Earth
Clouds of iron gray covered the sky to the horizon, and a chill wind blew in from the north.
The young man could hear it howling, and felt the drizzle of rain on his exposed face. He had been told by many a noble and friend, that he looked so like his father...
If only he were that strong.
He gazed upon the shrine, carved elaborately of gold-veined white marble, and topped by a life-size likeness of a powerful knight in full-plate, lifting his broadsword overhead as if proclaiming something profound.
Indeed it did, for in a recess of the shrine was a golden urn, which housed the ashes of Vinter Loftlan.
He had died one year ago of a wasting sickness that had forced him into seclusion. So horrid was it that the man had ordered himself sealed off from the entire household. Dalton Samar, the Headmaster of the Holy Order of the White Staff had come personally to see to Vinter Loftland, and he had declared that he had done all he could to contain the sickness, but that the knight's body would have to be burned upon death in order to stop the unholy blight from spreading.
The Headmaster had been a close friend of Vinter's.
Valor Loftlan also considered the old priest an ally, and if there was nothing he could have done with his mastery of white magic, then the boy's father had been truly doomed.
Valor suddenly stood up from where he knelt before the shrine, remembering the vow to his father ten years passed.
He had not been raised like normal noble children. His father had instilled in him an acute sense of duty from an early age, and had told him that he must become a warrior like no other.
He had said it would be necessary, but he had never said why. At five years of age, the boy had not understood, but his father had taught him that he must forego the squire's training of a knight precisely because it was too limited. A knight learned the sword, and worked as a shock troop in battles; the heaviest of infantry, opening gaps in the line of the foe and demoralizing them. To this end they had excelled in history... at least known history. Many gaps were evident in the ancient tales and many speculated that the knight had once proffered a slightly different role.
It was all due to the Cataclysms. So much knowledge had been lost from ancient times because of them. There had been four of these great catastrophes... each one almost completely obliterating civilization; two of them even rearranging the face of the planet, killing and displacing millions.
Despite the knight's potent role in battle, Valor's father had told him that he must learn as many weapons as he could. He must undergo training that many a noble knight would balk at and consider beneath them. He must learn not only the sword, but also the axe, long considered a primitive weapon wielded by barbarians. He must learn the bow, often scoffed at as a peasant's weapon. His father had also taken him to train in a secluded mountain monastery outside the bounds of the kingdom to learn unarmed fighting from the serene but powerful Monks of the Unrelenting Fist. He had trained there for nearly two years, after which he had turned twelve and gone back to his family's estate within the City of Dreams, Cornelia, capital of the Kingdom of Highland.
His father had hired mercenary veterans to teach Valor the spear and halberd and he had drilled with them as he did with the sword. Each weapon had different maneuvers and tactics, and he had learned solo drills as well as how to fight in a unit. He learned the mace from an acolyte of the White Staff, and was taught great weapons: swords, axes, and hammers, from a variety of other teachers as well.
Not only weapons, but also armor training had been taught. Valor had learned light armor; padded cloth and leather, and reinforced or studded leather. He learned how they felt, wore them for days on end, ate and slept in them until they became a second skin. He wore mail as well, scale and ring and combinations of both: from a leather coat woven with scaled disks to a chain-mail hauberk. Finally he had learned to don plate-and-mail, the best personal protection anyone could get.
The boy shook his head. It didn't seem to mean much now, not with his father gone. Still, he would never relinquish his vow. Ever.
The boy looked up into the sky, his deep blue eyes longing to know if his father watched down upon him from the heavens. He felt the rain on his face, his jaw-line strong, his countenance somewhat bluff, his nose bold like his fathers. He wore his brown hair long, tied back into a tail, yet unlike his father, his hair contained a great many silver highlights. He was not prematurely aging, but seemed to possess some of the silver hair of his mother, a rare color.
As for stature, the young man was tall like both his parents, and broad in the shoulders and arms. Having done nothing but training and sparring for years, the boy was heavily muscled. Signs showed beneath his clothes, consisting of white damask: fine breeches of snug fit, and an elaborate white doublet with dagged sleeves. He wore ornamental pauldrons of worked silver, both molded in the form of the front quarter of a charging bull, the sigil of his House. His royal blue cloak was lined in ermine; similar to the one his father wore. Upon the boy's brow was a plain iron circlet used to hold back his hair.
The shrine was situated in a small alcove just before a cluster of white-barked trees that marked the southern extent of the boy's estate within the White City. He regained himself from his reminiscence and gazed at the shrine again. Reverently, he put his fist to chest – an old salute – before turning to head back toward the manor.
His mother, the Duchess of Loftlan, awaited him. She had told him today was a very special day. He did not feel it so as he descended from the hill down into the grounds proper. The walled estate was quite large, filled with gardens both decorative and practical along with a small orchard to one side. With spring having begun a week passed, the place should have been budding, but the past few years it seemed the chill of winter seemed to linger a little longer.
The winds made the boy's cloak flare as he walked along a white stone path, skirting hedges that had yet to bud, forming shoulder-high walls in a complex pattern until they tapered off before a wide semi-circular plaza just before the white facade of the manor house. A great veranda supported by white columns marked the entrance to the building, under which two large double doors led inward.
Valor stopped short before leaving the hedges, however, when he noticed his mother sitting across from a seemingly noble visitor at a white table under a peaked white tarp suspended on poles to protect from the rain. Several blue-and-white liveried servants circled the table ready to attend to any need, and Valor knelt among the hedges hoping to go unspotted while he listened.
Aria Loftlan was extremely beautiful in her late thirties, a tall slender woman that wore a dark blue samite dress, her countenance soft and friendly as she contemplated the words of her visitor. Her argent hair was worn long, a diadem of worked silver tipped with a sapphire at its fore, keeping back her bangs. Her emerald eyes were bright, and always seemed to hold a knowing light within them. Her smile seemed open and inviting, but Valor knew better. His mother was a trained member of court and could dissemble with the best of them. The boy had barely ever learned such skills, since he had been focused solely on weapons' training and combat for as long as he could remember. In seeing his mother at work, he was always in awe of her power.
The visitor was the Count Sumpter Baigan, a bluff man in his middle years, which Valor had never been able to bring himself to like. He was a lieutenant of the Royal Knights, one of Knight-General Garland's closest men in fact. He wore a dress uniform not unlike the boy's but of black damask with a scarlet cloak and a white surcoat displaying the emblem of the Royal Knights, a black sword, hilt down, upon it. He was blond with dark eyes and a bluff chin and seemed to be speaking amiably, a smile on his shaven face.
"My Lady Duchess, I am delighted that you agreed to this meeting between us. I know that you have mourned long the passing of your most noble husband, and I would wish to see you regain the happiness you once had. I know I am but one among many suitors, but I promise you all the wealth and backing of mine own House should you choose to unite with me in marriage. Such a thing would be most beneficial since our nation looms on the precipice of war with the dreaded Dragon Empire."
Aria lifted a silver goblet to her full lips before sipping lightly, and Valor knew his mother's eyes were studying the man intently without seeming to do so over its rim. "Yes, Lord Baigan, such a horrid state of affairs. I have heard that the Empire's dragoons have taken the Point of Phemnal along the Sullen Hills between our nations, displacing many hill peoples of the clans, while enticing and making use of clannish berserkers in their raids on our border forts. I do hope that Lord Garland has something in place to stop them from advancing further?"
The man looked down, smiling apologetically. "You hear a great deal, as I would expect, my Lady, but I cannot divulge such information."
The woman nodded. "Of course, my Lord, merely a curiosity on my part. With war looming, it is good to know as much as one can about the ebb and flow of battles, especially amongst the nobility. We must know so that we can prepare to shelter the people in times of need."
The man coughed lightly into his fist. "Of course, my Lady, you are a noble soul indeed. Anyhow, as for my proposal-" He was suddenly interrupted when a servant came up from the house. Valor thought he caught a scowl on the man's face but it was quickly gone.
In white livery with the crest of the charging bull upon her breast, the maid gave a slight bow. "Pardon me, my Lady, but the High Priest Dalton has just arrived. He says he has an urgent matter to speak to you about."
Concern immediately made the woman frown. She looked at the Count Baigan. "I am so sorry, my Lord, but this is an issue of much urgency if the High Priest is here in person. I must attend him."
It was clear to Valor that the man was upset, his jaw taut, but he smiled all the same and stood. "There is no need to apologize, Lady Brigada. This can wait and I have my own duties to attend to." He paused to come over and take her hand in his own. "Please, my Lady, consider my proposal in earnest. I shall call upon you soon."
Aria gave a considerate smile. "I will of course, my Lord."
With that the man left, taking a hedge-lined path around the left side of the house. When he was gone, Lady Loftlan looked over toward the edge of the hedge maze. "It is all right, my son, he is gone."
The servants seemed startled, though Valor was not, when he stood and walked up under the tarp. He had never been able to hide from his mother, not when playing games as a child, and not now.
The servants bowed at his approach and his mother stood to greet him. He was a head taller than her, much like his father had been, though she was not a short woman.
She smiled genuinely. "So, my son, what did you learn from this encounter?"
The young man scowled. "Baigan is a fool! He called you by your maiden name, an insult to father. He was upset when Rhia interrupted."
The woman nodded. "He is a boor, and poorly trained at hiding what he feels, yet he is loyal to Garland, and cautious concerning what he thinks is important. Of course, because of his association with the Knight-General and the general's four greatest backers, he wields considerable influence despite his lack of guile. There are distinct circles of power solidifying in the court of late, seemingly divided into two large camps. The most powerful contains those more in favor with the king's policies of late, containing many noble knights of the Royal Order and other nobles and merchant princes. The other camp contains many disenfranchised nobles who had once been good friends of the king, mostly headed by the older orders of knights that had refused to be subsumed into the new Royal Order under Garland."
Valor nodded. "Including father's old knighthood, the Order of the Sacred Dawn."
The Duchess nodded. "Yes, Valor, and things are only going to escalate. Your father said that he had learned of the king's true intent two years ago, but as he went to confront him, he learned something monstrous. The king had never intended an out-right invasion of the Dragon Empire. Instead, forces are moving quietly I fear... on both sides of the border. Skirmishes have intensified, but no overt declaration has been given. It is all games within games now, my son."
The boy looked off. "I don't know if I have the stomach for such games, mother."
The woman cupped his face with one hand. "No, my son, you do not, much like your father. You are both forthright and honorable to a degree that is no longer favorable... yet that is why I love you so much."
Valor's eyes closed with a sigh. "If only father were still alive."
Aria relinquished her hand. "Yes, my son, I will always miss him terribly, as I know you must. However, we must continue moving forward, for that is our duty to our people. Today is the day you will learn something truly life-altering, my son. Benson is undoubtedly entertaining the High Priest in the parlor at present and we must meet with him very soon."
The boy furrowed his brow. "Why has the Headmaster come today, mother?"
"He has a gift for you, my son, something he says your father gave to him upon his death bed; something that had to be kept from you until the appointed time."
"A gift from father?"
"Yes, Valor. Let us go, we should not keep our old friend waiting."
The boy agreed and followed his mother through the double doors and into the house's grand foyer. It was a large bi-level room with a floor of white marble, blue tapestries hanging from the walls, each embroidered with a rampant silver bull upon them. Escutcheons quartered with the House's coat-of-arms were displayed between the tapestries. Twin staircases wound up slightly connecting to an overlooking balcony that marked the second floor above.
Once inside, Aria dismissed her servants to their duties with an order to tell the cooks that a noonday meal was to be prepared. Then, just the Duchess and her son went through a smaller pair of double doors between the staircases, which led into the parlor. The room was a large square, with dark paneling along the walls, the floors layered with many plush carpets. Several high-back chairs were set up in a semicircle before a worked stone hearth across the room, alight with a crackling blaze that hardly seemed to warm the room at all. Spiced logs had been added to the fire and tinged the parlor with the scent of lavender.
Old Benson was there, the steward of the manor; a tall gaunt man in fine livery. He was nearly sixty, his face seemingly pinched in the permanent impression of smelling something bad. His beak of a nose was always lifted in the air, and his head was bald and shone brightly as if polished. He ran the household with an iron fist, answerable only to the Lady Duchess. Valor himself believed the man probably wouldn't listen to him if it weren't for the fact that he was the Lady's son.
With impeccable posture, the steward bowed sharply before Aria before gesturing toward one of the chairs near the hearth. His voice was as pinched as his face. "Your guest is here, my Lady," he announced, before leaving the room, closing the dark wooden doors behind him.
Another man stood from one of the chairs, bowing to them both. The High Priest Dalton Samar of the Order of the White Staff was a small man, getting on in years, though still fit and lean with kind gray eyes in a fatherly face. He gave a genuine smile, his white hair thin, though he sported a thick beard that went down to the chest of his white linen robes. He carried a plain staff of ashen wood in one hand and came up to greet the two.
He immediately looked at Valor appraisingly and smiled. "My boy, you certainly have gotten big in the year since I've seen you last. Fifteen-years-old and already a hardened fighter... if the tales are to be believed."
The young man looked slightly abashed. "I've only fought goblins in the pocket provinces, Headmaster, hardly a true test of strength for any soldier. It is where all the green recruits are sent to cut their teeth, since goblins are weak, disorganized, and cowardly. A true test is yet to be had."
The old man quickly looked forlorn. "I am afraid you will be tested, lad; thoroughly, and probably sooner than we all might wish."
Lady Aria looked to him. "Have you brought it, Dalton?"
The old man nodded. "I have, my Lady." He reached into his robes and brought out a plain wooden box. It fit in one hand, and he held it out to the boy.
Valor accepted it and opened the lid. Within was a small orb of what seemed to be plain glass set within. As soon as he laid eyes upon it, however, the boy felt something heavy settle over him, a kind of invisible weight that immediately produced anxiety. Suddenly grim, he looked up. "What is this orb?"
The old priest leaned upon his staff. "What do you know about the Prophecy of Lukhan, young Valor?"
The boy's brow knit. "You mean the story of the Light Warriors? Not much, only rudiments. It is said that they defeated a great evil thousands of years ago and saved the world. I don't really know how much I believe their tale because despite their victory, the Cataclysms still happened afterward."
Dalton nodded. "Yes, but at least the world existed for the Cataclysms to happen to. It was all part of a cyclical chain of events which have yet to end... or really begin for that matter."
"What do you mean, Dalton?" Valor asked.
The old man nodded grimly. "Take the orb in your hand, lad, and you will catch a glimpse of what I mean."
The boy was suddenly hesitant as he reached for the orb with his free hand. Strange impressions flitted through his mind, and he instinctively knew that taking the object would entail some kind of powerful commitment. If his father had wanted him to have it, however, the boy knew it was his duty to take it.
He grasped the orb and a radiant light suddenly flashed, filling the room. Valor jolted straight as he suddenly seemed to leave his body, thrust out into the world and flying south at incredible speeds, the land blurring beneath him. The vision slowed quickly, overlooking a small range of mountains sticking up south of lowlands. Mountains and valley both were blanketed in a diffuse tawny mist. Valor gained the impression that everything below was somehow... rotten.
Then the boy was suddenly back in his own body, his blue eyes wide as they could go. He held the orb in a death grip, shaking slightly as he came back to himself. He then slumped to his knees, suddenly drained of all strength. He was peripherally aware of his mother steadying him as he threatened to fall over. He had to work his tongue in his mouth several times before he could speak, his voice hoarse. "Dalton... what was that?"
Instead of answering the old man looked pained, his head bowed as he intoned: "The earth rots... the seas rage... the wind falters... fire grows cold. Thus the days of the final debacle are known. Only the Chosen of Light can stop this world death, imbued as they are with the power to revitalize the legendary Crystals from the darkness that strangles them. If the four do not rise, then this world will fall into unswerving chaos; war and madness will ravage the land. All things shall die..."
The boy's eyes widened with realization. "It cannot be..."
The man nodded solemnly. "I am afraid it is, Valor. You are he, the Chosen of Earth. Your father knew this before you were even born and had you trained specifically to take up this role. Nearly two years ago, Vinter and three others, myself included, undertook journeys guided by visions to find the legendary Crystals. Each one of us was granted an orb from them that contain a power unlike any other... yet this power can only be activated by the Chosen. We of the Pact, Valor, met one final time before we sought the Chosen. We had known more or less who they would be since long ago, according to the prophecy of a seer. We separated and searched them out. Your father and I had an easy time finding our Chosen. The other two, however... I am not certain, but I believe they will attain their orbs, as is destined. Afterward, the four of you must come together or this world will fall."
Aria helped her son to his feet as his strength returned to him. She looked up with apologetic eyes. "It is true, Valor. Your father confided in me, but I could not tell you of it. He said I must not. He said things must happen a certain way."
The boy suddenly felt a profound mix of emotions. His whole life had been lived in preparation for this moment. He was stunned, gaping at the old priest, suddenly feeling a sense of betrayal that was difficult to quash. It stemmed from feeling like he had been manipulated his whole life by everyone close to him, but he banished it when he realized those involved had made their own sacrifices to see him here at this point to take up such a mantle. His eyes hardened with resolve.
"Very well," he said, "What do I do now?"
His mother pulled away. "Nothing for now, my son. You have one month before you come of age. That is when your father said it would begin. For now we all must act as if nothing is amiss. Forces are moving within the White City, it is plain enough to see." She paused to smile. "And besides... you are to meet the girl your father and I had chosen for your bride."
The boy looked poleaxed. "B-Bride? Mother, you cannot be serious! After what I've just learned!"
She put a hand on her son's shoulder. "Valor, you know of her already. She is the daughter of Knight Commander Arlington, your father's lieutenant in the Order of the Sacred Dawn."
The boy thought for a second. "You mean Oster? He didn't take the title of Grand Master? I figured he would have. Father thought of him as a brother."
"It is because they were such close friends that Oster did not. He does not consider himself worthy of such a title, Valor. Indeed, he is holding the position in reserve for you."
The boy shook his head. "I am not ready to be a knight. I never underwent the formal training."
Dalton stroked his beard. "That is true, young Valor. However, you have had more training than most knight's ever do, and it is nearly universally rumored that they once had an even more powerful role in combat than they do now, so a true knight may not even exist today. The archives at the White Temple contain texts that hint at knights once working with some kind of animal, long thought to be extinct." He paused to smile wryly. "We only know that it was yellow."
"Yellow?" Valor simply shrugged and looked at his mother. "Anyhow, mother, am I to do nothing while all this is going on?"
The duchess folded her hands down before her with a slight smile. "Of course not, my son. Your regiment has been debriefed on your mission to the pocket provinces by Captain Sargasso, has it not? If so, than you may stay on the manor and continue to train. I will keep you apprised of what happens in court, and you will meet your bride-to-be. This will be sufficient for now."
Dalton nodded. "Your lady mother is right, Valor. Do act naturally and things will fall into place. When the time is right, you will meet the other Warriors of Light, and your quest will begin."
Valor suddenly looked down, a fist clenching at his side. "Do not call me such a thing, Dalton. To be honest, I am not certain how I feel about all this. It is too sudden, destined or not. I will do what must be done, but I am not ready to be called the world's savior."
The old priest bowed respectfully. "Of course, young Valor, I am certain I cannot imagine. I apologize for laying this upon you without preamble. I shouldn't expect anyone to be ready to take up such a burden easily."
His mother bowed as well. "I am also to blame, my son."
The boy unclenched his fist and sighed. "I am not blaming anyone, mother, but I am not ready just the same. I realize that I must become ready within the month. I must prepare myself."
Dalton agreed. "Yes, Valor, wise of you to say. As well, keep the orb close to you at all times; never let it out of your sight. It is your link to your birthright, and contains within it the hope of this world."
The young man had almost forgot he still held it, and opened his hand to peer at it again. He studied it, suddenly seeing a small light whirl within. He blinked and it was gone. He might have imagined it.
Regardless, he suddenly closed his hand in a fist and looked up. "I will be in the armory."