The Rise of Kings (The Flameweaver's Prophecy Book 1)

by Emery, Ben

  As impressive as the suit of armour was, it was nothing compared to watching the Flameweaver at the forge. With very little effort, he heated the metal in his hands, folding it upon itself, moulding it to whichever shape he desired. The soldiers looked on in awe. Terran had told Galarus of the abilities of the Wandeer smiths, but it hardly prepared him for the experience of actually witnessing it. Vedeon finished the sword blade he had been working on and dropped it into a barrel of water to cool. Steam billowed into the air and dissipated quickly through a hole in the roof.

  Coran whistled in amazement.

  ‘What else can you do?’ Attais asked eagerly, as a young child might when shown a simple illusion.

  ‘Anything with fire,’ Vedeon explained. He waved his hand over the forge and the flames and embers instantly vanished from the stone pit.

  ‘Father!’ Isella protested from the opposite side of the forge, where she was crafting her own wares in the same fashion as Vedeon.

  ‘Sorry, dear.’ He grinned, and, waving his hand back across the forge, immediately brought it back to life. He held out his hand in front of the curious soldiers, and a hovering ball of flame appeared in his palm. He closed his hand again, and it disappeared. This was greeted with more coos of amazement as the men edged forward to better see.

  ‘Right,’ Vedeon ended his display. ‘Back to work. I have orders to fill.’

  While the legionaries and Marrew, interested as the rest in the abilities of the Wandeer, worked with their host, Coran insisted on helping Isella with any manual labour he thought she might require. Yet the behemoth kept his distance; there was scarcely room in the forge for the other six soldiers without him, and, as tall as the Wandeer were, their ceilings were still too low for the Ironhand. Instead, he offered his services to some of the other inhabitants of Wan’Dring, who, despite their power, were not physically strong. Thus, he was able to speed up their work days by hauling tree trunks for woodworkers down the hill and into the village, or heaving carts piled high with ore from the mines in the hillside.

  ‘He hasn’t said much since we got here,’ Jaxon observed of the giant tribesman one evening, who, usually a man of few words anyway, had become more reserved upon their arrival on the island.

  ‘It pains him to be here,’ Marrew explained. ‘He should be leading the Ironhand Tribe into battle, defending his home as the champion of his people.’

  ‘Then why come with us?’

  ‘The same reason I did, Lieutenant; to assist in a more important task. It is all well and good to die in battle, but it must be the right battle. Rural will not be stopped at Gamga Ridge, but that is not to say he cannot be defeated elsewhere. We will see to this as best we can.’

  ‘You speak of death; do you not expect to survive?’

  Marrew shrugged. ‘If our people are to die, given a choice we would die with them. For them. Honourably.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Boreas stood amidst the ruined armies of the Ironhand and Torncloud Tribes. Bodies littered the dust everywhere, thousands of them, broken, blood thickly coating the ground. He smirked to himself; the battle had been won easily enough. A feat even the great General Galarus had failed to achieve.

  ‘That’s the last of them, sir,’ Lieutenant Drowda of the Fourth informed him. There were no enemies left upon the field, and none had even tried to rout.

  ‘Very good,’ Boreas replied. ‘Assemble the men and move them into the desert. We will camp here tonight and make for Ironhand Gorge in the morning.’

  The lieutenant saluted and left and Boreas returned to his own thoughts. He would be remembered well for this victory over Caldoa’s enemies; the crushing of the Tribes at the second battle of Gamga Ridge. He had led eight thousand men to victory here, against an experienced and vicious enemy. Not to mention that Wandeer. He had done some damage. At one point it seemed as though the entire canyon were folding in upon itself. It may well have done, had Saen not arrived with the army from Wornsea, and struck the Tribes in the rear. Boreas chuckled to himself. They must have been terrified as they were surrounded and hunted down. They were fools not to have surrendered on the spot. He may even have spared a few of them.

  He walked over to where the body of a particularly large tribesman lay on his back, his torso in shreds from the numerous swords and spears it had taken to bring him down. His left arm had been severed at the elbow, but his right hand still maintained a grip on the broad two-handed cleaver he had wielded. A bloody bandage sat over his left eye, yet his impaired vision had made him no less lethal. From a well selected viewpoint safely behind his own lines, Boreas had watched as this enormous brute had carved through the legionaries with ease. None had come close to killing him, until Saen had arrived. He could remember clearly the blood-curdling roar that had issued forth as the cleaver had turned against the Wornsea tribesmen in an uncontrolled fury. Eventually he was overwhelmed by the weight of numbers, though he had been one of the last enemies standing. Boreas spat on his corpse. The settlements were next, and they would burn them without mercy. The campaign was off to a smooth enough start, which was more than could be said for affairs in Alloria.

  Word had spread that Galarus still lived, and stories of his return to the city and his consequent disappearance, along with two well respected lieutenants, were eagerly traded between the public. The king had done his best to silence any grumblings among the population, and the Order had worked tirelessly to propagate the image of the former General as the spy and turncoat that he was, though few listened. Days before he left with the army, Boreas insisted that his king be careful, and even take more than two Legions to maintain the peace. Rural had declined, stating that his Palace Guard would be more than capable of dealing with any upstarts. It was the veterans that had been the issue, particularly the men of the former Ninth; soldiers that had served with Galarus for most of his career, and knew him better than any. They could be trouble soon, and the sooner this campaign was over, the sooner he could return home and take stock of the situation.

  ‘A fine victory, General,’ Saen said as he approached. ‘They didn’t stand a chance against us.’

  Boreas grunted. He did not hold the stump of a man in high regard, and, though his allegiance had been to the Legions’ benefit, he thought less of Saen for betraying his own people, much the same as Galarus had.

  ‘Where will you go now?’ Saen continued, his eyes darting left and right as though looking for someone.

  ‘Half of the Legions will head north, to Ironhand Gorge,’ Boreas replied shortly. ‘The other half will go west, to Torncloud Mountain. You and your men will show us the way through the desert.’

  ‘Of course,’ Saen agreed, his sweaty hands now fidgeting in front of him.

  ‘What?’ Boreas asked, noticing the discomfort of the man.

  ‘The…the emissary your king sent to us after the General…I mean, Galarus’ defeat…hasn’t come with you?’

  ‘I don’t know who you mean,’ Boreas paid him some attention for the first time.

  Saen breathed an audible sigh of relief.

  ‘This emissary scared you?’ Boreas was genuinely curious about this stranger now.

  Saen nodded, his jowls wobbling as he did so. ‘Like nothing else.’

  The General stared back off into the distance, musing to himself. He had no idea who the king had sent west; indeed, he had not considered for a second how the Wornsea had been won over to their side, only that his highness had told him they were allies. He shrugged. The matters of the king were none of his concern after all. He glanced back over the battlefield to where a dozen Order priests were saying prayers over the bodies of fallen Legion soldiers. They were all well respected men from the upper echelons of the clergy; not usually the type to accompany an army on the march. That too was curious, though not so much as the contents of the wagon they had brought with them. He was distracted by the Wornsea leader’s continued squirming in his peripheral vision.

  ‘Show us the way to the villa
ges,’ he ordered Saen, and the squat Tribal leader waddled off in a hurry to prepare his men.

  Attais was awoken during the night; firstly by the nagging pain in his arm from the wound he had sustained during the skirmish in the desert. Though it had been tended to as well as possible, it still yielded a mild twinge now and again; it was likely helping Vedeon out around the forge that was responsible for agitating it some more. And, secondly, by the sound of the front door creaking open.

  He had awoken just in time to see the Flameweaver leaving his house, and, judging from the darkness that still clung to the interior, and the weight of his eyelids, it was still several hours before dawn. Curiosity, more than anything, made him clamber up from the thin bedding on the floor upon which he and his companions slept and follow Vedeon into the moonlight.

  The smith had sat himself down on a bench not far from his house, on the edge of a small garden, and was leant back staring into the sky. The clouds still formed a thick ring around the island, leaving the blanket of stars directly above entirely visible. A soft breeze carried the salted aromas of the night through the air, and Vedeon breathed in deeply.

  ‘Terran is dead,’ he said, without turning around.

  ‘How do you know?’ Attais asked, taking a seat on the bench next to the Wandeer, leaning back in a similar fashion and gazing into the endless darkness, pricked with a million lights above.

  ‘We can feel these things.’

  Attais waited for a further explanation but none came.

  ‘Did you know him?’ Vedeon continued.

  ‘I only met him once. The General and Marrew knew him the best.’

  ‘Hmm,’ the Wandeer murmured, still transfixed by the night sky. ‘He was my cousin.’ He paused again. ‘He gave everything for your General. How could he have been so certain?’

  ‘Certain of what?’

  ‘That Galarus is the right man. He is a born leader, no doubt, and his military prowess is known to many. But this is a task beyond anything he has faced before.’

  Attais sat in silence, feeling, since he understood next to nothing on the subject, that he had little to contribute. Instead, he opted to simply listen to what Vedeon wanted to say.

  The Wandeer turned to look at the young legionary, white hair glowing in the pallid rays of the moon. ‘Are you aware of the prophecy that your king believes he will fulfil?’

  Attais shrugged. ‘Only what I’ve heard from the General. Rural seeks absolute power, and will conquer the world to acquire it.’

  Vedeon shook his head. ‘That is only the first passage, and it has been wrongly interpreted, either by the king or the men that recorded it long ago. What you all must understand is that the prophecy does not simply dictate what will happen, but what must happen. I have no doubt he has ignored the second and third passages altogether. I believe Terran has sent you all here so that the Wandeer might help you better comprehend the magnitude of the catastrophe about to befall your world.’

  Attais looked blankly at the Flameweaver, questions tripping each other up upon his tongue. Before he could ask anything further, he was interrupted by the emergence of a figure from around a corner.

  ‘Good morning,’ Elder Lanoan greeted Vedeon, ignoring the legionary completely.

  ‘Greetings, Elder,’ the smith replied.

  ‘I do hope I am not interrupting. I simply came to offer my sympathies at the death of Terran.’

  ‘Thank you, Elder; may his spirit traverse the Eyonian Plains.’

  Lanoan shot a glance at Attais, his calm demeanour ruffled by Vedeon’s words, until he saw the look of incomprehension on the soldier’s face. He lowered his head slightly toward the smith, and left, heading back toward the Homhall.

  ‘Time for bed, I think,’ Vedeon said, suddenly, breaking the silence. ‘We could both use the rest, I believe.’

  Attais nodded, and followed his host inside, bidding him a good night as he lay down on the floor amid his slumbering allies. A thousand thoughts swirled through his mind after his conversation with the Wandeer. Sleep would not come easily to him.

  The following morning, it was Attais that broke the news of Terran’s passing to the other soldiers, as well as the details of the strange conversation he had shared with Vedeon. Marrew had remained silent after hearing of his mentor’s death; though he knew of what Terran had intended to do, it made it no less difficult to bear. He blinked fiercely as his eyes had begun to shimmer with tears, and all had seen him clench his fists at his sides. The behemoth hung his head beside him; the death of Terran also meant the defeat of his own tribe, and the slaughter of his people. Galarus could only imagine the rage that seethed within them, and dreaded the sight of it being unleashed.

  ‘What did he say about the prophecy?’ Galarus said softly, trying to change the subject quickly, but not in a manner that would seem disrespectful.

  ‘Not much that I could understand,’ Attais admitted. ‘He thinks Rural has gotten the prophecy wrong, and that Terran sent us here so that the Wandeer would help us. It didn’t make any sense to me.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Galarus muttered, scratching the stubble on his chin. What little understanding of the situation he had was slowly being whittled away. He had expected more answers from the Wandeer after all Terran had said. Instead he found only more questions.

  Several days later, the currents of the Outer Sea carried the island within a reasonable distance of Wornsea Bay, and traders and merchants prepared to depart for the mainland. Despite protestations from Galarus, Marrew and the behemoth, that Saen had been responsible for the betrayal of the Tribes and was now allied to the king, the Wandeer still loaded their ships with wares. Though the Wandeer mourned Terran’s passing, the inhabitants of Wan’Dring harboured no antipathy toward the Wornsea.

  ‘We do not concern ourselves with the squabbles of men,’ Vedeon had explained to the group. ‘Terran was a rare exception, for which he paid the price.’

  The boats left for Wornsea, only to return surprisingly quickly, after just a couple of hours away. By all accounts, the merchants had been met at the dock by scores of soldiers who had refused them entry into the town, stating that “all trade with the Wandeer was to be postponed until such a time when further goods could be properly accommodated.”

  ‘They needed an armed guard to tell you that?’ Galarus asked Vedeon upon hearing the explanation for his swift return.

  ‘No,’ the Flameweaver replied. ‘They are frightened of us now. Since taking the side of your king against Terran, Saen fears we will take revenge against him and the people of Wornsea.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ Marrew asked, almost angrily, eager to take his spear to those that had all but destroyed his tribe.

  Vedeon shook his head. ‘Terran made his choice. We will not condemn others for making theirs.’

  ‘What now then?’ Galarus asked.

  ‘It will take us just under a month to reach the Vahc coastline from here. You are welcome to come ashore with us there. Though I imagine you will need to keep a low profile, being who you are.’

  The General nodded. ‘Rural mentioned he had bought the allegiance of the Vahc for his war against the Free Cities. Perhaps we can loosen a tongue or two when we get there.’

  From the western lip of the plateau upon which the White Palace stood, Rural thought he could just make out the runner as he quickly snaked his way through the crowds toward the Holy District. The man in question, chosen for his rhetorical prowess, had been sent out of the city in the shadows of two nights previous, and had travelled a suitable distance along the western road, to return and enter the Merchant District through Boar’s Gate. In addition to the grime accrued on his short journey, he had been suitably muddied and bloodied, to make it look like he had travelled from the conflict in the Tribal Territories. It was a dramatic flair, the king knew, but one that both he and Oliune agreed was necessary in order to better sell their ruse.

  It would not take long for the story of the return of a wounded soldier from t
he west to filter through the population; a man, who, while conspicuously making his way through the city’s streets, shouted warnings of an allegiance between the Tribes and the Free Cities. From there it would only take announcements from Palace officials, declaring that Bleaksmith weaponry had been found in the possession of the Territories, to lay a blanket of fear upon Caldoa. And in that fear they would turn to their king, who would send a grand army eastward in the defence of all Alloria, and wave upon wave of willing volunteers would bolster their ranks until none could oppose them.

  And then all the world would be his.

  While the island of Wan’Dring skirted the mainland until it was within sight of the Bladed Coast, upon which the western Vahc town of Pawt was located, the group kept themselves busy helping out the Wandeer. The contract Vedeon spent his days on was one for Alarum the Bastard and his hordes; producing two hundred crossbows and four thousand bolts. The crossbows themselves had already been completed, and it was only the missiles that needed working on. Regardless, the soldiers politely abstained from assisting in this task, to the smith’s understanding; all of Banmer knew of the constant hostility that existed between Alloria and their Vahc neighbours to the south, since even before the Incursions.