When the young knights had gathered to begin their game, Michael had decided to cast some of the smaller children as halflings, and an argument had erupted when thirteen-year-old Lord Corwin had insisted that there were no halflings in Ceriha at the time the battle had occurred.
Michael had insisted that there were, and his perennial supporters, who had learned the art of sycophancy at a very early age, immediately backed him up, whether they privately agreed with him or not. Corwin wouldn’t budge, however, maintaining that it was a fact, and is so Michael, convinced that he was right, turned to Aedan to settle the dispute. When Aedan had confirmed that Lord Corwin was, indeed, correct, Michael had snorted with disgust, then shrugged it off and cast the smaller children in the role of dwarves, instead.
It occurred to Aedan that there had been few dwarves at the Battle of Mount Deismaar, but since none of others seemed to know that, he prudently decided to leave well enough alone. Michael had given him a dirty look when he took Corwin’s side, and Aedan knew that look too well. Prince Michael did not like to be contradicted, regardless of the facts, but Aedan wasn’t going to be for him.
The truth was that halflings were unknown in Cerilia until about five hundred years ago, long after the Battle of Mount Deismaar. Legend had it that the halflings had fled from their ancestral homeland in the mystic Shadow World to escape some nameless horror that had threatened their existence. Though halflings rarely spoke of it themselves, the bards embellished on this opportunity to whatever fanciful extent their imaginations would allow. They spoke of a “Cold Rider” who appeared one day in the world of faerie, the spirit world, and slowly, it became the Shadow Worldold, gray and foreboding. And the halflings, creatures half of this world and half of the world of faerie, fled the Cold Rider and the darkness he brought with him. Perhaps it was all merely the fanciful imaginings of bards, or perhaps it was the truth.
The only ones who really knew for certain were the halflings.
It was said they were the only creatures who could pass between the worlds at will, though exactly how they did this no one knew. It was believed they could “shadow walk,” creating temporary portals that would let them slip into the dark domain and reemerge into the world of daylight at another place and time. Yet at certain times throughout the year, the veil between the worlds seemed to part. At such times, unwary humans could stumble through into the Shadow World, and creatures from the dark domain could emerge into the world of daylight.
At the tender age of six, when he first heard about the Shadow World from the older boys at court, Aedan had been plagued by nightmares prompted by the grisly stories he was told around their evening campfires. His young imagination had conjured up all sorts of hideous terrors that had lurked beneath his bed and in his closet, where he was convinced that portals to the Shadow World appeared each night. He would cower underneath his covers as the candle on his nightstand guttered, casting ghoulish shadows on the walls, and when he fell asleep eventually, despite all his efforts to remain awake, he would dream of fearsome monsters wriggling out from underneath his bed to drag him down into the Shadow World and feast upon his flesh.
A few years later, when he was old enough to realize that his closet, even after dark, held nothing more ominous than clothes and that the only things beneath his bed were dust balls, Aedan had regaled young Prince Michael with lurid tales of the horrors that awaited in the Shadow World, perversely hoping to repay the boy for the indignities that Michael made him suffer in his waking hours. But he soon discovered, much to his disgust, that Michael’s insufferable arrogance, even at the age of five, persisted in
his dreams, where instead of being terrorized by monsters, he merely vanquished them with cool dispatch.
At fifteen, Aedan had felt mortified to act out the gheallie Sidhe with a mere child of nine. Back then, that had been Michael’s favorite game.
Based on the second part of “The Legacy of Kings,” the gheallie Sidhe, or “Hunt of the Elves,” told the story of how the Elven Court resisted the incursion of the human tribes into their lands and how elven knights roamed the countryside, slaying any humans they encountered. This resulted in a war that lasted many years, but the elves were steadily pushed back from their territories because the humans had a weapon they were powerless against, namely, priestly magic.
Elves had mages of their own, but their spells were based upon the natural forces inherent in wood and water, field and air. They had never worshiped deities and could not comprehend this strange new source of power. In the end, the elves retreated to the forests, and the power of the Elven Court was shattered. All that now remained of the vast empire they once ruled were several isolated elven kingdoms scattered across the wooded regions of Cerilia, such as Tuarhievel, Coullabhie, Siellaghriod, Climb Bheinn, and Tuarannwn.
At one time or another, during Michael’s relentless obsession with the gheallie Sidhe, Aedan had played elven warriors from each of those distant kingdoms, dying countless times-and never quite dramatically enough-from the spells of Michael’s priestly magic.” Sometimes Michael took the part of elven mages for variety, but that was even worse.
He would hide behind the tapestries hanging in the halls and leap out at an unsuspecting Aedan, slaying him with elvish spells.
“Boola-boola-ka-boola!”
“What was that, Your Highness?”
“Boola-boola-ka-boola!” Michael would yell out again, flinging out his arms and waggling his fingers. “It’s an elvish melting spell. You’re dead!”
“Elven mages do not cast melting spells, Your Highness. At least, I am fairly sure they don’t. Besides, that did not sound anything at all like elvish.”
“If I say it’s elvish, then it’s elvish! Now melt!”
“Forgive me, Your Highness, but exactly how am I supposed to do that?”
Michael would stamp his foot and roll his eyes impatiently, as if any moron would know how to melt on cue. “You’re supposed to grab your throat and make horrible, gurgling noises as you sink down to the ground into a puddle of stinking ooze!”
‘Very well, Your Highness, as you wish.” And Aedan would grab his throat and choke, gurgling as hideously as he knew how, meanwhile sinking to his knees and collapsing to the floor, trying his best to look as much like a puddle of stinking ooze as possible. His performance was never quite satisfying enough.
“Aedan, that was terrible!”
“Forgive me, Your Highness, I tried my very best.
But I’ve never melted before. Perhaps if you could show me how?”
Whereupon Michael would demonstrate the proper way to melt, and as Aedan watched his histrionics, he would be forced to admit that Michael did it better.
“Now do it again, and this time, do it right!”
Often, Aedan would have to die at least half a dozen times before the prince was satisfied. It wasn’t long, however, before Michael’s nonsense syllables and outflung fingers were replaced by the lethal force of wooden sword and shield, and Aedan found miseries anew as he was repeatedly battered into submission by his young prince in the role of Haelyn, champion of Anduiras at the Battle of Mount Deismaar.
The third part of “The Legacy of Kings,” and the source of Aedan’s current woes, was “The Twilight of the Gods,” which told the story of how Azrai, the lord of darkness, had pursued the Six Tribes into Cerilia, determined to subjugate the people and wrest them from their gods.
Azrai first enlisted in his cause the goblins and the gnous of Vosgaard in the northern regions of Cerilia, and gave their leaders priestly powers. Through cunning and deception, he then corrupted the Vos tribe, who had fallen from their worship of the moon god, and left the path of magic for the way of sword and mace. Next, Azrai sought to seduce the demihumans, the elves and dwarves, by tempting them through dreams and omens. The stoic dwarves did not fall prey to the blandishments of Azrai, but the elves had burned with the desire for revenge ever since the humans took their lands and pushed them back into the forests.
Swayed by Azrai’s promises of the destruction of their human enemies and the restoration of their lands, once more, the elves prepared for war.
The kings of the Cerilian tribes were quick to realize the danger and joined forces, setting aside their differences to unite against the common foe. But
even as the two armies met in combat, the warriors from the Adurian lands arrived to join the fray on Azrai’s side. Realizing that Azrai’s victory was within his grasp, the old gods appeared to their besieged followers at the land bridge between the continents of Aduria and Ceriha, where the mortals were trapped between their enemies’ forces.
Each god had chosen a champion from among his or her followers to lead in the final battle. Anduiras, the god of the Anuireans, chose Haelyn, who best exemplified all the virtues of a noble knight. Together with Roele, his younger brother, and their standardbearer, Aedan’s ancestor, Traederic Dosiere, Haelyn led the tribes in one last, desperate assault against their enemies. Arrayed against them were the armies of the southern lands, in addition to the humanoids, the treacherous Vos, and the warriors of the elven kingdoms, all led by Azrai and his champion, the traitor, Prince Raesene, halfbrother to Haelyn and Roele, whose ambition led him to betray his people and sell himself to the dark god.
Michael, indisputably, was always Haelyn when they played the game, but no one ever wanted to be Prince Raesene. The casting of the role of the Black Prince would always be the occasion of an argument among the young nobles of the Imperial Court, and depending on his mood, Michael would either settle things by force of royal prerogative or else stand back and watch his playmates settle it themselves.
At such times, Aedan would be forced to step in and break it up while Michael watched with glee, delighting in the bruises that his future chamberlain received as he tried to separate two homicidal eightyear-olds armed with wooden swords.
This time, the matter had been settled peaceably, thanks to Aedan’s diplomatic skills, but it still left Michael in a surly mood. He had been denied his halflings and had revealed his lack of knowledge, due to his indifference in his studies. Now his choice for the Black Prince had been successfully disputed, though Aedan had tried to smooth things over as best as he knew how. Still, the future chamberlain had seen that stubborn set to Michael’s jaw before and knew exactly what it meant.
Someone was going to catch it when the “battle” started. It wasn’t likely to be Derwyn, who had whined about being picked to play Raesene, because now he was on Michael’s side as Prince Roele. Corwin, however, had been chosen to play the goblin general, which meant he was a likely target, despite being a year older and almost twice the size of Michael.
Aedan sighed with resignation. He would have to make a point of staying close by Corwin’s side so he could interpose himself if things got out of hand. As the Black Prince, it would be logical for him to challenge Haelyn, and he could thereby step in to take the brunt of the assault.
It would mean more bruises, because Michael never held back on his blows, and though he was only twelve, a wooden sword could still raise a nasty welt, especially since Aedan wore no armor save for a light skullcap. Being older and much bigger, he had to take care to control his blows, which was more difficult while wearing armor.
Meanwhile, his armored young opponents would flail away at him for all that they were worth, and he would once more wind up black and blue.
However, better that than risk the chance of Corwin ringing Michael like a gong. Aedan didn’t want to think about the problems that could cause. By all the gods, he thought, I hate this game.
Once the cast had been agreed upon and sides were chosen, the two
-armies’ retired to draw up their battle lines. The opposing generals formed up their troops and proceeded to inspect them. When they were satisfied, they stood before their warriors and addressed them, exhorting them to bravery in dying for a noble cause. Michael stood before his soldiers and his earnest, high-pitched tones rang out across the field. Aedan, as Raesene, was obliged to do the same, feeling like an utter fool.
When he was sixteen, Aedan had tried appealing to his father, pointing out how ludicrous it was for him to play with children half his age.
However, it had been to no avail.
“Son, you must learn to do your duty by your liege,” his father, Lord Tieran, had said.
“But, Father, he is not the emperor yet,” Aedan had protested. ‘He is a mere child, and a spoiled one at that!”
“Watch your tongue, boy! It is not your place to speak so of the prince.”
“Forgive me, Father,” Aedan had said, sighing with frustration, “I meant no offense, but must I continually suffer the laughter and the taunts of all my friends? Why must I be his nursemaid? It simply isn’t fair!”
“Who told you life was fair, boy?” his father had replied sternly.
“When it comes to duty, fairness does not enter into it. One of these days, you shall take my place as lord high chamberlain, and when that time comes, you will have need of all the skills that you are only now starting to learn. A few years from now, you will understand and thank me.
Prince Michael does not need for you to be his playmate or his nursemaid, but you need Prince Michael … for your training.”
Now, two years later, Aedan understood just what his father had meant, but understanding did not make his task any easier to bear. His friends no longer taunted him, except to chide him gently on occasion in good humor, for by now they too understood more about duty … and about how difficult the prince could be. The emperor was old and ailing and could not take a hand in Michael’s rearing, even if he had the inclination, and the empress was overly indulgent of her only son.
Even Michael’s older sisters gave him a wide berth, a luxury Aedan was denied.
He surveyed his “troops,” standing all abreast in their little metal helms and suits of armor, looking like toy soldiers as they fidgeted in place, anxiously awaiting the attack. Their eyes followed him as he strolled up and down the line of his army, almost a dozen strong, improvising his speech as Prince Raesene.
“All right now, men. . . ” he said, barely able to suppress a chuckle.
“The time has come for us to seize the day and destroy the enemy once and for all!”
His young knights cheered the words of their commander, banging their little wooden shields with their blunt wooden swords. The “goblins”
snarled, the “gnolls” howled like wolves, the elves” responded in an ululating chorus, and the “Vos” growled and looked appropriately menacing.
“There he stands!” said Aedan, pointing with his a4 wooden sword. “My brother, Haelyn!” He spat out the word “brother” as if it were a curse.
“The favored of the gods! The champion! What monumental arrogance!”
His words were laced with heavy sarcasm, and he was surprised to discover how much he enjoyed saying them. He had never been Raesene before, and it suddenly occurred to him that in this role, he could say things about Prince Haelyn that he would never dare say about Michael.
“Look at him out there, parading before his troops and strutting like a silly peacock! The great and noble Haelyn! all my life I have had to suffer his sanctimonious self-righteousness, his smug superiority, his annoying, squeaky little voice-” He caught himself, realizing that he was getting a bit carried away.
“Well, the time for reckoning has come! You gnolls and goblins, today you shall strike a blow for the glory of your people!”
The “humanoids” responded with a chorus of snarls and howls.
“You elves, today you shall savor the sweet taste of revenge!”
The “elves” raised the swords and gave their war cry.
“You Vos, today you prove once and for all which tribe deserves to rule!”
The “Vos” struck their shields with their swords and stamped their feet.
“Today we shall soak the field with the blood of our enemies!” Aedan glanced over his shoulder an
d saw that Michael was still gesturing expansively and pacing back and forth before his restive troops, giving his long-winded speech. Well, thought Aedan, as there was no reason why the “enemy” should wait for him to finish it. He raised his sword.
“For Azrai and for glory!” he shouted. “Charge!”
The young knights gave voice to their battle cries and with weapons held aloft raced toward their 1 opponents. Caught in midgesture, Michael turned with an expression of surprise and saw the enemy surging toward him. Without hesitation, he raised his wooden sword and gave the command to charge.
The two armies collided on the slopes of Deismaar, and it was the greatest battle the world had ever seen. They fought from sunrise until sunset, and the air reverberated with the clashing of steel against steel, like countless hammers ringing upon anvils. That sound alone was enough to almost deafen those in the center of the fray, but added to it were the cries of men and beasts, goblins screeching, gnolls howling like the hounds of hell, elves giving voice to their unearthly, ululating war cries, humans yelling, horses neighing, the wounded of all races calling out for aid and moaning, all amid the choking dust raised by countless thousands milling on the field of battle.
Aedan found himself face-to-face with Lady Ariel, a grimly determined girl of twelve with long blonde pigtails hanging out from underneath her helm. Her eyes burned with intensity as she raised her sword and launched herself at him, screeching with all the fury and abandon of a berserker seized with battle lust. Oh, gods, he thought, not Ariel.
He back pedaled from the ferocious assault, taking a rain of blows upon his wooden shield. In her fierce determination to prove herself the equal of the boys, Ariel struck as hard as any of them, and Aedan still had
bruises from the last time they had squared off against each other.
With the boys, he could always deliver a carefully controlled whack against the side of a helm to slow them down a bit or “kill” them when they got too carried away, which was almost always, but with little Ariel, he could do little more than block her blows, because he was afraid that even with her armor on, a light blow could hurt her. And he couldn’t simply tap her, because Ariel did not acknowledge such light strokes. Nothing short of a blow that knocked her down would make Ariel admit that she had “died.” The other boys had no such scruples and would bash her hard enough to make Aedan wince, but he was much bigger and much stronger and did not wish to cause her any harm.
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