He heard the murmur of voices around him, and a few soldiers gave a startled bow, obviously not having realized their monarch fought among them.
"I thought you would still be back in your tent, Sire," Rowen remarked, his voice slightly breathless.
"I'm not one to lead from behind, Colonel," Zachary said.
"No, I suppose you are not," he muttered. Then, louder, he added, "Major Braidley, Captain Ubily, command tent." Rowen turned, and Zachary followed him back to the command tent. Once there, Rowen lit a lantern, and its light cast odd shadows around the room. A few moments later, Braidley and Ubily entered as well, crisply saluting their colonel and bowing to their king.
"Condition?" Rowen asked.
"Not bad overall," Braidley said. "The force was relatively small and easily overcome. The menders are working to find any injured, and we should have a more accurate casualty count in the light of day."
"Who were they?" Rowen questioned. "I expected anything that attacked from Blackveil to be a bit less. . . human."
"We are not exactly sure. They were all wearing black uniforms, and a couple of the men reported strange markings on their hands," Ubily said. "They looked like dead trees. I will have a couple of our historians see what reference they can find to such a symbol."
"They spoke strangely," Braidley said, his voice quiet. "It was. . . guttural. It did not sound like any language I have ever heard before."
Zachary thought for a moment, trying to recall if he had heard any of the men speaking. He had been distracted by the battle, but thinking back, he did remember hearing a couple of them call out to others. He had dismissed the words at the time, for he did not understand them, but now he considered them more closely. He was fluent in two languages outside of the common tongue—the almost musical cadence of Rhovanny and the short, crisp speech preferred by those in the far northern parts of the kingdom and beyond. In addition, he was familiar with half a dozen others, for his tutors had sensed a keen ear for languages and insisted on teaching him. However, the guttural sounds he heard that night were not a part of any of the languages he knew. But he had heard them before; he just needed to think a bit harder. "The Imperial Tongue," he finally said, drawing all attention to him. Rowen's brow furrowed, and Zachary explained. "The language of those who came to this land with Mornhavon the Black. I had a tutor once who had studied it, hoping to read some documents we had from the Long War. He always said that no one truly remembered what it sounded like, but when he tried to speak it, he sounded much like the men today."
"So you are saying those men are followers of Mornhavon the Black?" Braidley asked.
"Impossible!" Rowen said vehemently. "Mornhavon is dead."
"I don't believe a man such as Mornhavon dies in the traditional sense," Zachary said, his expression thoughtful. "Certainly, recent events are quite reminiscent of the Long War. I think perhaps we would be remiss if we were too hasty to dismiss the possibility."
"Even if Mornhavon is somehow involved, that does not explain why they would attach with such a small force. What were they hoping to accomplish?" Zachary frowned, considering. Rowen was right—the small contingent was too easily overpowered. Even if their enemy had imperfect intelligence, the relative size of the camp should have been fairly obvious from the number of tents and large influx of supplies. It seemed like suicide to attack such a large camp with a small force as indeed it had been. Zachary could not conceive of why they would have even attempted such a strike.
"A distraction?" Braidley suggested.
"Distraction from what?"
"Maybe they are planning to strike with a large force elsewhere and don't want us to send aid."
"That does not make sense," Zachary said. "News of a distant attack would not reach us quickly, so they would have needed more than a swift raid like the one tonight to sufficiently distract this company."
"Maybe they were trying to sneak some people in through the gap in the wall?" Ubily mused.
"It would have been easier to just kill the guards quietly to do that," Zachary countered, fingering his chin. He sensed they were missing something, an important detail that would shed the night's events in a new light. Before he could contemplate it further, however, movement in the shadows to his right caused him to turn, raising the sword that had hung loosely in his hand. The others in the tent, including his Weapons, raised their blades as well.
"Peace. I do not intend to harm you," a voice remarked. It has a musical lilt, and Zachary realized with a start that it belonged to an Eletian. Still wary after his encounter with Shawdell, Zachary motioned for the others to stand down but kept his muscles tensed, ready to spring at the first sign of problem.
"Who are you?" he questioned.
"My name is Gireal," the Eletian remarked, stepping toward the men so that the light from the lantern illuminated his figure. His golden hair shone faintly, and his blue eyes gazed piercingly at Zachary. Zachary stared back, unwilling to show fear or concern. "I had heard you were a warrior, but I did not realize until just now how true that statement is." Gireal looked down at Zachary's blade which, the king noted, still dripped with the blood of the enemies he had slain. He lowered it slightly but did not relax his defensive posture.
"I do not hesitate to use my blade to defend my people and kingdom," Zachary said firmly.
"We have seen that. That is why we feel we must warn you."
"Warn me of what?"
"A great power is gathering. Others are beginning to take notice, to flock to it. Others who are not necessarily friends of Sacordia. It would be wisest to remove its power before it regains full strength."
"You speak in riddles," Rowen said. "Tell me why we should believe you."
"You saw yourself tonight that not all is peaceful," Gireal said, turning to the colonel.
"It could be an isolated incident," Rowen suggested.
Gireal turned back to Zachary. "You know that this is not isolated, Firebrand. I can tell you feel it, too."
"Feel what?" Rowen demanded. "Who were those men?"
"Peace, General," Zachary said. Gireal was right—he did feel that there was something amiss, that some larger force was gathering, biding its time until it was powerful enough to overthrow the kingdom. The shadow figure was connected to it somehow as was the attack on the current night. "Please, Gireal, tell us what you know of this great power and the men who attacked tonight."
"Alas, not as much as I wish. The men who attacked call themselves the Second Empire. They are the descendants of those who came with Mornhavon so long ago. They were pushed to the outskirts of Sacordia after Mornhavon's downfall, some to the north and others to the islands surrounding your kingdom. They have been biding their time, waiting for a leader to unite them. The man who you call the shadow figure has the potential to be such a leader. I can tell he is somewhere in Blackveil where he can feed off the dark magic that still lingers there. He needs a source of power, something in this world with which he can anchor himself. That is what you must find. In doing so, you can destroy him before he destroys you."
"How should we find the source?"
Gireal was silent for a moment. "It comes from something once thought lost," he finally remarked. His words were almost haunting, and they stilled everyone in the room, even Rowen whose had started to raise his sword again. "Blackveil has corrupted it, twisted it to something unrecognizable, but it still holds power. Ancient power." He blinked as if coming out of a trance. "I do not know the true path, but there is one who does. Your Rider. The spirits lead her."
"What Rider?" Zachary questioned though he somehow knew that Gireal was speaking of Karigan.
"She resists the yleta of the shadow mage, much like you. Her through earth, and you through fire. She can find the path."
"Why help us?" Zachary questioned.
"Alas, Firebrand, even this power pales in comparison to what is to come. It is not just Sacordia which would fall if you do not find success." With that enigmatic statement, he turned and swept out of the tent. The soldiers started to follow him, but Zachary stopped them with a hand.
"If an Eletian does not wish to be found, you will not find him," Zachary told them.
"You believe him, don't you, Sire?" Rowen questioned.
Zachary's eyes were dark as he wiped his blade on the grass beneath his feet and placed it back into his sheath. "I believe that we should prepare for war."
