The Steel Lord: Book 01 - BannerFall

by Jason McWhirter

  “But Father, we were just drinking wine and talking. I swear…”

  “It matters not!” the king interrupted. “You put yourself at risk, you put your position at risk, but more importantly you put your kingdom at risk. And not for the first time. Do you not understand that everything we have, everything we do, we do for our people!?

  “I do not see how sharing a few glasses of wine with a beautiful woman can put the kingdom in danger.”

  King Enden sighed in frustration, turning his back on his son. His long dark hair reached his shoulders, and despite the fact that he was nearly fifty five years old, he stood tall, his broad shoulders and strong back evident beneath the night robe he wore. “Our people must feel confident in their prince. In their future king,” King Enden continued, his voice softer, his anger seemingly spent. “You are more to them than just a man. You are a symbol. You represent everything that makes Dy’ain strong and respected, and if you fail to exhibit those qualities, they will lose respect for you. You cannot lead without respect.” The king turned around to face them both. “Jarak, I am sending you away to the home of your uncle. You will go to Lyone on the Pell River and serve my brother. Maybe there you will learn what it means to be a leader.”

  Rath glanced at Jarak who stood speechless, a look of surprise and disbelief on his face. Lyone was the western garrison located on the Pell River, near Kael. It protected the kingdom’s western border, and over the last fifty years has been a war zone. The Saricons took the city of Fara nearly thirty years ago, and since then have been fighting the last remaining cities still under control of House Kaleck, the ruling family of Kael. Lyone was perhaps the most dangerous place to be in all of Dy’ain as it protected the border between Kael and Dy’ain. House Dormath signed a treaty over twenty years ago wherein they vowed to help stop the Saricon war machine, sending troops from the garrison into Kaelian lands to help them fight against the common enemy, one who eventually wanted to control Dy’ain and the Kul-brite steel mines. So far the combined forces of House Kaleck and Dormath have kept them at bay; but the conflict between the Saricons and Kaelians has kept the region unstable for years. And eventually, if the combined armies of Kael and Dy’ain are defeated, then the invading Saricon armies would spill over the Pell River and into Dy’ain.

  “But Father,” Jarak stammered. “I…it is dangerous there.”

  “It is. You will leave in two days. Serix will go with you to continue your training.” The king saw Jarak’s eyes dart to Rath. “And no, Rath will not be joining you.” King Enden addressed Rath for the first time. “Son, I know you were dragged into this so you will not be punished. You will remain here and continue your studies. In time, if you show the talent that Master Fallon speaks of, then I may call on you to serve House Dormath again. But for now, complete your studies and stay out of trouble. You may go.”

  “But, my King, I was partly to blame for this outing. I knew it was wrong and yet I succumbed to Jarak’s urging.”

  “Which is why I am not punishing you.”

  Rath was shaking his head. “I am the prince’s tutor, and I willingly joined Jarak when I knew in my gut I should not. I should be punished as well. Let me go with Prince Jarak as punishment so I may continue his education.”

  “I appreciate your dedication and honesty, young man, but the type of training that Jarak will endure will not involve books and paper. You will not be needed there and you would only be a distraction to him. My decision is final. You may go.”

  Rath gave Jarak a mournful and defeated look. He was worried for his friend. But there was nothing he could do, so he turned and walked out through the anteroom’s solid oak door.

  “Father, please give me another chance,” Jarak pleaded.

  The king sighed wearily. “I’m sorry son, but you’ve had enough chances. I’ve been too easy on you, and I’ve sheltered you far too long. You need to learn what it means to be a king. Now I must get some sleep. I suggest you do the same.” He walked around the desk and placed his calloused hand on his son’s shoulder, then sighed, and left him to his own thoughts.

  The next day King Enden Dormath woke early, his restless sleep plagued by the knowledge that he was sending his son into certain danger. Quietly slipping out of bed, he dressed silently as the first rays of the morning sun crept through the large draped window that occupied most of the western wall. He needed to think, and the best place for that was at his private temple.

  He made his way through the silent halls until he came to the large double doors on the far end of the grand entrance to the palace. The palace was U shaped, and the impressive temple was built on the bottom of the U, extending beyond the palace and connected to it only by the doors attached to the grand entrance. The double doors were twice the height of a man, and the two together were just as wide. Expertly carved into the doors was Argon’s symbol, a circle with four intersecting lines, each ending in a point just beyond the circle. The points represented all four directions, symbolically representing Argon’s all-encompassing power. The two doors split the carving in two, and it was so expertly done that you had to look close to see the doors seem. The lines were filigree’s of a darker wood, elegant and decorative, and no matter how many times he had passed through these doors, their exquisite craftsmanship never failed to impress him.

  He pushed open the doors and walked inside to the spacious room. The high ceilings made the room seem even larger. Rows of benches faced a giant wooden statue of Argon, with his wife, Felina standing behind him, her long arms wrapped around him in a loving embrace. Argon wore a loose flowing robe, draped gracefully around his body and leaving his strong muscular arms exposed. Every fold of the fabric, every detail of his musculature, and every wavy strand of hair was meticulously carved, adding to its life-like appearance. The entire sculpture was three times taller than the king, and both figures had been carved from the trunk of a giant oak tree. His father’s father before him had built the temple and commissioned the piece. It was the most impressive carving he had ever seen. If he didn’t know better he would swear that every time he looked at the statue it seemed to move, as if the giant figures were standing in a gentle breeze, causing the gossamer fabric of their robes and the long strands of their hair to subtly move in the air. Placed before the impressive statue was an altar carved from a slab of white marble that had been polished to a smooth sheen. Argon’s symbol had been carved into the front of the stone that faced the benches, and inside the circle the symbol of House Dormath, a mountain with crossed swords before it, had also been included. Square windows occupied the upper reaches of the tall walls, flooding the spacious room with light. During religious festivals or other events the temple could accommodate up to two hundred people.

  King Enden walked toward the statue, his footsteps on the white stone pavers echoing in the empty chamber. Just as he sat before the altar, a door to his left opened and a tall man wearing the dark gray robes of a prelate stepped inside. The man looked over and when he saw the king, a smile quickly replaced his startled expression.

  “Forgive me, my King, I did not expect you at such an early hour.”

  “Worry not, Prelate Tyrick, I could not sleep and needed to do some thinking. Do you mind sitting for a while? I could use some council.”

  “Of course, I was just coming in early to prepare for today’s service.” Prelate Tyrick was in his sixties, but he moved with the grace of one much younger. His graying black hair was shaved short to the scalp. Dark bushy eyebrows contrasted sharply with his fair skin which, despite his age, shone with vibrancy typical of one much younger. High cheekbones and an angular jawline made him the most handsome prelate in Cythera. Prelates were at the top of the Argonian religious hierarchy. The clergy was organized into three rankings. There were ten First Rank prelates scattered throughout Dy’ain, Kael, Gilia, and Layona. They formed the Grand Council which governed all Argonian temples throughout Corvell. Below them were Second Rank prelates who managed the larger temples of the more
populous cities throughout the lands, followed by Third Rank prelates whose job was to run the smaller temples that were more common in small towns and rural villages. Prelate Tyrick, having the honor of running the king’s private temple, was a prelate of First Rank. All prelates came from noble families, and as such inherently possessed the Way. Tyrick was a Sapper, having the ability to draw in spells and diffuse them, making them harmless. He had never used his abilities in combat, which was fine by him as he would rather spend his days studying the words of the Argot. Tyrick sat down next to King Enden, his intelligent blue eyes looking deep into him. “What is on your mind?”

  “I am sending the prince to Lyone tomorrow,” he whispered, looking up at the large statue of Argon and Felina before him.

  Tyrick paused, waiting to see if he would continue. But he didn’t, so he spoke up. “And you are wondering if it was a wise decision?”

  The king looked at him, his eyes pleading. “Lyone is dangerous, and he is untried…I,” he paused, his hands balling into fists as he looked away again. “I do not know if the lessons he will learn there are worth the risks.”

  “You mean the risk of him dying.”

  “Yes.”

  “I am reminded of something mentioned by The One in the Argot. He said, ‘Man is nothing without risk, as it is risk that makes a man. The absence of risk is bones, white and bare, stripped of life, unmoving beneath the heavens.’ ”

  King Enden put his forehead in his hands, rubbed his eyes and sighed in frustration. “Poetic words but they help me little. I understand the need to take chances, but he is my son.”

  “That is where you are wrong.”

  King Enden stopped rubbing his face and lifted his head, his dark eyes narrowing as he looked at the prelate. “What do you mean?”

  “I meant no offense, my King. But first and foremost he is our prince, the next king of Dy’ain. His relation to you as your son is an emotional connection and nothing more. You need to let go of those emotions before you can decide if your choice was a good one.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Ask yourself this question…is Prince Jarak ready to rule?”

  “He is not,” King Enden replied instantly.

  “Can he learn to rule here at Cythera?”

  King Enden thought for a moment. “He cannot, which is why I sent him away.”

  “I see. And what can he learn at Lyone?”

  “To lead men, to earn respect, to fight…to be a king.”

  “Well then, you have answered your own question. If you just want a son, then keep him here. If you want a king, then send him away. It is not an easy thing for a father, but you are not just a father, you are a king. Is there anything else I can do for you? If not, I have some work to attend to.”

  King Enden was shaking his head, but his mind was elsewhere, processing the simple logic. “No, no, you may go. Thank you, Tyrick, as usual your council is wise.”

  Prelate Tyrick stood and bowed. “I am at your service.” Then he turned away, stepped up onto the raised dais, and slipped through a door hidden behind a large stone column.

  King Enden Dormath looked up at the statue of Argon and Felina. “I don’t ask much of you, but today I ask that you protect my son. Please, keep him safe so that he may spread your word.” Then he closed his eyes, whispering the words of the protection prayer that he had been taught so long ago. “The light of Argon warms us, The tears of Felina nurture us, The power of them both watches over us, Wherever we are, they protect us, and where they are, all is well.”

  3

  Chapter

  At first we didn’t know much about the Saricons. They were a foreign people, arriving on the shores of Karak in the largest ships that anyone had ever seen. Their skin was very pale compared to the people of Belorth or Corvell, although a similar skin tone can be found if you travel far north to the lands of Palatone. Their hair, too, was light, occasionally almost white, their eyes shades of blue and green. They had large imposing frames, and were easily a head taller than the peoples of Belorth and Corvell. Their women were nearly as tall as the men, and strong, often fighting alongside their men. And although it is not unheard of for women to become warriors in Corvell, it certainly isn’t common. But these strange newcomers held few distinctions between the sexes, and some women even became military leaders, leading armies into battle.

  But it didn’t take more than a few cyns before we began to learn more. They were a marauding people who lived for war, their angry god Heln the catalyst for conquest. They lived to conquer, to plunder, to gain wealth, and to spread their religion. After taking most of the lands of Belorth, they had set their eyes on Corvell, their main goal to control the Kul-brite trade.

  Saricon leadership consists of a ruling council of Tongras, or warrior priests. There are twelve Tongras, each having earned his or her position through intelligence, commitment, and strength. We know that these Tongras attained their positions by attending some sort of school where they underwent specialized training. Young Saricon children that show promise are recruited and hand-picked to attend this school. Over the next fifteen years they are indoctrinated into their religion and forged into warriors, with only the very best reaching the pinnacle of leadership, to become a Tongra.

  A Tongra presides over any land they conquer, reporting back to the Great Council. The Council would become smaller as more territories are conquered and the Tongras remain to rule them. We know that a Tongra sits on each of the thrones in Karak, Enoreth, Argos, YaLara, and the city of Fara, from where we have learned they are trying to take the lands of Kael, their main target, Dy’ain and the Kul-brite trade. We can only assume that a few Tongras remained at home, wherever that home may be, leaving at least a handful to lead their armies as they conquer Belorth and Corvell. This is the extent of the knowledge we have so far about the Saricons, but I fear we will learn more than we desire soon enough.

  Journal entry 23

  Kivalla Der’une, Historian, Keeper of the records in Cythera, capital of Dy’ain

  * * *

  5087, the 14th cyn after the Great Change

  Brant had been walking all day, his wool bag filled with his few personal belongings slung over his shoulder. He had been told by the wardens that a small village could be reached within the day if one pushed himself, which was exactly what Brant had done. He was tired, but he had certainly experienced worse fatigue than what he was now feeling. The mines and the fighting had made him extremely strong and fit, but he had to admit that his feet were a bit sore. His threadbare socks did little to protect them from his hardened leather boots, and they simply were not accustomed to walking long distances.

  Luckily, just as dusk was beginning to fade into night, he spotted the glowing lights of the small village just up ahead. Brant sighed gratefully, eager for some warm food and rest for his weary feet. He had plenty of water in his water skin, but the only food he had was a small hunk of cheese and stale bread that he was able to purchase for a tigg prior to his departure. He had eaten hardly anything since his morning meal, and his meager provisions were gone by mid-day.

  As he approached the village he observed that it was no more than a small collection of buildings flanking the main road. Kulvar Rand had told him that the village was called Bygon, named after the creek that flowed through the middle of it. The headwaters of the creek started at the Devlin Mountains, the tall, sharp peaks jutting into the sky, now silhouetted by the setting sun. From where he stood it was a picturesque view, white snowcapped peaks highlighted in pinks and blues, rising in the distance behind the village. Kulvar had also informed him that the outlying lands surrounding the village supported many small farms and grazing land for sheep and cattle herders, the small creek providing water for irrigation and their animals. The steppes of Dy’ain emerged from the rolling hills east of the Devlin Mountains, continuing across the kingdom before dissipating into the forested region along the coast. The treeless grasslands provided a vast and fertile lands
cape for farming and grazing, and since they were far from any major metropolis, the land was cheap, with minimal taxes. A hard working individual could make a living for himself in these parts, and Brant was hoping that he might find someone willing to offer him some work.

  The road leading into the village was only barely illuminated by the faint lights from the buildings that lined it. But the building he was interested in was well marked with burning torches, positioned so one could read the sign in the front of it. At this time of the evening there would only be a few shops open, and the one he was looking for was called the Axe Room, the local inn and eatery. The sign was built of weathered wood, and attached to it by metal brackets was an old rusty battle axe, and underneath the axe was the word ‘room’. He had found the Axe Room.

  As he neared the heavy oak door he heard the faint sounds of music and laughter. He smiled in anticipation, eager to start his adventure. As he pushed the door open a wave of warm air enveloped him, soothing his cold and windblown face. The small room was simple and cozy, warmed by a large open fire in the middle, the smoke rising up through a gap in the roof, and protected by a raised roof above that. The square fire pit was built of large rough stones, and an assortment of tables and chairs filled the space around it. At the back was a small serving bar, behind which were stored large barrels of ale and wine, each one labeled with a wooden placard. Oil lanterns adorned and illuminated each table, while more hung from metal brackets along the walls and beams that formed the stick built frame of the room.

  Brant looked about, noticing maybe ten people sitting in various locations, talking, drinking and eating, a few of them stopping momentarily to look at the newcomer. To his right was a young woman playing a harp, the soft melodious notes filling the small space with a sense of tranquility. He maneuvered his way through the tables and approached the bar. Behind the counter stood a gray haired man, his back to Brant, filling a clay jug from a barrel labeled ‘Ander’s Red’. A young serving girl stood at the bar, her tray resting on the counter and filled with a large plate of smoked meats and cheeses.