HUSHED WHISPERS COULD be heard across the inner courtyard of the royal palace in Aramoor, the capital city of Elondria.
Standing in the center of a circular patch of coarse dirt, Ayrion waited, clothed in layers of black that molded to his body like a glove to a hand. His three-button leather coat flapped loosely in the breeze as it hung halfway down his legs. Its folds covered his suede tunic and leather trousers. His dark hair rustled across the tops of his shoulders. Ayrion had opted to let it hang loose as opposed to tying it back as he would during training. It covered the sides of his face, hiding all but his neatly trimmed jawline goatee.
In each of his gloved hands he held a single-edged sword. The steel was as black as midnight with a unique design that eventually widened outward before cutting back to an angled point near the tip. He could see the reflection of everything around him in their sheen. From the cross-guard to the pommel, the swords’ grip had been fashioned in the shape of a dragon in midflight. Ayrion had never seen their like before, nor figured he would again. The twin blades were Ayrion’s signature mark.
As he waited for his challengers to step forth, he slowly scanned the outer courtyard. The stone squad was surrounded by Elondrian lancers, decked in their formal uniforms of deep crimson and gold. They were all waiting to catch a glimpse of the man in black, known by all as the Guardian Protector. Ayrion was the youngest commander in the history of the king’s elite fighting force—the High Guard.
In their black uniforms, bearing the crest of a silver falcon, the High Guard’s sworn duty was not to the protection of Elondria, as were the lancers, but solely to the protection of the High King.
Above the courtyard was a raised terrace that extended out from the second floor of the palace, overshadowing the uniformed officers beneath.
On its veranda a crowd was gathering with bated breath. Men, counting
themselves as lordly, pranced around in their fine suits and puffed lace as
the women, arrayed in a medley of rich color, endeavored to draw the attention of their male counterparts in hopes of ensnaring a reasonable match.
From where he stood, Ayrion had a clear view of the center balcony. As always, the central gallery was reserved for members of the royal family and their guests. Rhydan, the High King of Aldor and its five kingdoms, sat head and shoulders above the rest, his gaze proudly taking in the scene
below.
Ayrion held his king in high regard, not only because of Rhydan’s thirty- five years of rule, in which time he had garnered the respect of not only
Elondria but every other kingdom under the purview of the High Throne, but because he was known to be a man of just values and fair council. Most importantly, he was much like the father Ayrion had been forced to grow up without.
On the king’s left sat the real intelligence behind his rule—his wife, Queen Ellise. Her hair was streaked with silver, but that did nothing to detract from the remarkable strength that could be seen in her sharp emerald eyes. The king rarely made a decision without first seeking her council. Her wisdom and compassion had been the guiding factors behind every move
the king had made, and Elondria was the better for it.
Dakaran, their son and only living heir, sat rather stiffly on his father’s other side, his face fixed with a scowl. Ayrion couldn’t remember the last time he had actually seen Dakaran smile, except of course when trying to gain victory over his latest short-lived conquest, or when placating some
member of the ruling aristocracy. His romantic endeavors never lasted more than a couple of weeks, which Ayrion always found rather odd, what with Dakaran’s long brunette hair and handsome face, not to mention his lofty position as crown prince.
Most likely it was Dakaran’s ruthless mannerisms which tended to drive away all respectable women. There were, however, plenty of ambitious
contenders with eyes for nothing more than the prince’s wealth and position. They, on the other hand, would be more than happy to overlook his shortcomings on the off chance they might one day be chosen for his bride.
Behind Dakaran stood Valtor, the prince’s advisor and Arch Chancellor to the White Tower. He wore the crimson robes and mitre of his office with the insignia of a single blade piercing a rising sun. His long black hair
cupped the sides of his gaunt face, giving his rimmed eyes a sunken appearance.
To the far side of the royal balcony sat the king’s honored guests, including ambassadors from each of the other four kingdoms. They rested comfortably on benches canopied by silk sheets while children scurried around the railing in front of them to gain a better view. Ayrion had a feeling that his present circumstances were due more to the ambassadors’ attendance than anything else.
The king held the highest seat of power, but only so far as the Provincial Authority would allow. Since the time of Torrin, no king was allowed
complete authority over the entirety of Aldor. During his reign, Torrin had divided the land into five kingdoms, each with its own ruling body. He wanted to make sure that Aldor never fell under tyrannical rule. A single overlord from each of the four kingdoms: Sidara, Keldor, Briston, and Cylmar, with the High King over the fifth and largest kingdom of Elondria, formed what was known as the Provincial Authority.
The king could pronounce edicts and pass laws but they were subject to rejection upon a unanimous vote by the four overlords. The only kingdom the king had complete control over was Elondria.
Ayrion scanned the waiting crowd above. It wasn’t the pomp and grandeur of those seated above that drew his attention, though. His eyes
were searching for someone else. He scanned the long line of nobility until finally coming to rest on a small group of young ladies off to the side, known to be the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. They held none of the outward show the other women at court so eagerly flaunted, but their dress could hardly be considered slovenly either.
Ayrion smiled when he saw her. Amarysia.
She was looking directly at him. Her rich honey-golden hair was waving in the afternoon breeze. Somehow, the thought of her watching him with
those deep blue eyes kept Ayrion more off guard than the armed men he was about to face.
She smiled.
He pulled his gaze away before it became any more awkward.
Behind him he could hear the crowd parting with eager anticipation as five rather large men, wearing the Elondrian crimson and gold overtop of
their leather body armor and chainmail, stepped out from the assembly and
into the circular ring. Each man held a double-edged broadsword at least four feet from point to pommel.
Ayrion had a gift with weapons. His family was part of the Upaka, which, ironically enough, in the old tongue meant protector. A term one could hardly relate to his people. Whatever they were before, they were now a tribe of warriors who sold their services to the highest bidder.
Mercenaries would be a more legitimate term. They preferred to remain separated from the influences and governments of the world, free to roam without limitation. This—they believed—was their birthright.
Apart from their gift with weaponry, an Upaka could be recognized by their uniquely colored irises. Unlike most eyes of green and blue and brown, Upakan eyes were pale gray. It was said that the Creator had marked them this way to give fair warning to any who would dare challenge that they were dealing with one of the Upaka. Ayrion figured it had more to do with the fact that they lived underground in the ruins of the Forgotten City than some unique sign from the Creator.
Ayrion’s fingers opened and shut in sync around the hilt of his swords as he tightened his grip, waiting for the inevitable. Lowering his head, he closed his eyes and reached out with his senses as was his routine before every fight since he was a child. It was as though he could feel what his
opponents were going to do even before it happened.
His father had always told him, “You have magic, son. And that gift is going to come with a price.” Of course, at ten years old, he had no idea what his father was talking about. All he knew was that he was better than
the others, and there was nothing more glorious than to be the best. He soon discovered how wrong he was. It was that same arrogance which had eventually cost him his family, his home, and his very identity.
He took a deep breath.
Ayrion’s eyes opened as he felt the first wave of movement. From his right, one of the lancers lunged forward, striking from an overhead position and swinging at a downward angle from right to left, attempting a shoulder cut. He’s going to move left. With the speed and agility of a veteran, Ayrion pivoted on his right foot, spinning his body toward his attacker. He raised
his right arm, parrying the oncoming strike and forcing the lancer’s blade to veer away from its intended target. His left arm was now free to counter.
Head-strike, definitely a head-strike. Ayrion spun around and punched the
unprepared guard in the face with the hilt of his left sword, dropping the man to the ground, unconscious.
Behind you! Ayrion used the momentum of his spin to deflect the next attacker who had thought to catch him with his back turned. The second lancer struck once, twice, three times, each with lethal intent, bringing all his strength to bear. But strength alone does not a champion make. Ayrion moved with remarkable skill. He used his right sword to not only block
each strike but to beat-parry them away from his body with what seemed to be as little effort as swatting at an annoying fly.
Angered at the lack of exertion required by his opponent to counter his aggression, the lancer pushed even harder, hoping his sheer size and brute force would be enough to bring Ayrion down. But, as Ayrion’s father used to say, “Fighting is most often won with a head clear of emotions.”
Alright, watch for it. You need to go underneath. Ayrion used his attacker’s energy against him as the guard took one last lunging swing toward his midsection. Anticipating the cut, Ayrion reversed his position.
He spun low and swept the lancer’s legs out from under him. The man hit
the dirt face first. Ayrion quickly kicked him in the head with the side of his boot, just hard enough to make sure he didn’t get back up.
From the courtyard came a sense of awe as the armed lancers stood around shaking their heads in amazement. Wafting down from above came the sounds of clapping and giddy excitement as the high nobility watched in lustful anticipation. The lords, with their soft hands having never seen an honest day’s labor in their lives, clapped with eager praise, while some of
the ladies busied themselves by hanging out over the railing, using their physiques as a way to garner his fervent attention. Ayrion scoffed at the ridiculous pomp of it all.
Only from the royal terrace was there a sense of respectful admiration as the High King and Queen sat back and judged the reactions portrayed by each ambassador. Ayrion could tell the king had more in mind than mere entertainment when he had called for this little exhibition.
Ayrion stepped over the second lancer and moved to face the last three.
They had decided to use a simultaneous assault. He applauded their common sense.
Like the others, he could feel their courses of action, and with movement that did not seem humanly possible, he feinted left and then right. Parrying one sword while throwing back another. Blocking with his right and
striking with his left. The whirl of motion left his dark blades as nothing but a blurry distortion to the average observer.
After the dust had settled, only the Guardian Protector remained standing while around him lay five lancers nursing their newly formed bruises and sadly depleted egos. Cheers erupted from the viewing audience as Ayrion slid his blades back into the sheaths he had strapped to his back. He turned and bowed toward the center terrace and the High King.
His eyes, however, were quick to drift away from the royal family as they searched out those of Amarysia. There was something about her that seemed different from any of the other women he had been introduced to at court. Of course, their first meeting hadn’t exactly been the grandest, unless you call bumping into one another in the hall and her running off, a formal introduction.
With the title of Guardian Protector, Ayrion was a highly sought-after- prize for many of the young, and not so young, ladies at court. Many beautiful pairs of eyes had blinked fondly in his direction, but he had never been one to be coerced by a pretty face. In fact, he would take a plain but kind woman over a spoiled debutante anytime.
From his experience, most beautiful women of means tended to be quite snobbish and annoying. He figured it must have something to do with the way they viewed themselves. In Amarysia’s case, however, her outward beauty was a reflection of what was truly inside. This could be seen in no greater way than her ardent service to her queen.
The remaining onlookers shuffled their way back indoors as Barthol Respuel, the High Guard Captain and Ayrion’s right hand, stepped into the ring. “Any idea what this was all about?” The big man helped an unsteady lancer to his feet and pounded the man’s back, trying to dust off the dirt.
But with fists the size of stone hammers, Barthol’s helping was more detrimental to the poor lancer’s health than anything else.
Ayrion handed the lancer his sword. “My guess is the king wanted us to put on a show for the ambassadors.” He nodded toward the now empty terrace. “No doubt to instill a little trepidation in them before they report back to their overlords. Hopefully force them to think twice before planning any future incursions into Elondrian territory.” He shrugged. “But that’s just a guess.”
“A pretty close one, I’d wager.” They watched the long procession of lords and ladies follow the royal family back inside the splendor of the
second floor ballroom. “You’re gonna need to keep an eye on that one.”
Ayrion turned to follow his friend’s gaze, but with the wave of bodies moving toward the large double entrance he couldn’t be sure who Barthol was referring to.
“The prince,” Barthol said, realizing Ayrion hadn’t seen who he had been pointing to. “If I were you I’d watch my back. Everyone knows he’s got an itch for that lady of yours.”
“First of all, she’s not my lady. And second, I’ve known Dakaran since we were children. He might be a bit high-strung but I don’t believe he’d
take it that far.”
Barthol gave Ayrion a hard look and grunted.
Dakaran wasn’t the same person he used to be. He’d changed, grown
more distant. A dark cloud had taken up permanent residence over his head. Part of it was this new advisor, Valtor. Something about the man didn’t sit right with Ayrion. He was always smiling. Ayrion didn’t trust a man who smiled that much. “I think the Arch Chancellor is having a bad effect on
him.”
“Bet your bottom he is,” Barthol barked. “Now there’s a right nasty
piece of work for you. What bog hole he came slithering out of I’ll never
know. But he done hooked his barbs into the prince, and there’s no denying that.”
Ayrion nodded. With someone like Valtor weaseling his way into the royal family, he couldn’t imagine what kind of problems they were all going to be facing down the road.
