Prologue
Harion was on his way to the capital when the sky began to darken. It was midday and the grey was slowly turning black, the winds creeping through his wool cloaks. The morning had passed swiftly and his pace had been prompt. The cold grey mists had burned away soon after the sun had climbed past the barrier of thick grey clouds, the snows glistening gold as if the world was cloaked in a halo of light. The beauty was brief, and the sudden arrival the bitter winds reminded the Ever Winter was still there.
Past the pinnacle of midday, the track turned to frozen dirt, with tumbles of dirty grey snow crowded on either side. Fragile fingers of naked brush were choked in the heavy white robe that covered all and dead brown leaves rested on the glassy snow floor. Old black trunks rose like pillars from the white sea, clad in grey-green bristles that shivered in the cold, huddled with stout, grim soldier firs shrouded in heavy snow. The wood rose for leagues to his left and to his right, the wood faded, dipping into a grey valley, patched with snow and jagged rock. The clouds rolled dark and ominous above, challenged only by the meek sinking sunlight.
Harion’s horse was a well-bred palfrey, thick and broad with a glossy black sheen that gleamed silver in the grey light. His hair was snipped short and streaked with tan. It wore white socks and dark hooves that marched along the dirt road. Frosted moss crunched underfoot, smothering all possible sound as the grey-green carpet pocked the ruts in the beaten road. It was well used, and heavily traveled; a main trade route through the land. This day, the road was desolate and bare as a naked tree, its leaves torn from its fingers and strewn across the ground. Harion was thankful.
Groaning behind his mount, an old wagon hobbled through the ruts, covered with a ratty grey pall, hay peeking through the rips and gaps in the fabric. Three days ago, Harion had repaired the right wheel, for the spokes had cracked as he climbed his way over the rocky passes and through the distant mountains back west. Broken branches had replaced them, and had held so far. Harion was thankful.
It was still a long trek until he reached the capital though, and it was essential he arrive with his cargo. Hidden beneath the pall, deep within the wooden storage of the wagon was an object of immense value. It was worth more than any amount of gold, silver, or bronze coin; more than any jewel known to man kind, more than an ancient dragon egg the crazed priests cherish in the Damned Lands; more than a spell-forged staff from the Shadows Beyond. It was supposed to be lost from the known world, crushed with those who bore it.
Harion had found it.
The moon was crowned with a pallid gold halo as it began to crawl out of the grey expanse. Harion could see the stars glimmer meekly around it, adorning the darkening sky with a faint elegance. His eyes darted to the road as he heard the patter of an elk’s feet scamper by. He watched it dash off into the wood, weaving between the crowded trees, snow spraying into the cold air. A large black cloud covered the moon as he looked back up into the sky and the shadows began to walk amongst him like the ghosts of his nightmares.
The road forked. One path took him deeper into the forest; the track turning white with snow and the other sloped down, the wood clearing a bit further down. Harion led his horse into the descent, slowly and carefully, the wagon moaning behind him as the wheels turned and the rusted iron screeched. He pulled up his hood as the winds screamed to life, the naked trees bowing humbly as he passed.
The snow had halted for much of his journey so far this day and the paths had only been dusted in frost. Some days in the Ever Winter the roads were hidden under several feet of snow and trade stood at a stand still, as did the realm. As the wind brushed against Harion’s icy cheek, he felt a flake of snow kiss his lips. The first flake was followed soon after by a light flurry that lingered for a long while and which took Harion out of the wood and onto a wide cobble road, lined with a high jut of granite.
As the road opened and the trees grew sparse, the wind howled fierce and ripped at his cloaks, sweeping over the shivering grey-grass fields as they rolled into bleak grey shadows. To his right, the fields dipped and turned rocky, until they met the sheer rises of the Mountains of Svaerdon. Harion could see their dark silhouette in the distance, rising and falling in jagged peaks. Those mountains were known to house dark shadows in their bitter reaches and once, long ago, were home to dragons.
The wagon limped over the frozen cobblestone road, veins of frosted grey moss growing thick between the stone slabs. In the open, the sky was a swirling tempest of dark and grey clouds, streaked with thin blades of light that blazed white and clear as daybreak. Harion could feel the temperature drop dramatically as the black louds consumed the grey and the world darkened. The snow fell heavy and the ash began to trickle through the cold, the stench palpable.
Harion lit a torch in a burst of red flame, which soon calmed to a shivering orange as the winds threatening to silence its fury. The light danced pale against the stone road and lit Harion’s surroundings softly. If it got much later, it would be blown out, he knew. He needed to find a place to stop and set up camp for the night before the Ever Winter killed him. He was looking for a stone outcropping in the grey expanse of rolling grass fields, but nothing appeared. The sky was turning from a somber grey to a stark black as the air grew colder, until a copse of grim soldier firs rose like a gravestone up ahead.
He reached the trees in little time, and almost instantly their heavy coats of snow shielded him from the bitter winds. They did not shield him from the arrow that drove into his thigh.
Harion grunted in anguish as the arrow quivered from his leg, the iron arrowhead colder than the Ever Winter itself. His horse stopped curtly and so did the wagon, but not the pain. It lanced up his leg, stung his hip, and ripped down his calf like a bolt of lighting, pulsing at his twitching ankle. His hand clenched into a tight fist and his other reached for the hilt of his sword, but instead of finding the curved steel pommel, his hand grasped another, gloved in black leather. He cursed the Nine.
“Looking for something?” said a voice to his side, dark and gritty. He laughed. “A fine blade, you have. Castle-forged, am I right?” There was a pause as Harion tried to pry the arrow from his leg. “Why would a Trader be carrying something of this make, and expense? Worth a good hundred gold pieces, I’d reckon.”
Harion cursed into the cold. “More than you have a right to know.”
He said the words with spite as he grimaced at the arrow in his shuddering thigh.
Harion ripped the arrow free and cursed again, the arrowhead gleaming red, his leather breeches dark with blood. He threw it to the ground as he turned to see a man examining his sword. The man was bearded like a bear with coarse black hair that was pulled back around his ears. Scars littered his face and a deep cut crossed over his nose and his dark brows hid his grey eyes. Harion saw the man’s arm caress the flat of the blade, the gilded hilt catching the grey. As the man turned, Harion caught a black patch of ink on his temple. Harion cursed again. He was a thief, and not just any old thief.
Harion knew the mark, how could he not?
The Black Hand.
The tattoo was infamous across the entirety of the realm, a stark indicator for all to see, renowned for thievery and for death. The Black Guild is seated in almost every city across the realm, while many others maraud the lands, catching weary travelers and merchants unawares, stealing their gold and valuables. The northern city of Vorr is where the vast majority dwell, deep beneath the streets they say, with paths running like sewers and halls large as castles. Once, during the rise of the Anturrians, they had infested Vaelon, the capital city of Alderon, but were disassembled by the mighty knights and fled into the wilderness. Death followed their every step.
The thief was swinging the ornate blade through the air when more crept from the shadows. All wore the traditional garb of the guild, black leather breeches with high grey boots and a black leather coat, slung with a brown sash that held dozens of pockets along the breast. None wore gloves, only linen wrappings and several held daggers at their waists, while others armed themselves with longswords or a crude wood bow. The thief that held Harion’s sword had a tight leather hood with a sword, dagger, and bow on his person. Blood stained his hands.
“Far from home, aren’t you?” asked Harion.
“I could say the same thing about you,” said the leader, driving Harion’s blade into the cold ground. “Out in the dark, cold, night. Alone.” It gleamed pale against the waxing moon as it shone like a golden egg through the naked treetops, cradled by their delicate fingers.
“Where might you be heading?” asked the thief. “Carrying a sword like this on you, I might guess it’s important.” He titled his head when Harion didn’t answer. “Or, might be, where were you coming from I might be fancied to ask?”
A quiet came over the wood, broken by the hidden owls.
“I’m traveling food and drink to the capital,” said Harion, lying. He was an awful liar, but tried his hardest to look and sound convincing. “The Ever Winter has hit the capital hard, they say. Hundreds are dying daily and the food is growing scarce as flowers these days.”
“What an atrocious liar you truly are,” said the thief. “I thought I might let you finish your well-rehearsed story, but well, we don’t have all day here and as it seems, the day is almost done.”
Harion grunted. “If I might grace you, it was no rehearsal.”
The thief laughed deeply. “Your even stupider than you look. Wearing cloak in the Ever Winter is like to kill you before we even touch you.”
“A better death in my opinion,” said Harion, delaying.
The thief sniggered, and examined the blade once more, running his hand down the flat. “I’ve always liked steel more than iron, you know. Its lighter, and sharper, easier to kill.”
“Killing shouldn’t be easy.” Harion saw the light fade to darkness.
“Perhaps you’re right,” said the thief. “Would you like me to find out?”
Harion grimaced. “You wouldn’t even touch me.”
The thief paused and looked into the night sky, the silence resuming its reign.
“Let’s not wait here until the snows eat us up, Estarr” said one of the others, his hair red as flame with a dirty auburn mane. “My fingers are like to freeze off if we stay out much longer. Reckon we just kill him, take the wagon back, and count the coppers. Enough of this talk.”
Several others agreed. Estarr laughed curtly and tossed the sword over to one of his other companions, who slid it into a leather sheathe. He walked up to Harion and looked up at him as he sat atop his steed, heart racing. “A very nice steed, I might add. Broad, tough,” he patted its corded leg. “Strong.” At his word, he threw Harion off his saddle with such strength Harion forgot to breathe. He landed hard on the stone-hard ground, the wind rattling as his injured leg crunched with the leaves. He grunted and gasped as he began to writhe on the ground, the snow churning around him, cold and wet.
“Unhook the horse,” said Estarr. “Check the wagon.”
Harion hardly heard what he said amidst the pain that engulfed his entire body. His leg was most likely broken and his face was cold as ice as it lay on the snow, while his cloak was heavy and wet. As he lay on the ground, seemingly dead, he heard the locks break and his horse rear, echoing through the barren silence of the forest. He could hear them shift through the snow to the wagon, trying to break the locks that held the covering. He tried to shout out to them, but he couldn’t, for his ribs screamed in pain as he breathed or grunted. His voice was lost in pain.
The locks broke within a minute of smashing and the cover was flown off with haste. The thieves scavenged through the wooden chests and barrels of food and ale while Estarr watched from the perch of his new horse. A glint caught his eye as the moonlight leaked through the deciduous trees and he dismounted. The glint was that of steel, the steel of a crosshilt, the steel of a sword. He shoved aside his companions as his hands found the hilt and when he pulled it out, it gleamed silver.
“A man who carries two blades is expecting something,” he said, looking over the pommel. His head titled in disbelief once more as he caught another glint. “But a man who carries three is positive in expecting a fight.”
He reached in and pulled out the other blade and walked over to the fallen Harion, grasping at the snow. He drove one of the blades into the ground and threw the other into the hands of his companions. “I will not disappoint you.” He unsheathed his own sword, the blade dark as ebony and the hilt silver with black leather banding the long hilt. The crosshilt was grey as smoke and in the moonlight, the dark blade ran with tendrils of smoky grey, for the steel was forged with skill and precision in the Shadows Beyond, some say with magic. Harion reckoned he stole it from a traveler, for none today travel into the land of shadows in the far west.
“Off the ground now,” said Estarr mockingly. “And pick up your blade. I don’t want to fight an unarmed man if I don’t have to.” He laughed. “That would dishonorable.” A wry smile curved across his face as he said the last word.
“You have no honor anyway,” said Harion, struggling to his feet, leaning on the wagon. “You have less honor than the dirt of this road.”
“I have killed men who fought with honor,” said Estarr. “It didn’t help them.”
“Its not supposed to help them.” Harion limped on one foot and drew his blade out of the ground, the hilt short and leathery, with a gilded crosshilt in the shape of a twin-spiked spear. The long white blade was etched with old words of a forgotten and distant language, one used in the dawn ages of the world. Harion knew little of what they meant. “It’s supposed to be your shield in the darkness and the armor that guards your heart.”
“Piss on that,” said Estarr. “Honor shows weakness, that is all.”
Harion limped forward, blade held out before him, blood racing down his broken leg. As he set his leg down, the pain excruciating beyond belief, as if his leg was being hammered into the ground a thousand times over, a cry from one of the other thieves broken his guard.
“Estarr!” came the shout. “You’ve to look at this with your own eyes. We’ll be richer than the bloody king with this in our hands!”
Estarr glanced back at Harion and kicked him in the leg, the pain lancing up into his arm. The thief pointed the blade down on his throat and began to lean forward, blood leaking from the cut. Harion couldn’t move as the blade cut deeper and deeper, his ears beginning to thrum, until the blade stopped and Estarr pulled it from his neck.
“For you bloody honor,” he spat as he walked away toward the wagon. Harion knew then he had no choice. He had to protect what lied inside the wagon. It was his only task, bring it home, Harion, bring it home! The words repeated themselves through his spinning head, until he screamed, shattering the night’s stillness and hurled his blade into one of the thief’s back. The blade stuck, quivered and as the thief grunted, fell to the ground, blood pooling around him, the snow drinking the red like summerwine.
Harion forced himself once again onto his feet and began to charge at Estarr, his broken leg now shattered, the pain numbed so that it felt like nothing now, just emptiness. Estarr glanced up and brandished his iron dirk, glinting in the darkness and as Harion tackled him the iron dug into flesh, and through rib. Arrows followed, burrowing into Harion’s back until he bristled like a porcupine and collapsed onto his side. There he lay, twitching, seconds from death.
He was coughing up blood when he saw Estarr lift up the fourth and final sword, hidden under several wool wrappings. Bring it home, Harion! It was a greatsword, long and thin, with ancient inscriptions etched into the steel. The steel gleamed with a pale opalescence, burning through the darkness of night. It was an Anturius, one of the sacred blades of the mighty Anturrians, the protectors of the old empire, the high kings that ruled in their gilded thrones.
Attached to the blade was a roll of parchment, which Estarr ripped open as he marveled over the sword that was supposed to be destroyed long years ago. He dropped the letter into the snow and glanced at the blade and then at the dying figure of Harion, blood drenching his wool cloaks, and for the first time noticed his regal face.
“You are a dead man, Estarr,” coughed Harion, grinning.
One the others loomed over him, dark as shadow. “What does he mean, Estarr?”
Estarr looked at the dirk in his hand, the winds whispering through the forest. “That we have just killed the king’s son, Prince Harion…” A quiet ran through the night as the prince breathed his last breath and Estarr collapsed to the snowy ground. “Gods be damned.”
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