ONE - THE LORD OF THORNS

A hot summer day found Ramezeth squatting in his garden, fretting over some dead roses. The petals of the flowers had all fallen from the stems, leaving him with nothing but ugly, pointy brown-green rope. He grimaced. Baern had promised to look after the garden while his former commander was at market, two weeks' travel away.

Ramezeth stood and turned towards the cabin they shared, rage bubbling behind his stony expression. He marched through the front door into the kitchen, where the bald dragoon was (while waiting on some bread to finish baking) deep into one of Kairos' left over books.

"My roses," said Ramezeth with perfectly measured calm, "seem to have been poorly cared for, Baern. Care to tell me why?"

The dragoon sighed, not looking up from his book. "Sorry, Ramezeth," he said, his tone not carrying any sign of remorse. "I thought the forest would have kept the things alive on its own. I was more worried about hunting and the other garden, and, well, I forgot."

The "other" garden was more of a necessity than a hobby, and was in fact partially an orchard. It was where their fruits and vegetables were grown, and that was what sustained them through the winter months these past three years.

"Roses aren't adjusted to the climate of the Greater Faydark," Ramezeth said crossly. "They're more of a western—"

"Spare me the botany lesson, would you?" the other said sharply. He still hadn't raised his eyes from his page. It was so odd to think that he had once been little more than Ramezeth's property, with the rude, common way Baern spoke. His face twisted into a disgusted grimace. Ramezeth tensed, foreseeing conflict. Finally, Baern looked up, eyes smoldering.

"Look at you," he said. "All worked up over some dead plants. Is that any way for someone of your background to act?"

He snapped the book shut with one hand and slammed it onto the table, standing as he did. He stepped up until he was the only thing in Ramezeth's line of sight.

"You were a member of the Knights of the Dead," he growled. "You were good enough to do what those of us in the Indigo Brotherhood would lay in bed at night fantasizing over. You were one of the chosen sons of Innoruuk. The Father saw fit to give you the greatest of his gifts. You had strength once, you had status! You were soon to be the lord of your family's possessions! There were people who thought themselves blessed to look upon you. Now, you're nothing, you're not even worthy of wearing my spit."

He looked his housemate up and down slowly. Ramezeth reached out casually and shoved him back into his chair with one hand. Baern stared wildly up at him, not willing to move, but afraid of what the other might do if he remained there.

"I don't need titles, or fame, or even Innoruuk's precious necromancy to make you regret using such words with me, Baern. You'd do well to remember that."

He turned on his heel and headed back out the door.

Back in his garden, holding onto the few brown petals and rotting stems against his temple in one clenched fist, Ramezeth sat staring off into space. Blood flowed from the puncture wounds in his palm, trickling down his arm and cheek, but he didn't notice. He was angry with Baern. The dragoon's words stung him deeply, more than he was willing to admit, but he couldn't escape the fact that every word of it was truth.

Indeed, the oldest living child of the Crosse family was a position of high regard, as it would mean that he would someday have the reigns of the veritable army of soldiers that were trained by the nobles of that bloodline. It would mean also that he would have all the wealth in the city he desired. The Bartul family, Hwest I'stari's household, and the D'Flaacks, all incredibly influential on their own, were nothing more than playthings for the Crosses. They didn't so much as blink unless he gave permission, and they had to surrender a great deal of their earnings lest they earned his displeasure.

Tyraneth, the next in line, would be given the title of Lord Crosse after their parents died, unless Ramezeth's older sister returned from the dead. Ramezeth, however, would be left here, in the wilds, with nothing! The Lord of Rerem's Sanctuary, the Master of Squalor, a Few Trees, and Dead Roses.

He threw the remains of his flowers down at his feet, and studied the drops of blood that stained them. This is what he amounted to. This is what he had. He was nothing more than the Lord of Thorns.

In the mountainous lands west of the Faydark lies a great boiling lake called Dagnor's Cauldron. The goblins that inhabit this steaming, dangerous place speak in hushed tones of a dilapidated manor in a cavern at the northernmost point on the lake, the former home of a dwarf lord many years ago. They tell of the horrors that befell this place, a necromantic curse that holds the spirits of the master of that place and all of his serfs, human, elven, and dwarven alike in thrall and has driven them mad with rage and sorrow over all the years. The dwarves know of it as well, and they have dubbed it the Estate of Unrest. They make light of it this way in the hopes of someday forgetting it.

Blundgo Skullcrush, ogre general of the Crushbone armies wasn't overly fond of it, himself. But this was where the delegate from Neriak had insisted they meet, and so he found himself standing outside the entrance with an accompaniment of orcs and goblins. His soldiers all cast fearful glances around them, hands on weapons, as if they thought this cavern entrance would grow teeth and devour them. Blundgo didn't blame them; he felt apprehension as well.

"My master is waiting right inside, General," the runner from this latest ambassador's force said, hands clasped behind his back, wearing a polite frown. He was dressed in the open grey robes of a necromancer, and his hair was pulled back tight against his head. A too-thin frame (Blundgo could see his ribs in the open front of his robe!) and sharply slit eyes marked him further as a magic user.

Blundgo, of course, didn't trust him. He couldn't trust a fighter that had forsaken weapons entirely. Plus, after the Crosse and Kairos incident, he found himself slow to turn his back on any dark elves.

Those two had set his army back too far with their little prison riot. Years of careful planning and tactics had been rendered obsolete by the lack of supplies that came from the poisoning of the water supply and the iron ore at Crushbone Castle, not to mention the slaughter of all the members of the ruling council save him. Kairos had left the continent soon after, no doubt because the cowardly dog feared what Blundgo would do to him when he found the traitor. And he would have found him. Crosse was going to pay soon, if he hadn't already.

"Wait here," he ordered his entourage gruffly. Then he stepped into the cavern, and almost cried out in rage at what he observed there.

Sitting upon a rock, surrounded by bodyguards, was Ramezeth Crosse.

No. Not Ramezeth. He had not been given a name when he asked the runner, but he was sure that this was a Crosse, not the Crosse. The image of the treasonous ambassador, shield up to defend his ally against a deadly blow when he should have been the first to try and kill her, was burned clearly into his memory. He wouldn't mistake the face.

"Greetings, General," the knight said. "I am pleased that you agreed to come. I trust Khovalir's spell of transportation didn't leave you too disoriented."

Blundgo didn't respond. The knight frowned, and rose from his rock.

"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tyraneth Crosse. You may have heard of my family." Then, he smiled slyly. "Or at least one member thereof."

"Ramezeth," the ogre breathed.

"Indeed," Tyraneth said. His smile faltered and a shadow crossed over his face. "Our mighty Queen sends her condolences that my brother caused such a problem—"

"Her condolences!" Blundgo roared. "Does Cristanos not realize that her lack of discipline within her ranks may have lost me my war? What does your queen plan to do about it? We have lost our main supply of iron ore, and more tacticians than we could afford. It will take months to get our bearings together, during which we are vulnerable. I should hope, Crosse, that she plans to do more than give me her good will!"

Tyraneth smiled again, held up a hand in a placating gesture.

"Good General," he said. "We have that all under control. Do you know why I called you here to this place of death?"

"No," said Blundgo, "but I am sure you plan to tell me."

Tyraneth nodded, that unsettlingly wise smile not leaving his face.