The Prince of Graves

by W.E. Linde

  I die on my feet.

  The cursed blade, instead of striking Frey's head, sank into a glowing blue orb that suddenly hung in the air between them. The orb flared, and Frey was thrown back as a bright blue flash blinded him. He landed heavily, and once again darkness rose up to steal away his consciousness. As he struggled to keep his senses, he noted a figure standing suddenly above him, boots planted by his head. A familiar bearded face was not looking at him; rather, he was facing the Xethicor. Both hands were swallowed by brilliant blue halos crackling with red lightning.

  A soul chilling bellow filled the battlefield, and Frey knew his life was finally departing. His final thoughts were that he had not earned his place in the Halls of the Gods. Surely he was to be cast into Hell, where the Master of the Xethicor ruled.

  Dayhoral's voice rang out then, muffled, unintelligible. He was not speaking to Frey. The last words he heard, before his mind dissolved into the awaiting blackness, were of the Xethicor's response.

  "I come to rule a nation of graves."

  Chapter 4: The Grief of Brothers

  A sickly red sun hovered over the jagged hill lands on the western side of the Vendehar River, ready to vanish under the desolate country of the Necromancer Kings. Dehrbane sat next to a fire pit and pulled his deep red cloak about him. The chill riding before the coming night was the worst yet. It seemed as though no amount of fire was able to keep him or the soldiers warm.

  It had now been two days since Laveris learned the feint suspected by their brother Ghelan was real. Dehrbane stared into the embers in the pit as he struggled with the shame of his final words to Ghelan and Frey. How stupidly he had mocked them! Although Ghelan had convinced the King to allow them to ride north to the Frost Lands to defend against the suspected attack, by Dehrbane's insistence they had fewer than two battalions.

  We need every man in the west, Derhbane had screamed at Ghelan. Your arrogance already bleeds us of our strength before the enemy can!

  The sting of tears rose in his eyes. Dehrbane blinked them away and looked to the west again. A dying sliver of molten crimson was all that remained of the sun. He knew somewhere in the gloom was the masterstroke of the Lords of the Dead, an army the size of which had never been arrayed against Valeot. Certainly the hated Xethicor led this army, but even that was not the whole of the evil coming to meet them. Dehrbane looked to the rapidly darkening sky, searching for the eerie fire the watchmen had spotted the previous night. Of all the sorceries marshaled against them, it seemed the Necromancer Kings had also chosen to awaken the dragons as well.

  And yet the guilt would not leave. Mighty and courageous though they were, his brothers faced annihilation now because of him, and with them Ceremane. Dehrbane cast aside his cloak and lowered his hand to rest upon the handle of his sword Tygrist. Although not as ancient as Valehem, Tygrist was forged shortly after the second war with the Necromancer Kings nearly eight hundred years ago. Called the Spirit Slayer, it gloried in the destruction of the servants of the Lords of the Dead. Now he felt it warm to his touch. The enemy was closer.

  "Strike us!" he whispered to the darkness. "Get this over with. I swear if we prove the victors I will lead our armies back to my brothers." The fire pit then grew sallow, the embers black. The chill grew colder still as a wind rose from the west. Dehrbane's eyes watered, this time from the icy fingers of the wind. He took no note as his fire went cold. His eyes were fixed on the western land he could not see.

  Thunder rolled, though the sky was clear and the stars burned brightly. A spike of fire rose in the distance. Then another, perhaps a mile farther north. With alarm he noted the fire was reflected in the river that lay only three miles from his position. Before he could utter a word horns began to sound, tearing through the night.

  The enemy was upon them.

  Chapter 5: The Great City

  Frey was aware of a deafening wind. Not just the sound. He felt it upon his skin, which although cold, was far warmer than the inside of his body. He felt frozen, colder than the waste land he had fought in. He opened his eyes.

  He lay upon a bare patch of rock in the midst of an immense river, the shores of which were so far removed on both sides of him that he could barely make them out as darker borders to the waters. The river was black and powerful, racing by at great speed toward a precipice so wide the ends could not be seen. The sky above was pitch, as was the sky beyond the falls. Frey could not tell how he was able to even see the landscape around him, as there was no moon, sun, or stars.

  He was not alone. Quickly he stood, and turning away from the mad, frothing waters he faced a dark cowled form. The robe was brown, and about the waist was a silver belt.

  "What is happening? Is this the land of the dead?" he asked the apparition.

  "My prince, you yet live, though death yonder calls to you."

  Frey knew the voice at once. "Dayhoral?"

  "Yes my lord," he answered, although his features still were shadowed by his cowl. "Your wounds should be fatal. The blade of the Xethicor was not entirely turned away by my spell. It has cursed your blood, and your body, nearly lifeless, is now draped over a slain archer's steed. But Layarax is the mightiest wizard of this age, and he has taught me much. This enchantment has prevented you from crossing over."

  Frey turned back toward the falls. "What lies beyond? Hell?"

  "I do not know," said Dayhoral. "None do. Although the world is infected with countless strange spirits, there are none who have gone beyond those waters who have ever returned to tell."

  Frey closed his eyes, feeling the roar of the water as it cascaded over the unfathomable precipice. The sound shook his frame, and his thoughts became unfocused as they were drawn into the everything that was the end of the river. Through the shaking and turmoil, he heard Dayhoral's voice calling his name. With reluctance he opened his eyes.

  "Prince Frey," said the wizard, his voice floating on the surreal wind rushing with the waters past him. "Look upon me. I am the only link to the land of the living for you now. You can still perish, and if that happens, I fear all hope for Valeot will perish with you."

  "We only need to hold out until Laveris secures the western front. He will then be able to send back enough of his forces to defend Ceremane."

  "Your brothers face dangers as great as that which you have already met. As Ghelan met. They may not live to bring aid." Dayhoral's voice was elemental, his words without emotion or empathy.

  Once more he turned toward the falls as though he might penetrate the darkness and see his brother. Again the world-shaking sound of the waters rose, this time with the promise to sweep away his grief and anger. His skin grew colder still.

  As before, he heard Dayhoral's voice. It was not mixed with the sounds of the water and wind this time, but it rose over it in conflict.

  "My lord! Your kingdom needs you! Without you, all will kneel before the Necromancer Kings!"

  Frey opened his eyes and found his head was only inches above the ground, his posture bent over as though bowing before the Void ahead. With effort he stood once more and turned to face Dayhoral.

  "What hope is there? There are no commanders strong enough to replace Laveris if he perishes. I have already been crushed beneath the coming doom!"

  For a moment Dayhoral did not answer. The omnipresent sound of wind and water was all there was. When the wizard finally spoke, it was as if he had not heard the prince.

  "We ride now back to Ceremane. You lie senseless on a steed being guided by Vraim, who although could not stand in the presence of the Death Knight, never fled. I rescued the both of you, and we now flee south to prepare the city for siege."

  "Damn it Dayhoral! Defend her with what? We are routed on all sides!"

  "No, my lord. There are still people able to bear arms in defense of Ceremane. Straggling forces pulled from the south await orders from either the northern or western fronts. As fortune would have it, a captain of Deihaim rides now to the old city to pledge his men to you
r father. And although the battle in the west is dire, my lord Layarax still lives, and a sizable number of Valeot's sons remain as a bulwark for now. If the sons of Atherion can rise and rally the kingdom, there may yet be hope."

  "This son of Atherion has already failed. I will return to my father, and I will do what I can. But while the Death Knight leads the Dagir Xethu, we only prolong the fall of our kingdom."

  Again Dayhoral was silent. His shrouded head turned slightly as though listening to something from behind him in the darkness.

  "We are approaching Ceremane. Your wounds are severe still, although I've managed to dress them and heal them to a point. You must be strong." Frey nodded, but the wizard continued more forcefully.

  "Prince Frey, in the coming days more than the fate of Ceremane will be determined, more than the fate of Valeot. The August Kingdom is the last of the kingdoms of Maladine. If we fail… if you fail… then the last vestiges of what is good and noble will fall to the Lords of the Dead."

  Frey opened his mouth to answer, though with what words he had no clear idea. The roar of the winds and the waters suddenly ceased, and the quiet was unsettling. He opened his eyes, and before a madness of terror overtook him the sight of Ceremane the Great filled his vision.

  Frey sat up and seized the reins from Vraim, whose eyes opened wide with shock at seeing his nearly dead prince rise with vigor. Before he could utter a word Frey held up his hand.

  "Dayhoral and I ride to the throne room, and will enter through the Wheat Gate. Faithful Vraim, outside the Pilgrim's Gate are forces from the south and east awaiting our command. There is also a full battalion of warriors arriving from Deihaim even as we speak. Go to them, and tell them they will fight under Prince Frey for the very survival of their kingdom. Go now!"

  Vraim hesitated only a moment, and then despite his bewilderment, a smile cracked his lips. His prince was back, and with him, hope. With a shout he turned his mount to the right, galloping hard to the western wall and the large Pilgrim's Gate. Dayhoral spurred his horse up next to Frey.

  "Your presence brings encouragement, and the love of your subjects will be a powerful weapon against the coming army," said the wizard.

  Frey watched Vraim charge hard across the flat grassland, and then looked at the city. The white walls were fortified, and although a great number of her fighting men were emptied and mostly locked in battle along the River Vendehar, Frey could still see soldiers manning the watch towers. Probably infirmed or youths, he thought grimly.

  "Even if we somehow hold off the Dagir Xethu, and turn them away, the slaughter will be unthinkable. Ceremane will be more a tomb than a city."

  Dayhoral looked to the ground. Frey drove his heels into his mount, and sped south towards the Wheat Gate in the northern wall.

  Before following, Dayhoral looked back toward the north. The black clouds and lightning hung over the horizon like the galleons of the dead, sailing towards the last bastion of the living. A shudder ran through the wizard, and he turned again south. Frey and his steed were shrinking into the distance.

  "A city or a tomb?" he asked himself, and the words of the Xethicor burned anew in his mind. I come to rule a nation of graves. He forced aside his thought, and with a command to his horse he followed the prince.

  * * *

  Frey thundered through the narrow length of the Wheat Gate after the watchmen recognized him from afar and swung open wide the heavy iron portcullis. Horns blared, and voices called "Prince Frey has returned!"

  The war had drained the city of much of its vitality for over two years, and though the morning grew late only a few merchants and subjects had to move aside as Frey drove his exhausted steed south over gray slate rock streets. The ragged lanes sloped gently toward the wide River Lhorost, which bisected Ceremane. In the center of the city, built into the tall cliffs on the western shore of the Lhorost, rested the royal palace.

  A massive dome formed the center of the palace complex, made with azure and purple stones painted with gold and silver. To the north and the south, one on each side, smaller domed fortresses connected to the great palace building. The entire palace was surrounded by a thick inner wall manned with stout guards, elite soldiers of the army of Valeot.

  These guards too recognized the prince, and made way to allow him entry through the gate and into the courtyard. Swiftly he dismounted, intending to pass through the palace entryway and on to the throne room. As he handed the reins of his steaming and trembling horse to a palace page, a slender figure, watching from a nearby balcony, caught his eye.

  Looking down on the courtyard, her auburn hair pulled back into a long braid, stood Elelluin, a daughter of the House of Caiste and betrothed of Laveris. She was dressed in the rustic brown and black wool of the soldiers of the Great Duchy. Long before Deihaim moderated the Northmen that dwelt on the fringe of the kingdom, the people of Caiste had lived for centuries under the threat of attack by the savages. The people were of the stock of old Maladine, however, and both man and woman in the Duchy answered the Duke’s call to defend the realm. The Duchy had ever been renowned for her soldiers, and from her garb Frey could see Elelluin was to lead the Caiste soldiers in the defense of the city.

  Stoically she searched him from afar. Even in the distance her look was piercing as she sought some sign from Frey about his elder brother. Frey met her gaze, and he saw understanding press her shoulders down. Quietly she stepped back, into an inner room, and disappeared from his sight.

  Frey wanted to take the stair and comfort her, the woman whose fierce intellect and beauty captured the hearts of all the sons of Atherion. He steeled himself, and instead pushed past the growing crowd of court advisers and viziers, ignoring their demands to know of news from the north.

  He strode to the grand entranceway. A pair of oak doors, two stories tall and bound with iron, opened into a richly decorated foyer. Deep stained oak panels lined the walls, adorned with carvings depicting the struggles of the Remnant Kingdoms since the Fall of Maladine one thousand years ago. A topaz ceiling, formed by a portion of the outer edge of the great dome of the palace, curved away and vanished behind intricate masonry.

  Frey saw the powerful form of Canerion the Prophet standing in the center of the foyer. His torso was naked, exposing mighty sinews and a thick chest that belayed the elder years of the prophet, whose head was crowned with thick white hair and a gray beard.

  "Prince Frey!" he called, his wild eyes wide with concern. "Wizard, you have done well to keep the young one alive. Attend to me, my lord." Frey did not try to hide his impatience.

  "In time, revered one, if there is any to be had. I must report to the King." The prophet's great hands shot out, seizing Frey by the shoulders. Pain shot through Frey's left side.

  "Prince Frey! A few moments do I need. Before your audience with the King, you should take on wisdom." The old man's gray eyes were tumultuous, his countenance nearly mad. So intent was he that Frey nodded, and as he stepped out to follow the prophet he winced. Looking down, he saw he stood in a small pool of blood. The prophet turned back and regarded the fluid that oozed through Frey's armor.

  "You are harmed, but not broken. Valeot... nay, the last sons of Maladine need a prince now who can sacrifice more than blood to save the kingdom." Again he turned and hurried down a corridor that branched off to the right of the main passageway.

  Chapter 6: The Scrolls of Prophecy

  The prophet cast open a thick oak door adorned with the archaic lion emblem of the kingdom of Maladine. That great nation once dominated the land from the eastern ocean to the western ocean, from the grim Deihaken Mountains in the north to the desert lands of the mystics in the south. The Royal Histories, as well as the legends of Frey's people, told of a glorious kingdom ruled by mighty kings who respected the prophets. Peace was their shield, wisdom their strength, and righteousness their sword.

  Then the necromancers came, and their dark arts corrupted the kings and the princes of Maladine. A century after
the spiritists first whispered promises of power not only in this world, but in the world of the dead, insurrections sprang up. Led by royal clans who sought to seize the throne first, and then immortality after that, civil war spread throughout the kingdom. The prophets continued to counsel the kings, but eventually they were forced to flee as the kingdom crumbled. The center of the great nation fell under the power of Mahakir, youngest son of Berinshar, the last King of Maladine. Mahakir was a cruel man who embraced the necromancers. He built a massive fortified city he named after himself, and Mahakir has ever since been the home of the greatest of the spiritists.

  The door opened up to a wide and well-lit room with a low ceiling. A series of arch-windows lined the east wall, and the Lhorost could be seen as well as the Middle Bridge spanning it. The other walls, made of blue-painted stones carved from the cliff the palace was constructed on, were otherwise undecorated. Heavy black wooden tables lined the walls, as well as a number of like-styled chairs.

  Near the center of the room was a crystal dais which stood waist high. The light from the east windows cast prisms through the crystal along the walls. Atop the dais rested a massive book, clearly ancient, bound in cracked brown leather and filled with yellowed parchments and dried animal skins.

  Frey had seen the book before. It was the Vhendis, the great Tome of the Prophets. Normally the Tome was kept in the Citadel of the Magi, in the southern portion of the city, but the King had ordered it brought to the palace as his sons were preparing to lead the battles in the north and east. He regarded the book reverently, although in truth he felt uneasy when near it.

  Canerion stalked over to the crystal dais, and although his demeanor suggested he would simply rip the massive tome from the table it rested upon, he slowed and carefully opened the cover. Gingerly he turned the pages. Occasionally he would stop and read, and then he would turn more quickly.

  Frey felt the room move, and then realized he was losing his senses. The wounds of the past days coupled with the punishment of their rapid journey were not lost on his body, and now fatigue assailed him as he stood still and watched the prophet. As his mind grew hazy, Dayhoral reached out and steadied him. Then the prophet spoke without turning to face them as he continued to search the Vhendis.