THE DARK TOWER

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PROLOGUE

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IN MARKET HALL— the fortress-city in Nemeth which had become capital of Albion for the wealth and prosperity it brought to the land, Lord Vortigern, son of Vitalis gazed upon the wondrous city from high up in his tower. Adjusting his luxurious tunic of ivory and gold as he took a deep breath in, admittedly trying to stall himself, and the inevitable. Tears had been streaking his cheeks all night, even as he observed the festivities and merrymaking down below.

And why shouldn't they celebrate?

Only a few days ago, the Imperial and Native Celts repelled a Viking invasion in southern Kantia. The reavers had tried to take the Port-city of Dubrae with more than fifty ships, each carrying a hundred Viking barbarians who were bred to kill and destroy. King Claudius Constantine of whom he was seneschal to, rode out with only three hundred knights. Between the Painted tribes of the Old North, the mysterious Scythians and various petty rebellions widespread across his domain, the king's forces were stretched dangerously thin.

Yet, like the three-hundred Spartans at Thermopylae, the Imperial-Celts were victorious, and Hengis would not step an inch further into Albion.

Vortigern sighed in quiet exasperation.

"You are troubled, my love." His beloved Severa had come up behind him, snaking her thin, white arms around his chest and resting her warm face against his back. "I can feel your thinking from across the hall."

"Just administrative troubles, My Lady," replied Vortigern, turning around to beam her a smile and a soft kiss upon her temple. Hands caressed her long, raven hair, normally unruly as her people's, was plaited, framing her face perfectly. Such beauty, such fairness, such a vulnerable heart his wife did have.

Severa wore a beautiful emerald dress that he had brought from the Imperial City. Even with the Empire's withdrawal, Albion could not shake off Imperial influence. Yes, his wife had Imperial blood, she had an Imperial family but she was born and raised a Celt. Barbaric but not warrior-like, not like the Vikings they've been fighting, not like… Rowena. For Vortigern, who hailed from the mountains around the Vulga, Severa would not his first choice, but he had grown to love her, the love of his life, the mother of his son. Constantine had championed the match of course and it would appear that the entire country loved his wife all the more for her mixed upbringing.

Fortunate, was Lord Vortigern, they say. Fortune to the king's aide to possess such a beauty by his side.

Perhaps he let the kiss linger a little too long, for her apprehension of her lord-husband made her squirm a little. "Has Vortimir returned from Lud's Town?" Lady Severa asked, a small hint of concern in her tone.

"Won't be along for another day or two, according to his messages." This was to his advantage, for he knew the heart of their son—honourable, righteous, God-fearing. Vortimir would not see what needed to be done, not in forsaking God Himself. "I need to do something, my love," he said, gravely. "And I need you to help me."

A second later the northern king took his beloved by the hand and the two ran down and into a part of the castle that she had not seen before. The ordered, firmly rectangular stones had started to transform into rock and water.

"Darling, where are we?"

Again, Vortigern said nothing. They travelled down for what felt like hours and by then it was nothing but darkness. The light came only from the fiery torch emanating in his hands. Even with their frantic movement, he could still feel his wife's delicate slender hands trembling. He felt himself hesitate, even a small bit but he couldn't, he was much too close now.

Soon they got to the end of the dry path laid out for them. At the edge of what seemed to be an underground lake of some sort. Severa gasped with wonder as she looked upon the dark waters, they twinkled strangely in the artificial light of their torch. "Sweetheart… My love," she sighed, still holding his hand. "What is this place?"

After a while, Vortigern finally turned to face her. But what she saw filled her heart with sadness and dread. The caring blue eyes of her beloved companion was drowning in a sea of red. "This place… is my power." The last words he would ever utter to her as the sound of steel ripping flesh echoed off the rock cave and the searing pain that accompanied it.

The air had been cut from her throat as the beloved noblewoman slumped down in his arms. Weakening hands reaching and pulling at his shirt, her pained voice struggling to call out his name. Vortigern held her close, eyes pooling with tears of unspeakable pain. What had he done?! He looked onto the waters and saw a pale, naked woman standing half submerged in the water. She was beautiful, with piercing blue eyes that seemed almost unnaturally captivating, and hair as black as a crypt on a moonless night.

"You know the price, my king," said this woman of the underground lake.

Vortigern understood and knelt before her, presenting to the Dark Fae his slain wife, the love of his life…the price to be paid.

The womanly creature walked over to them and lowered herself to meet the couple, though her wishes were malignant, she held a kind and reservedly warm smile when he glanced at her. "Then, do you accept your quest?"

Wordlessly, Vortigern nodded.

"In that case," suddenly the mysterious woman's warm smile contorted into a malicious, unnatural grin. "Long live…the king."

…

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Caelia: A mysterious Dark Fae beneath the fortress of Market Hall, Capital city of Imperial Albion.

Claudius Constantine: Imperial king of Albion.

Maugant: Vortigern's personal druid advisor of king Vortigern and Archmage of Nemeth.

Severa: An Imperial-Celt and wife of Vortigern.

Vortigern: Seneschal to King Constantine.

Vortimir: Son of Vortigern and Lady Severa