Chapter One
Azeron looked around his tiny keeping cell and frowned to himself. Day three, he thought. The tall man was none over twenty years of age with coal black eyes and hair the same shade of onyx that stood in great contrast to his fair skin. He sat in the corner of the small jail cell now, in nothing but a pair of tattered under shorts and a worn shirt. He had grown accustomed to the hard cold ground and it didn't bother him at all. He moved his head just enough to see the jailor use a rusty key to open the iron door.
"Its time," the man said, holding the door open for the immense prisoner. Azeron sat there, unmoving for a moment before he stood, which was a difficult task for a man in shackles. The iron braces were around both wrists and both ankles. They were connected by long chains with links as thick as a man's thumb.
Azeron followed the guard, armed with a short sword at his left hip out of the cell and down a long corridor. The hall was lined with neighboring cells on either side. The corridor led to a set of giant wooden doors guarded by an archer on either side. Azeron saw the arrowheads gleam in the dim light of the torches that were hung on the walls on either side of the doors. The two men heaved the doors open and Azeron and his escort stepped through.
The room on the other side of the doors was the court room. There were rows of witness benches lined on the sides of the red carpet that lead down the center of the room. At the end of the carpet, there stood a podium with a chair to the left of it. Behind the podium sat a stout man wearing a red cape with white rabbit fur lining the inside. Upon his head laid a crown studded with red jewels. He had a neatly shaven beard that was as blonde as the hair under his crown, and eyes as blue as the sky. He was Artimos, King of the men of Talinaar. To the King's left sat a thin man holding a scroll under his arm. With the wave of the King's arm, he cleared his throat and spoke.
"This is Azeron, 25 years of age, brought before the king on the charge of the murder of the young Prince Victor. As is law in The Kingdom of Tenaaris, the fate of this man rests in the hands of the Monarch in power at the time of the committed crime."
"Thank you, Seer Reginald," said the King without taking his eyes off the alleged killer of his son. Azeron could almost feel the stare of the King as he stared back into his sapphire eyes with his own piercing gaze of hatred. Reginald returned to the side of the king, closing the scroll as he did so.
"Your Majesty, it is time for you to make your sentence," said the Seer, in his nasally voice. The ends of his pointy moustache twitched when he spoke.
The King sat unmoving for a while before he finally stated, "You have taken something that means very much to me and now I am obliged to return the favor. Tell me, Azeron, what is something you hold very dear?"
The prisoner did not reply for a while but instead stared at the iron shackles that restrained his wrists. He was thinking of his own family and for a small moment he almost felt sorry for what he had done. Almost.
"You have nothing to return. I did it to repay you. While you were in your castle feasting and enjoying company, I was away in a strange land fighting for your safety. And when I returned, my house was not on top of the hill where I left it. Nothing was there but ashes. My child and my beloved perished. You see, you are the murderer and I bring the justice."
"Nonsense," shouted the king. "You took the life of my only son in cold blood! Now you will pay!" He turned to Reginald. "He is sentenced to life on the Unknown Island. Now take him out of my courtroom!"
The two guards took Azeron by the shoulders and dragged him from the courtroom. They walked through corridors for what seemed like eternity to the dark haired man in shackles. He did not struggle against them; he just walked at his own pace out of the room. He was still in shock from the last words the King had said. No one ever returned from the Desolate Unknown. Brave explorers headed for the land to explore and were never heard of again.
When they reached the outside of the building, the escorts shoved Azeron into a small carriage drawn by a single horse. There was a single window at the far end of the cart. It was barred, and the light fell onto the floor like stripes. The armed guards chained his wrists to the floor of the cart, giving him enough lead to stand with his hands drawn down to the front of his waist.
Then the cart lurched forward, sending the prisoner face first into the hard floor of the cart. He just laid there for a moment before he stood up again. Through the blood that was seeping down his forehead, he peered out the barred window. He made out the cottages and other buildings as they went by. The town was familiar to him and he recognized it as Dale, the small town on the coast of Tenaaris.
There was one thing, however, that Azeron did not find familiar. There was a crowd of people on both sides of the little road the cart traveled on. They were watching the cart as it went by, shouting insults and throwing the first things they could get their hands on. One of the closest people to the little cart was a man of about twenty. He picked up a stone the size of a goose egg and hurled it at the prisoner. It struck Azeron in the head, right between the eyes, and sent him into unconsciousness.