Disclaimer. I don't own the Inu gang, just borrowing.Here you go guys. Something new, you probally never heard of

Introduction

Death

THE LADY OF THE CASTLE huddled with her children in the shattered tower. The sky reached down in grey mist and bitter smoke, between the broken stones. Below the lowering clouds, the shadows of circling birds danced like demons, screeching with parched throats for carrion.

All around the castle, the sound of battle still crashed; the hoarse cries of desperate men, the ring of steel, the immaculate hiss of arrows. The lady's cheek were dry, as were her eyes. Her arms were about her children, and she muttered in the ancient tongue an invocation. "Come rise, come unto me, deepest dream, come from the sky, from the lost and rise, come unto me, leaping heart, here to my sight, to my soul." The children were silent among her dust-scored, ragged skirts. Their eyes were old and their faces grave and resigned. Grubby fingers clung to her, perhaps without hope.

The lady knew that below her, amid the blood and the noise, history was being made. Her line, and her husband's line, would not end here, but change. When the men with the black and purple banners pierced the heart of Caradore, came loping like wolves down the seared passages and, finally, beat down the last door of her sanctuary, they would no longer be fired with the lust of killing. Her invocation had made sure of that, even if she lacked the power for greater effect. Her body might suffer, as would the bodies of her older daughters, but they would survive. It was necessary. Had not her guides taught her the wisdom of patience? History was a tapestry long in the making, and through time the threads would change. She must protect the heir to this house, whatever it took. "Come rise, come unto me....." Her voice cracked.

"Mama." A single word.

"Hush, little one. Hush." She rocked her body back and forth, waiting for the heart's pierce which would tell her that her husband was dead. There was a moment's stillness, and fragments of dust, ash and straw sifted down from the ruined ceiling. Then came the baying roar from the enemy, the irrepressible caw of triumph. She felt in her heart, felt the light go out. It doesn't matter, she told herself, it doesn't matter.

THE CONQUEROR,THE KING of wolves, was Cassilin, son of the great Magravandian house of Malagash. Now, he held court in the place where once the banners of the Dogs had swung. The hall of old Caradore had been unsealed; its ceilings were embers. Rain came down now, turning the pungent ashes to a gruel of bone and earth. The grey blocks of the walls were blackened, bannered with bright blood; the smooth flagstones of the floor slick and dark, their crimson carpets soaked like moss, releasing an odor of must and meat fat. The dog demons, and their rough army, had fought with passion to defend their ancient domain, and the king of wolves respected this. An entrenched code of honor nestled uncomfortably beside his ambition and lust for power. He had coveted this high, feral land, and now it was his. Caradore, and its guardian family, the dog demons, had once belonged to the sea. Their flags were adorned with the ocean's brutal, yet fragile, monsters: dogs of the forest; proud, attenuated and powerful. If the mournful cries of their shattered ghosts achoed from the forests trees now, no one heard them. The flags had fallen and were burned. The demons had clashed and wolves reigned triumphant.

The king of wolves was omnipotent, drunk on his conquest. Wherever he moved inthe world, crowns fell before him, and towers and banners. He was the spearhead of the new empire, filled with the energy of the god, Madragore, and his smoking eyes. This wind-sculpted corner of land was not far from the heart of his empire, but had proved resistant. The ancient families here knew the old wisdom and used it. They understood the language of the waves and their cold denizens. Ultimately, it had been no match fot the hot, youthful zeal of Madragore.

When his men had finished with the women, the king, who would be emperor, had them brought unto him; the wife of his slain enemy, her cowering daughters veiled in blood. Boy children hung wide-eyed from their skirts. They could not swear fealty to Madragore, the god, because in their terror and despair they could not speak. He would be merciful.

Someone called out," All hail to Cassilin Malagash, divine king, emperor of Magravandias, the spiritual son of Madragore! All hail!"

The king of wolves accepted this annunciation. It belonged to him. He had coveted this land for a long time; it was beautiful and wild, as were its people. He also needed its special power for his campaigns. Now, he rose from the blackened throne and addressed the lady of the castle, whose husband was dead, his head impaled upon a rail somewhere in the outer courts.

"Madam, I grant you the clemency of Madragore. Give to me your eldest son."

The lady did not cringe or falter. She remained silent, her body bent with pain and despair, yet somehow regal.

The king of wolves stepped down to the floor of the court, his mailed feet firm upon the scum of drenched ash and blood. He inspecrted the brats pawing their mother's skirts, seeking a hiding place, finding nothing but rents and tears. One by one, he prized them away, held them up by their arms to inspect their faces. They dangled in his grip like puppies, wriggling feebly. Which was the one? She would try to hide the demon heir. She had no doubt put a glamor on him. It was essential he was recognized, the mark of Madragore put upon him.

The king found an idiot boy, who drooled, whose eyes rolled. He did not look like a son of the House of Dog Demons. It must be the one; ensorcelled. The king knew he had made the right choice when the lady uttered a low, sad sound.

He hauled the boy across the floor and called his mages. They came to him from the shadows; some drooping with age or dissipation, hidden by cowls, others fierce and upright with narrow eyes and lipless smiles. They bowed to the king of wolves, their tall crowns of black and indigo inclined precariously." Do what has to be done," said the king, dropping the boy at their feet.

The mages walked around the crawling child, their hands curled above their hearts. Their robes hissed along the damp floor, but otherwise they made no sound.

Presently, they began to hum, each chest expelling a different tone. It seemed the notes writhed together in the air somewhere above their heads and become another thing; dense and definite, yet invisible. The boy was caged by their voices, and the glamor that protected him decomposed. He crouched with terrified eyes, trying to appear staunch and resigned. The king of wolves and his black sorcerers were not deceived.

At a signal from the mages, soldiers stepped forward and lifted the boy between them. He was carried out into courtyard, where bodies lay like slaughterhouse rags and tatters of banners flapped soddenly in the forest wind. The rain had seethed away, but the wind itself was damp, tasting of pine. A fire now raged in a blackened brazier in the center of the yard; its flames a gout of color in the rinsed world.

The boy knelt with bowed head, his hands between his knees, his black hair like a veil about his face. Only a short distance away, his father's head grimaced from its pike. The body lay somewhere among the others, discarded and unrecognizable, its center of power hacked away.

The mages stripped the boy of his clothes and then bound his body with a net of indigo cords. They shaved off his thick black hair. All the while, they chanted in guttural, snarling voices. Their words seemed to leave smoke hanging in the air that the wind could not disperse. Once they had bound him, he was flung between them, spinning around, presented to each of the elemental corners, while his clothes burned on the spitting fire that leaned away from the wind.

The king of wolves watched the ritual without expression. In his heart, the small thing that gave him grace empathised with the Dog Demon heir. The boy looked so vulnerable, shaved and naked, stumbling as the mages pushed him cruelly around the courtyard. The cold must be biting into his young skin, seizing his bones. But it is necessary, thought the king. The Dog Demon heir must bow to Madragore.

Now the mages held the boy firm beside the fire. A brand had been heating there, bearing the mark of go. The boy did not struggle, perhaps had become mindless with fear, for he was so young. He began to shudder uncontrollably once the brand had been pressed onto the back of his neck, but he did not cry out.The mark was livid against his pale skin, and an ephemeral reek of burned meat filled the hurrying wind.

They took him then down to the shore, where the waves pounced upon the rocks, destroying themselves in clouds of foam. Here, another fire was built, splashed with liquors to encourage the flames. The widow of Caradore and her remaining children were conducted there also, to watch the final ceremony. The sea was grey, implaceable, and the sky full of tears that did not fall. Never had Caradore seemed so unwelcoming and stark.

The archmage, a tall, inhumanly pale and reptilian man, stood behind the boy and faced him out to the sea. The Dog Demon heir had been dressed in a robe of dark indigo, so that he looked like a neophyte priest, with his naked head and thin neck. The brand was crimson above the collar of his robe and glistened with pain-killing unguent. He must be in possession of his senses for this ultimate rite and pain robbed any man of such acuity.

The archmage's voice was soft, yet it rang out clearly above the crash of the waves, the complaint of the wind. "Hear me, oh lords of the spiritual west, the realm of water. We take unto ourselves the rightful heir to the provinces of the forest, who is Valraven, son of Mestipen, son of Rualdon. We take unto ourselves the power of the Dog Demon heir, so that he must pay fealty to the lord of wolves, Madragore, father of the great mountian, of the flame of the soul. As the heir bears the mark of Madragore, we say unto you, should he not serve god's avatar in life, should he forsake the banner of Magravandias, the fire now within him will consume his body and all his domain."

The mage's voice became quieter, confidential."Do you understand this, boy?"

The boy paused, then nodded his head once. He understood. His mother's words came back to him dimly, from a hundred years ago-----yesterday-----as the ground had shaken at the approach of th Magravandian horde. The sun had shone then, and the flags on the seven towers had cracked on the clean wind. Clouds had raced high across the sky as if in panic. "Remember," his mother had whispered,"your life is safe. If your father lacks the power to protect himself, and the power passes on, the enemy will not kill you. You are only a boy and they will think you tractable, easier to control than your father. You must do as they direct and be patient. The line must not die with you, Valraven, but sleep. All things come to an end. Find the faith inside you, wrap it up carefully and lay it to rest. Never speak of what you know to your sons. The heritage must be forgotten. That will be its salvatian. Others will come later and find it. It will be a secret gift to your own heirs."

Now, he bowed his head and felt the seared skin on the back of his neck stretch and burn. He knew what they would tell him to do next, and perhaps a more fearless person might refuse. His father would not have approved of his mother's advice. He would have told Valraven he should die rather than betray the power they served. Their line might die, yes, but the power would not go away. It would only wait for someone else. Valraven could not be that brave: he wanted to live.

"Repeat after me," said the archmage, his fingers like clamps on the boy's shoulders."I, Valraven, heir of Caradore, swear fealty to Madragore and all his denizens."

Haltingly, the boy spoke, his voice thin, hardly heard.

The mage nodded approvingly and continued. "I give unto my god all the power of my tribe, and of the sea, and its creatures. Should I forsake my oath, may the fires of Madragore consume me and my domain."

Futher up the beach, cold tears ran down the face of the Lady of Caradore. Imperceptibly, she shook her head. Yet it was right that this should happen. Valraven must not die. There had been enough waste. Old Caradore was lost. She already knew that she and her family would be moved to the summer castle further south and there the new seat of the Dog demons would be established. The dog demons as Madragore's servants. No one could fight Magravandias, not yet. It would take many lifetimes.

Her eldest daughter slipped her hand through her elbow. Together, they watched the waves pulse up the shore, reaching for the fire that burned there. Presently, Valraven was led away by the mages, and everyone began to climb back to the scene of battle. The lady paused at the cliff's foot. She saw the tide's return and the fore hiss to blackened ashes. The water dragged the embers into itself, until there was only a faint mark upon the sand. It was a message from time.

(A/N.)There you go guys, this chapter is meant to led up to the main part of the story. Please R&R.

Anybody who seen Inu Yasha before:Caradore is another name in my story for the Western Lands

Madragore is another name for the Northern Lands.