Dec. 18, 2009 -

Chapter 2
 The sky was clear blue as Prince Sorrin galloped up the steep rise, his auburn hair flowing behind him and his hunting spear at the ready.  He reveled in the thrill of the hunt, the cool autumn air rushing past his face, the smooth shaft of his spear resting easily in his grasp, his sword’s wooden scabbard clanking against his saddle.  He slowed his bay and bent down, peering at his quarry’s hoof-prints, which were becoming gradually more difficult to see as the ground became harder.
Spurring his horse on, he laughed out loud as he thought of the other hunters searching in vain for the animal he was about to claim as his own.  He thoughtfully fingered his horn hanging at his side.  He hesitated.  No, he wouldn’t signal the others.  He would bring this one in without help.
His thoughts were short-lived, however, for when he reached the peak of the hill he saw an old sow contentedly grazing on the hill top grass.  Sorrin sat there for a moment, watching the sow’s slow motions as it grazed.  The thrill of the hunt suddenly diminished as he realized that this was the animal he had been so diligently tracking.  The pig looked up at him.
“What?” Sorrin asked it in a flat tone.
The sow continued to graze.
Sorrin dismounted and picked up a rock off the ground.  He tossed it at the pig, who only grunted and continued eating. 
“Go home!” he shouted, “Stop ruining the hunt!”
Someone chuckled softly behind him.  He turned and immediately recognized the red hair, easy-going smile, and powerful frame of his manservant Sordoin.
“Since when have you been in the habit of talking to animals?” laughed Sordoin.
Sorrin laughed.  “Ever since they began masquerading as boars while I’m hunting.”
“It’s a good thing you know the difference between a boar and a common sow,” chuckled Sordoin, “You might have brought it to the dinner table all victorious like.”
Sorrin rolled his eyes and looked east where the sun was just rising up from behind the tall hills, casting long shadows across the valley, swallowing the castle of Mosaran and the neighboring village in the shade.  Smoke drifted skyward from the chimneys of numerous cottages, and a windmill’s giant arms circled lazily.  Not far from the foot of the hill stood a tall marble pillar, a memorial to the great Charge of Redhelm Fist during the battle of Firstblood.
"Sordoin," said Sorrin,  "Remember the story that Ristan the bard was telling last night?"
"'Twas no story, my prince," Sordoin answered,  "Every word of it was true."
"I know," said Sorrin, "Could you tell it again?"
“All right,” Sordoin said after a while.  That both sat on the grass and looked east at the sunrise.
"Long ago," began Sordoin,  "Lor created the heavens, and set it in motion.  And He also made His servants, the Vanir, of whom the most powerful was Toran.  Then He created Middengarnë, and all the animals and plants.  After all this was done, He made two beings He called Man and Woman, and they were the King and Queen of Middengarnë, robed with light and gifted with a healing power.  But in the heavens, Toran and some weaker Vanir rebelled against the rule of Lor.  So Lor banished Toran and his followers to Middengarne to be judged by Man.  Toran's name was changed to Rastoran.
"But Rastoran did not appear before Man to be judged, and he took on the form of a golden crown.  Woman found the crown one day and took it to Man.  They wore it, and it made them feel powerful.  The first few days went by normally, but after a while they became so obsessed with the crown and the feeling of power it gave them that they soon forgot to worship Lor, and all their admiration was for themselves.
"So Lor took away their robes of glory and their healing gift because of their idolatry, and sent them to work endlessly in the fields of Middengarne, from which they once ate freely from.  Then Lor created two other beings to take the place of Man and Woman.  The male was called Fomor and the female Annwyna.  They were clothed in the light of stars, and the gift of prophecy and foresight was given to them.  Their hair was golden-silver and their skin was white.  But their glory did not last long, for soon they too fell to the temptation of the golden crown.  So Lor sent them away to live with Man and Woman, but He allowed them to keep their gifts of prophecy and foresight.
"Man and Woman had two sons, one was Ransinora and the other was Sasora.  They also had a daughter named Sinana.  And Annwyn and his wife had a son, Salimin and a daughter, Roara.  Ransinora married Roara, and their descendants are called the Huwyn.  Lor created wives for Sasora and Salimin, and all their sons till three generations lived.  And Man, Woman, Annwyn, and Annwyna still lived during the third generation, having children.  The Humans, Children of Annwyn, and the Huwyn built a city and called it Rismosia.
"And Lor created people called the Sartalim, who became a sea faring race.  They were a short, dark skinned folk, and stubborn in their ways.  They fell to the allure of the Golden Crown sooner than the others, and Lor banished them to the Island of Shaddock.  There were three chieftains over the Sartalim: Wila'ibah, Lida'iahn, and Lialoahn.
"And after this, Lor made two other races: the mysterious Gwyllion, and the strong Dokkalim.  The Gwyllion worshiped neither Lor nor themselves, and because they didn't worship Lor, He sent them West-Over-Seas to the Island of Gwyll, and there put them into a deep sleep.  The Dokkalim did not worship themselves as the others had, but immediately turned to worship Rastoran directly.  And Lor punished them and sent them north over the Red River, and they built a city called Tewaron in the shadow of Mount Zarrmaiz.  They have been an evil menace to all people to this day.
"The city of Rismosia was destroyed by an earthquake, and all the peoples dispersed.  The Humans went north into the forest of Stillwood, and some went beyond to Rasnonia, which is named for the rasnon trees that grow there.  The Annwyn went south and settled in a land of green valleys and hills, and they called it Linaar.  And the Huwyn people stayed in the ruins of Rismosia, under the leadership of Siason, the son of Rian the Traveler, the son of Sarana, the son of Ransinora.
"Siason had twin sons, named Saor and Dore.  Saor and Dore became the leaders of the Huwyn when Siason died, and they each led the Huwyn to build their own kingdoms.  Saor and his followers went west and settled in a land they called Saorden, and Dore and his followers went east and settled in a land they called Dorea.  Saor, Dore, and Horanas, the son of King Altairiel of Linaar, made a alliance with each other, and built the three Towers of Iron: Noran Rimana in Saorden, Noran Mir in Dorea, and Noran Risas in Linaar."
Sorrin once again scanned the horizon.  The sun was just cresting the peaks of the far hills.  "The name of this hill. . . What does it mean?" he asked.  
"Mass Rin," said Sordoin gravely. "The Hill of War.”
“Because of the Battle of Firstblood.”
Sordoin nodded.  “It must’ve been a sight,” he said, “The red banners of Dore snapping in the wind as Redhelm and his company swept up the hill to attack the Northern invaders.”
“Three times, they charged up this hill,” said Sorrin, growing excited at the thought,  “The stories say that for every sword stroke they dealt the enemy, a lightning bolt leapt from the sky.”
“It must’ve been a sight,” repeated Sordoin, leaning back onto the ground and closing his eyes.
Just then, Sorrin heard the sound of a horn drifting up from the forest behind them.  Sorrin leapt to his feet.  “The boar!” he cried,  “The others must’ve found it.”  He and Sordoin mounted their horses and galloped off to find them.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
       
An hour later Sorrin stood in the sandy-floored Arena, holding the dulled practice rapier at the ready and measuring up his opponent. 
“Ready, Raven?” he asked, smiling.
His tall, dark-haired cousin grinned back, shaking the long, slim chain he held coiled in his right hand, its end weighted with a wooden ball the size of his fist.  “Are you ready, Sorrin?”
“Oh, get on with it already!” a voice shouted from the spectators benches.  Sorrin’s red-haired brother, Ralimir, stood on the front row, hopping from one foot to the other in his excitement.
It was Raven who moved first.  The wooden ball curved through the air in a upward stroke aimed for Sorrin’s chin.  Sorrin jerked his head back just in time and thrust his blade out to catch the chain.  The chain wrapped around the sword briefly, but with a skillful flip of his wrist Raven jerked the chain back.  The wooden ball flew through the air again, this time swinging behind Sorrin’s head.  Sorrin ducked, but not before the ball struck the back of his head sharply.  He swung his sword upward, catching the silver chain on the base of the blade.  Sorrin yanked the sword back as the chain wrapped around it, pulling it out of Raven’s grasp.
Raven’s wooden “daggers” sprung to his hands as if they were alive.  Sorrin shook the chain off of his blade, and the two cousins circled each other warily.  Rali was cheering loudly, first for Sorrin and then for Raven, at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing in the vaulted ceiling of the Arena.
Seeing a movement in the doorway, Sorrin risked a glance.  A man wearing the blue cloth cap of a messenger stood there, waiting for them to finish their match. 
Sorrin returned his attention back to Raven just in time to bat away one of the practice daggers as it hurtled toward him.  The other one followed immediately, and Sorrin batted it away as well.  Then a third. . .  He had three? . . . appeared.  Sorrin was caught by surprise and lifted his left hand, not his blade, to meet it.  A grave error on his part.
“Good work, Raven!” said Swordmaster Mirtral, stepping over the barrier that separated the benches from the sandy floor where the practices were held.  Raven grinned good-naturedly at Sorrin, who smiled back.  He knew his face was red.
“My prince,” said Master Mirtral, his face frowning but his eyes laughing, “Seeing as how you have lost the use of your left hand. . .  again . . . would you like to continue this match handicapped?”
Sorrin glanced down at his left hand.  If it had been a real battle, there would’ve been a dagger protruding from his palm.  He looked sheepishly up at his teacher.  “That would be the right thing to do, I guess.”
“Forgive me for interrupting, my prince,” said the messenger who had just walked up,  “But his Majesty, the King, requires your presence in the Hall of State.  All the nobles are assembling.”
Sorrin cocked an eyebrow.  “Is there trouble?”
The messenger hesitated.  He was a small stick of a man, with a wispy white beard and a head of sparse white hair under the blue messenger cap.  He glanced up at Sorrin.   “I. . . I wouldn’t exactly know, my prince.  Your father did seem somewhat urgent.”  There was a hint of worry in the man’s voice.
Sorrin narrowed his eyes at him.  “Dokkalim?  The Northerners?”
“I believe they were mentioned, my prince.” 
Sorrin frowned.  “Very well, then.  I shall be along shortly.”
The messenger bowed, and scurried off.
Master Mirtral scowled.  “Dokkalim, huh?” he fingered the handle of his long bladed sorl that hung at his side.  “I’d like to meet up with some of them.”
Raven glanced at the Swordmaster and grinned.  “Come on, Sorrin,” he said, “We’d best leave before Master Mirtral decides to practice sorl play for his meeting with the Dokkalim armies.”
Mirtral laughed.  “Just be sure to keep your left hand in your pocket if you meet any enemies, my prince,” he called after them as they walked to one of the chambers off to the side of the Arena. 
A servant was waiting for them with their over-shirts in the small chamber.  “I do much better with a sorl than a rapier,” Sorrin said as he pulled his shirt on, “You don’t have to use a shield with those.”
“And you have less chance of losing your hands,” said Raven.
“I thought he was doing a very good job,” said Rali, who just walked in and was examining the racks of javelins that hung on the wall.
“I still say you need to take up the chainblade,” said Raven, straightening his grey jacket over his  thick-set shoulders.
“I don’t think so,” answered Sorrin, “It’s a Northern weapon.”
“Yes, and a very effective one too,” Raven smiled, “You have to admit, I had you busy out there.  And I wasn’t even using the real thing, either.”
“Anyway,” Sorrin waved Raven off as he headed to the door of the Arena, “I’ve got to get to the Hall of State.  I’ll be back later, Raven.  For a re-match!”
“This time tie your left hand behind your back!” called Raven.
Sorrin rolled his eyes, and stepped out the door.  Outside, men and women were running everywhere, busy with preparations for the celebration of Minarasin that was supposed to happen tonight.  Sorrin smiled at the thought.  This year’s harvest was expected to be the largest the country had seen in a long time, and the people of Saorden were planning a huge celebration.  As he made his way to the entrance of the main Hall, he saw the bull-doggish Lord Narsinil of Westhold, the Head General of Saorden’s armies, on his way as well, his sword clanking against his muddy knee-high boots with every long stride.  Sorrin ran up beside him. 
“What’s this I hear about Dokkalim, Westhold?” he asked.
The general grunted and looked at Sorrin in surprise.  “Dokkalim, my prince?” he repeated, “You know more than I do, then.  I haven’t heard any rumors of raids or anything.”
They walked on in silence for a while.  Sorrin noticed the wind had grown stronger and dark clouds were gathering overhead. 
“The Lady of Trysthill isn’t going to have a happy Minarasin, it seems,” chuckled Westhold as he studied the skies.  He looked at Sorrin again.   “And what do you think of the new Lord of Trysthill?”
“Lord Sarin?” Sorrin shrugged, thinking of the youthful, fun-loving new Lord of one of the northernmost provence of Saorden. “He isn’t anything like his father, that’s for sure.”  Sorrin himself was Lord of Greenhall, the provence directly south of Trysthill.
“Aye, that he isn’t,” agreed the general, “Some are even saying he is a sympathizer for the North.”
“Really?” Sorrin asked, eyebrows raised.
“I hear tell he’s been harboring spies for the King of Rasnonia.  Some are thinking he should be hung as a traitor.”
“But he’s only been a lord for a week!” cried Sorrin incredulously, “How could such a thing be discovered in a week?”
The general said nothing to this, and Sorrin continued.  “Besides, how do we know this isn’t just rumors spread by people who are jealous of his property and situation?  We both know how the court gossip is these days.”
“Well,” said the general after a while, “There’s nothing wrong with us being careful.”
Sorrin nodded.  “I’m not defending him, if this happens to be true.  I just want to be sure it is true.”
Westhold smiled.  “Which is why you’ll make a good king.  Never condemning anyone unless they deserve it.”
By now they had reached the entrance to the main Hall.  Once inside, they were swallowed up in a crowd of people who were busy with preparations for the night’s banquet.  All the way to the Throne Hall people thronged around, hanging decorations, setting up tables and chairs, and mopping up the mud that had been tracked in.
Finally they reached the Hall of State.  It was a large, long room lit by a single large chandelier that hung over the middle of the room.  Large wooden chairs lines three of the walls, and in the far end of the room opposite the entrance were two oaken chairs; one for Sorrin and the other for King Dain.  Most of the other nobles had arrived, and a only a two vacant seats remained. 
King Dain made his entrance right after Sorrin took his seat.  He now stood again, along with the others in the room, and hit his chest with his fist, right over his heart, saluting the King in Saorden fashion.
King Dain acknowledged the salute with a nod of his grey-haired head, and took his seat to the left of Sorrin.  Sorrin looked at his father.  Weathered and battle-worn, the King was feeling the cold touch of old age.  His beard, which had once been full and red, was now sparse and almost white.  His hands still held some of their strength, and his sea grey eyes had lost none of their steeliness, but even Sorrin had to admit that Dain was getting old.
Now the King spoke.  “I see that Trysthill hasn’t arrived yet,” he said, indicating the empty chair midway down the left wall.  “But that’s to be expected.  He is a novice to this, after all.”
A few of the lords leaned to their neighbor and whispered.  Sorrin’s uncle, Lord Falcon of Northgate, muttered something about Trysthill having “more important affairs, no doubt”.  Sorrin glanced at Westhold, who smiled back somewhat smugly.
Dain smiled at his nobles.  “Men,” he said quietly, “What think you of our newest peer?”
Northgate spoke up.  “We don’t know what to think,” he said,  “I went to pay him a visit a few days ago, but was turned coldly away by his steward.  Said his Lordship hadn’t been out of his chambers and couldn’t be disturbed.   And it was three o’clock in the afternoon!”
The Hall buzzed with muttering nobles.
“Such a breach of protocol!” exclaimed the Lord of Cavernwell,  “We should call for an explanation!”
“It makes me wonder,” mused the frivolous young Lord of Withervale,  “What kind of dubious activities Trysthill has been engaging in.”
“I can’t help but be suspicious!” threw in Northgate.
“I would share your suspicion, Falc,” said Dain, looking straight at his brother with a slight smile of amusement, “If I didn’t know that Trysthill had just been married the night before your friendly visit.”
There was silence, and Northgate’s face turned red.  Sorrin tried hard not to laugh.
The door burst open, and Trysthill himself hurried in.  He stopped short when he saw he was the only one who wasn’t there yet, and turned red with embarrassment.  “I. . . I beg pardon my Lords. . and your respective Majesties. . .” He quickly fumbled a bow to King Dain and Sorrin, the great white plume of his enormous red felt hat brushing the floor.  To say Trysthill was stylish was a grave understatement.  Everything, from his long, neon blue over-jacket, trimmed with gold, and his bright yellow shirt which frothed with frills beneath, to his bright close fitting green leggings and his polished black shoes with gold buckles, proclaimed that the wearer was that scoundrel who set the style of the day, not followed it.  It was enough to put the frivolous Lord of Withervale to shame.  In fact, Withervale’s eyes widened at such finery.
“Now, to the business at hand,” said the King as Trysthill took his seat.  He motioned to the guard that stood posted by the door, who now left the room.
“What’s going on, your majesty?” asked Westhold,  “It has to be bad for you to call a Council on Minarasin.”
“Is it the Dokkalim?” asked Cavernwell.  All the nobles leaned forward slightly. 
Except Trysthill, noted Sorrin.  He kept his eyes on the newest member of the peerage as he listened to the conversation.  Trysthill was absentmindedly examining his fingernails.
The King raised his hand to silence the questions.  “Your questions are my own, my lords, and will soon be answered.”
The door opened again, and the guard entered.  He was followed by two people, obviously Annwyn, and another dark-skinned person who barely stood three feet tall.  Sorrin stared at the strangers, and he heard the curious whisperings among the nobles assembled.
The king stood and went to the white haired Annwyn.  They clasped hands, and to everyone’s surprise, they embraced like long lost brothers. 
“My lords,” said the king after he had finished his greeting,  “This is my good friend and blood- brother Naramir Fomori, king of Linaar.”
There was a collective gasp, followed by a rustle of cloth and leather as the nobles stood and saluted the foreign king.  Dain led King Naramir to the empty chair beside Northgate and then returned to his own chair.  All eyes scrutinized the newcomers. 
Naramir’s face looked young, but there was something about his eyes and his peculiar smile that said otherwise.  He wore a simple long black jacket over a white cotton shirt with silver buttons running up its front.  Mud-spattered black trousers disappeared into knee-high riding boots, and a  silver circlet on his brow completed his outfit.
His Annwyn companion was similarly dressed, except, in place of the jacket, he wore a black leather jerkin.  A sorl rested in its sheath slung across his back.  His face was expressionless, but his eyes seemed to take everything in. 
The other one was completely different in every way.  Sorrin realized that he was a Sartal, one of the great sea-faring race from the Island of Shaddock.  The Sartal was dressed in a loose red shirt and white leggings.  At his side he wore a wicked looking short sword, and his long black hair was braided with all manner of beads.  The thing that set him off most from the two Annwyn was his lopsided grin, and the three gold necklaces that hung from his neck.  He looked around at all the nobles with a somewhat reckless look in his eyes, and Sorrin wondered if he was entirely sane.
Sorrin’s attention snapped back to the Council when King Dain asked King Naramir to tell his reason for coming.
The Annwyn king stood and looked at all the nobles gathered in the room, searching every face, until his gaze rested on Sorrin.  When their eyes met, Naramir smiled and nodded as if he had found what he’d been looking for.  Then he became very grave and began to speak.
“Lords of Saorden, I bring terrible news.  I have come to inform you all. . .” Here he hesitated, and his face looked pale,  “I have come to inform you. . .  That the enemy has taken Isai Nor, and with it, Noran Risas.”
Naramir looked down, as if ashamed of what he said.  A profound silence settled on the Hall as the news sunk in.  The nobles sat there, open-mouthed and stupefied, staring at the Annwyn like he had grown horns.  Sorrin’s heart beat accelerated, and he glanced at his father.  King Dain had gone deathly pale, and his breath came in hoarse gasps.  Sorrin leaned over to him.  “Father . . . ?”
Dain coughed and waved him away.
Suddenly, the nobles exploded in questions and shouting.
“When did this happen?”
“It’s impossible!  Isai Nor?  Fallen?”
“What enemy?  Dokkalim?  Northerners?”
“Who informed you about this?”
The last question came from Trysthill, to everyone’s surprise.  Naramir slowly met the young Lord’s gaze.   “I barely escaped with my life.”
Trysthill’s face was expressionless.  “And what, exactly, do you suggest we do about it?”
Westhold growled.  “We fight back.” The general stood and looked every noble in the face, his eyes flashing with vehemence.  “We fight back, before they take Noran Mir.  Before they take Noran Rimana.  Before they destroy us.”
Whithervale jumped to his feet.  “Your majesty, I move that we send a company of armed men to the Dokkalim city of Tewaron to exact redress on those vermin!”
The Hall roared with the nobles’ assent.  The Annwyn warrior that stood behind Naramir’s chair smirked, and the Sartal grinned wildly at all the shouting.
“With all due respect, Withervale,” said the king softly when the shouting died down,  “We do not know the the Dokkalim had any hand in the matter.”
“They did not,” said Naramir, returning to his chair, “It was the Rasnonians.”
Withervale’s face fell, along with his dreams of crushing the Dokkalim city.  They could never hope to attack the great Northern Empire.
“It has not been revealed to me what we must do about this,” continued Naramir,  “But for now . . .” he glanced at Sorrin for a moment, and then looked Dain in the eyes, “All we can do is trust Lor.”

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Dec. 8, 2009 -

So, I decided to re-write Towers of Iron instead of trashing it...  Here's the first re-written chapter:

Chapter 1: The Whisperer

A gentle breeze rustled the leaves on the soggy ground as the autumn moon rose over the trees and shone through gossamer spider webs hanging in the branches. A mouse stuck it’s head out of it’s hole beneath a large old oak. It blinked at the moon and looked at the Tower, it’s wet nose quivering.

To the mouse, the Tower of Noran Mir looked almost heavenly bathed in the moonlight, each of its four sides glinting with the golden images of a hand. Music and laughter drifted through its open windows, carried by the breeze into the forest. All was at peace. All was well. Had the mouse thought to, it would have smiled at the sounds of celebration. But it was frightened away.

A tall man stepped out from behind the oak tree, his face shrouded from view by a heavy black hood. A low growl rumbled from his chest as he gazed at Noran Mir. The moon glinted off his eyes; black they were, and cold as steel. They sparked with vehemence at the Tower and the sounds of happiness that came out of it.

“Soon,” he said to the Tower in a dead whisper, “Soon you will be bowing in the dust before me.” He patted the sword that hung at his side, and smiled a grim smile.

There was a slight noise somewhere behind him. He whipped about, dagger in hand, dark eyes probing the black shadows of the night. Seeing nothing, he sheathed his dagger, cast one last bitter glance at the Tower, and stealthily made his way into the deep shadows of the forest.

The path he followed was an old creek bed, which winded through the forest like a snake. Deeper and deeper it went until the man was reaching the very heart of the forest. He could just hear the sounds of harsh shouting and drunken laughter, and could see the red glow of fire up ahead, when suddenly a rough hand grabbed his shoulder from behind and he felt the sharp edge of a knife tickle his throat.

A figure stepped out of the shadows. The dokkal’s face, grey and grim, could barely be seen by the moonlight. “What’s the word?” the dokkal demanded in a deep voice.

“Shade, you idiot!” the man hissed. His captor let him go with a gasp.

“By the Snake, Elamstar!” muttered the dokkal, “We didn’t know it was you! With your hood...”

“Be glad I don’t have time to deal with you now, imbecile,” growled Elamstar. He turned and strode toward the campsite.

As usual, he was greeted by a drunken brawl. He scowled at his soldiers, but they were too busy fighting or drinking to notice him. He crossed the camp, dodging the fighting Dokkalim that came in groups or pairs, and stepping over the sprawled forms of sleeping soldiers, slowly making his way to a lone tent erected beside the great bonfire in the center of the camp.

Casting a hostile glance at the sleeping dokkal leaning against the tent with an empty wineskin in his loose grip, Elamstar lifted the heavy canvas flap and entered. He lit a small lamp hanging in the corner, revealing a table with a plate of half-eaten food on it and a cot. On this cot lay a person, dressed in a dingy blue shirt under a stiff leather jerkin. The flickering light from the lamp accentuated the sharp Annwine features of his youthful face and shined in his golden hair.

Elamstar scowled at the sleeping Annwyn. He looked so peaceful, as if he were back in his own bed in his great Fomorian palace in Linaar. “Well, Prince Mornan Fomori,” muttered Elamstar under his breath, “It seems your days of peace are finally at an end.”

A slow smile spread across Mornan Fomori’s face. “Would you mind closing the flap?” the prince asked, “There’s a draft.”

Elamstar frowned. “Stand up!” he ordered.

The Annwyn prince slowly obeyed, clearly enjoying the cloud of impatience spreading over Elamstar’s face. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather me bow to the dust before you, like Noran Mir?”

Elamstar started at this. “You... You didn’t follow...” He rushed back to the entrance where the dokkal guard was still in a drunken slumber. “Fool!” he shouted as he shook the massive soldier to his feet. “I warned you that if you did not keep the closest watch on him, there would be consequences!”

The dokkal stumbled to the ground, wide eyed. “He escaped, sir?” he asked in a hoarse whisper as he struggled to his feet.

“That’s one thing you’ll never know,” hissed Elamstar in his soldier’s face. “Kinnos!”

A large dokkal strode away from the bonfire and grunted a salute.

Elamstar shoved the staggering dokkal toward him. “This idiot isn’t to see the light of another day,” he snarled, “See to it, and replace him with someone more trustworthy.”

“I’ll do it myself,” said Kinnos.

Elamstar studied Kinnos for a moment. There was a certain... something about him that unnerved him. Something almost noble, if a dokkal could be noble. Elamstar waved them off. “See to it.” He went back into the tent.

Mornan was smiling that mischievous smile that never failed to anger him. “I could have escaped, you know,” the prince said.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I enjoy baiting you. Your reactions are most amusing.”

Elamstar scowled. “You are not at your palace in Linaar, Mornan. You are as helpless as a rabbit in the claws of a vulture.”

Mornan tilted his head to one side, as if studying Elamstar. “You’re right,” he said finally, “You do look like a vulture.”

Elamstar regarded the Annwyn with distaste for a moment. Then he smiled slowly. “Would you like to hear the latest news of the war, my prince?”

A stoic mask immediately dropped over Mornan’s face. He sat down on the edge of the cot and stared at the flickering lamp. “Go on,” he said quietly.

“Very well,” Elamstar leaned against the table and watched Mornan’s face. “Our troops,” he said, “Have destroyed all the ships in Isai Nor. Without their sailor friends, the soldiers of Noran Risas gave up without much of a fight.”

Mornan’s face remained emotionless, but Elamstar could sense the shock of the news quickening the prince’s Annwine blood. Shock, replaced by bewilderment, and then... hope?

“Did you find what you were looking for?” asked Mornan suddenly, his blue eyes piercing into Elamstar’s.

Elamstar was taken aback at first, but then shrugged it off. “So, you’ve guessed,” he said slowly, “But, no. Your fool of a brother escaped with it.”

There was no mistaking the triumph, and pride, in Mornan’s voice. “As long as Naramir has it in his care, you can forget about taking the Sarilan.”

Elamstar shrugged. “Who cares about that sword anymore? We have a better one now.” He straightened and threw his coat back. He drew the sword that dangled at his side, it’s elegantly curved blade rasping as it came out of it’s scabbard. Elamstar held it almost worshipfully in the dim lamplight. “Do you know it, my prince?” he asked in a low voice, his eyes never leaving the polished steel blade. “Can you feel it’s power? Can you hear it screaming for a battle? For death?” His eyes narrowed at Mornan. “It’s bite is hungry, it’s fire is unforgiving. Do you know it’s name, Mornan?”

Mornan gazed at the shimmering blade. He saw how easily the hand of Elamstar gripped it’s handle. “Rimastan,” he said reverently, “The sword of King Dore.”

“Rimastan,” said Elamstar, “The sword of Elamstar.” He sheathed the sword and leaned against the table. “Do you realize the gravity of it all? Rimastan is in the hand of the one it otherwise would have fought against.”

“I assume you are thinking of the prophecy of Seer Ash?” Mornan asked.



“That if Sarilan and Rimastan fought against each other the Towers of Iron will fall?”

Mornan narrowed his eyes at Elamstar. “Surely you don’t believe that,” he said, “Seer Ash was a madman!”

“Was he?” Elamstar smiled, “Not a nice thing to say about my great-grandfather.”

He continued to speak, but Mornan couldn’t hear him. The detail of the tent, Elamstar’s face, and everything else blurred and blended together in confusion. Mornan instinctively leaned back and let the feeling take him.

Elamstar stopped speaking. His eyes narrowed as he saw Mornan’s eyes close. Then uncertainty gave way to fear. He realized with shock that Mornan was passing into salimin, a trancelike state in which the Annwine people were said to receive visions. Elamstar grimaced. Visions from... Lor.

Elamstar spat and leaned against the table, waiting for Mornan to finish speaking with his god.  A movement on the ground caught his attention, and he saw a coal black snake coiled at his feet, looking at him with startlingly intelligent eyes.  Elamstar stared hard at it as it began to grow, until they were looking eye to eye.

"Elamstar."

Elamstar smiled. He leaned forward and allowed the Snake's stare to penetrate his mind. “Yes Master?”

"All is ready. You need to attack now."

Elamstar nodded. He opened his eyes and stood.  The prince had come out of his vision and was smiling up at him.

“You will fall.”

Elamstar scowled at Mornan.  "What?"

“Oh, yes,” repeated Mornan slowly, as if savoring each syllable, “You will surely fall. The strength of Lor is on our side.”

Elamstar struck Mornan across the face with the back of his hand. “Don’t you say that name again,” he snarled. He turned on his heel and strode out of the tent, leaving a smiling Annwyn prince behind.
“Kinnos,” he growled to his general, “Is all ready for the attack?”
“All is ready,” said Kinnos, his voice showing no emotion, “The troops are assembled just outside the wood, as you ordered.”
“Then,” said Elamstar, his voice jubilant, “Order the advance.”
“Yes, sir.” The dokkal drew his scimitar and lunged through the camp, followed by half a dozen soldiers.
They ran down the winding path faster than any horse could have, and soon they burst out into the clearing. Kinnos laughed a grim laugh as the rush of the impending battle swept over him. He lifted his great battle horn he carried at his side and blew a resounding blast. With a tremendous shout the Dokkalim troops exploded out of the darkness of the forest and swept over the clearing toward the walls of Noran Mir. Overhead great round stones hurtled through the night sky and burst against the stone battlements. Kinnos saw them and grinned wildly. The catapults were doing their work.
Inside, General Nimoran leapt up from his seat in the Great Hall. “Everyone to the walls!” he commanded. There was confusion as tables and chairs were overturned and people scrambled for the doors. Men hurried everywhere, herding the women and children deeper into the Tower and seizing weapons and armor.
General Nimoran stood on the wall, staring in horror at the great mass of Dokkalim charging the walls. A flaming thing hurtled towards him from the blackness of the night, roaring through the air.
Mornan opened the tent flap, just enough to peek out. The camp was almost empty, only a few drunken Dokkalim sprawled out around the diminishing fire. A slow smile spread across his face. He stepped out, keeping to the shadows as much as he could as he crossed the camp. No voice called out, no pursuing footsteps were heard... And he ran.

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