EXTRACT FOR
Valerius Everreigning
(Author Unknown)

Chapter 1 - VISIONS

    

    The town of Zagorbia lay on the western side of a peninsula that thrust itself northward like a wedge into the narrow, twenty-mile wide channel separating the Inland Sea from the Outer Ocean. Along its spine, a bony ridge reared up to form a rocky promontory a thousand feet high before plunging, sheer, into the sea. Along this ridge, in the already sweltering, pre-dawn heat, ran Valerius Everreigning, Rightful High King of Valeria and all the Inland Sea-and a man in exile.

    He was a massive figure, heavily muscled, and fairly covered with thick, black hair that had just recently begun to show traces of gray. Naked, but for a loin cloth and sandals, he ran with a feral grace, his feet steady on the worn, brown path, his eyes scanning the ground ahead of him. As he reached the final ascent, where the path wound upwards among white rocks, he picked up his pace and chugged along with a powerful, chopping stride, arms pumping, breath quickening with effort. Nearing the summit, he began to sprint, his huge thighs driving him up the final few feet of barren rock to the peak. There, he staggered and reeled drunkenly, gasping loudly in the sticky air.

    Awakened by his arrival, two sentries scurried away down the path, terrified that the king had caught them napping. Oblivious of them, Valerius bent with his hands on his knees, his chest heaving, until his heart stopped hammering and his breathing subsided. That was better, he thought, straightening up and pacing about. He had been doing this trek every other morning now for the past month or so, and this was the first time he had been able to run the entire slope. It wasn't much, of course; in his youth, he could have run the whole two miles from town and back without breaking sweat. Still, between this and the regular drills with his troops, he felt he was beginning to get in shape-enough so he wouldn't embarrass himself when it came to hard fighting. He did not want a repeat of his performance during the Battle of Kantar, when he had nearly dropped from exhaustion. Dying an honorable death in battle was one thing; being struck down because you couldn't lift your sword was quite another!

    Around him, the sun had just broken from the earth's rim and cast its golden net across the shimmering blue of the sea. As he walked about, Valerius scanned the horizon. He was expecting word from his envoy in the east, but the sea in that direction was clear of ships. To the north, across the strait, the distant land lay like a blue shadow. But the waters were empty between. To the west and south, from where he was daily expecting a fleet from Kantar, the Outer Ocean spread clear to the still dark horizon. Directly south, the ridge fell away quickly to the massive walls of the Palace, below which-and out of sight from his position-lay the town. Beyond, the mainland was low and swampy, thickly forested and crisscrossed with bogs and streams, until it reached the eastern shoreline that was lost in the glare of the rising sun.

    From a small pouch at his waist, Valerius pulled a large red gem on a golden chain. Placing the chain carefully about his neck, he raised the gem to his eye and scanned the horizon again, looking through the stone as one would a spyglass. He did a complete sweep, avoiding only the harsh glare of the sun, and then lowered the gem and shook his head. He saw nothing.

    Nothing again. For months now he had been repeating this ritual, looking for some sign, but with the same result. The stone was the famed Eye of Valeria, vision stone of the Rightful High King, and a symbol of his power. With it, according to legend, the High King-who bore the name "Valerius Everreigning" from generation to generation-could see into the future and into the hearts of men. But in all the time since he had reclaimed it-which was close to three years now-there had only been two occasions when he had seen anything at all. And even those "things" had been so vague and insubstantial that he sometimes feared they were mere imaginings. Still, he remained convinced of the Stone's powers, and believed that if he was unable to use them, it was because he had never learned how.

    His father had claimed not to believe in the Eye and had never used it-a claim that, in Valerius' opinion, had cost him his head, the Eye, and his empire, in that order. And that, in turn, had cost young Valerius fifteen years of exile before he was able to regain the Stone and begin the work of wresting the empire back from Fantar, the regicide-and his own half-brother-who had usurped it. The old Mage, Volkmir, had said the stone's powers were in the hands of the gods, that they gave and withheld them at their whim. It was he who had recovered the Eye after Fantar burned out his eye with it and flung it into the sea. But despite having been the official Mage of Valeria, and heir to a line as long as the King's, Volkmir, too, knew little of the stone's use. Apparently, the secrets of the stone were so profound that the succession of Kings Valerius Everreigning had thought it prudent not to share them with their wizards.

    Valerius wished now that had not been the case. For the past year he had been amassing forces at Zagorbia and planning an amphibious assault on Valeria, the heart of Fantar's Empire. That assault now awaited only the contingent from Kantar and the completion of another dozen or so ships being refitted along the shore. But was Fantar aware of what he was up to? Did he know that a scant two hundred miles from his famed walls lay an army of nearly twenty thousand, and a fleet large enough to transport them? And if he knew, what was he doing to prepare? Had he called up his reserves? Was Valeria a ripe plum or an armed fortress? And Valerius' planned landing at Balac, a fishing village a few days' march east of the city-was that still the best option? Or had Fantar foreseen that, too, and moved to forestall him? These and a hundred other questions plagued him, and he fretted that the power to answer them was supposedly resting in his very hand, mute.

    Disgusted, he turned on his heel and started back down towards the palace, when something caught his eye: rounding the point that formed the western edge of Zagorbia's harbor was a galley, crawling under oars like a bug across the sea. As it turned and headed in towards the shore, a snippet of morning breeze caught the banner at its masthead and revealed the royal Panthers of Kantar. Valerius started to run.

    At the palace, Valerius sent a page running to summon his council, then sluiced himself down with a bucket of water and hurried in to his private chambers to dress. Eomer, his Queen, lay still asleep and as he toweled himself dry, he watched her face, so peaceful and childlike in the morning light, so radiant and beautiful. As if moved by his scrutiny, Eomer stirred and rolled to her back, revealing under the linen sheet, a belly large with child. Struck by this, Valerius stood for a moment-naked to the world, the damp towel hanging limp from his hand-while an image, as clear and bright as the morning itself, flashed through his mind. It was of a young man, tall and strong, standing before the throne at Valeria. At first, Valerius thought it was himself as a youth, standing before his father. But then, with dreamlike prescience, he realized it was not himself but another young man-this child, perhaps, whose fetal shape was before him? - and that the presence on the throne was not his father but... But who? Was that himself or another? And were those bracelets on the young man's wrists, or chains?

    Suddenly, Valerius was gripped by a deep, wrenching fear and he shuddered and shook himself to clear it. Turning away quickly, he pulled on a clean toga and grabbed the Eye. But as he started to slip the chain over his head, the stone caught a shaft of light from the window and shot a searing red flash directly into his eyes. It stung as though someone had flung a glass of wine in his face, and sent a shock through his entire body. Then, in the afterglow, another vision transfixed him. It was not a specific image this time, but a sea of them, swirling through his brain like a whirlpool, full of shape and sound and dark forebodings, of armies on the march and ships menacing dark seas. It was a fearful thing, like something awakened from a nightmare and it howled through his soul like a dark wind.

    In a moment it passed, but it left him staggered and weak, and he dropped onto a chair, his face bleak and weary. On the bed, Eomer still slept quietly, stretched on her back, the mound of his unborn child rising from her middle. On this his eye settled and his face slowly tightened in fear and pain. But then, like a subtle wind shift at sea presages a change in the weather, his face cleared and he sat upright: what had seemed so dire moments before, faded away quickly, like memories of a dream in the morning sun, and he was filled with a driving sense of urgency. Rising quickly, he left the room, his face set and determined.

    Thorngere leaned on the massive battlements of the palace; his chin sunk in his palm, and watched the morning light sparkle across the harbor as an early breeze ruffled the crowded waters. Among the sleek war galleys anchored there, he could see his own little scow, Elusive, moored just off the beach. She looked very plain and pedestrian among so many great warships, but she tugged against her mooring nonetheless, as if eager to pluck up and go. Soon, he hoped, she would get that chance. The fleet had been standing ready for the better part of a month now, and as soon as the Kantaran cavalry arrived, Valerius was sure to announce his plans. That a trip for Thorngere would be among them was as sure as the day.

    And none too soon, either, for Thorngere was not pleased with his recent stay in Zagorbia, and not pleased with himself, either. Too much leisure was bad for a man. Nothing to do left too much time to think, and too many opportunities to run afoul of one's own best interests. Better to be at sea, where the air was clear and clean, and where the needs of the ship commanded one's mood. That, or making the rounds of resistance leaders about the Inland Sea, compiling reports and studying the dispositions of the foe. That was work for a man! That would keep his thoughts in trim... and himself from foolishness.

    Across the harbor, the shore curved around and extended out into a long, rocky point with a headland that provided shelter from the south and west, the only protection the harbor had to offer. Idly, he watched as a small galley came to anchor in its lee and sent a boat in towards the white adobe town that curled around the harbor and splashed upwards against the hills like sea foam.

    Zagorbia was a prosperous town, and from Thorngere's vantage point on the walls of the massive and heavily fortified palace, it looked neat and well kept. Unlike many of its neighbors, Zagorbia had been spared the more serious ravages of Fantar's war. Last to fall of all the cities around the Inland Sea, it was here that the great wave of Fantar's conquest spent itself, and here where many of his most hardened veterans-including Tarpon, his most hated general-had settled after their fifteen-year, three thousand mile odyssey. In their wake, an empire had been crushed, and many of its defenders put to the sword.

    It was also here, in the labyrinth of mud and jungle on the mainland to the south, that the first effective resistance had formed under the leadership of Ragnar, and here, with the arrival of his fleet from Kantar, that Valerius had achieved his first major victory in his efforts to win back that empire.

    But it was not thoughts of Zagorbia that Thorngere wished to avoid. Or of Ragnar's heroics in winning it, though he had been regaled again the night before with tales of those very escapades by Ragnar himself. No, it was the other thing that had happened later: that was why he wished to be at sea.

    The sun suddenly felt hot on the back of his neck and he could feel the beginnings of a dull headache, the result of too much un-watered wine. They had been in a tavern in the lower town, a somewhat less than respectable place. Ragnar had been celebrating the birth of his son, and Thorngere had been helping. What else, Ragnar had loudly admonished, were good friends for?

    What else indeed? Perhaps he had helped too much. Perhaps that was it, although he knew it was not. And Ragnar had thought he was helping Thorngere, too. That was no doubt why he brought the wench over. "Here he is, girl," he had announced, thrusting the supple, soft-scented thing onto his lap, "Lord Thorngere himself-most famous swordsman in the land, and brother to His Majesty the High King!" Then, in an aside to Thorngere, "Here's one to drive the gloom from your thoughts, lad... You're all she's talked of this long day!"

    But what would she be talking of now, the little minx? How the famous swordsman had lain like a sack on his bed, his great 'sword' shriveled in its sheath? Thorngere pounded his fist on the russet stone of the battlement. Here was the great Lord Thorngere indeed, moping about like some mournful wretch, as useless to himself as he was to the world, clutching to the memory of another like a man impaled on a spear, afraid either to yank it free or drive it home, yet dying all the while of guilt and shame.

    In truth, it was love Lord Thorngere wished to flee; a love as potent as it was forbidden. It plagued him constantly and had turned his once boisterous mien into a sodden, sullen thing. But would the sea affect a cure? Not in this life, he thought, though in the clear breeze and distant sky, he thought he might yet be able to breathe.

    Starting from his reverie, Thorngere turned to find a small page tugging at his robe. "Beg pardon, my Lord, but it's the King. He's called the Council and bade me fetch you right away."

    



Chapter 2 - A COUNCIL OF THE KING

    

    The Council Chamber was situated high in the inner palace, and opened onto a wide veranda with a panoramic view of the harbor and the glistening sea. It had been designed, in more opulent days, so that those who toiled least in this tropical land could benefit most from the cool breezes of the sea. But of those who assembled this morning, there were none who had not seen hard toil in plenty, and few for whom the view signified more than clear sailing. They were hard-bitten, tenacious men, these advisors to King Valerius-military men for the most part, men who had fought most of their lives in a cause few thought they could ever win.

    There were perhaps fifteen present this morning, lounging about a long, polished marble table and awaiting the arrival of the King. They hailed from all around the Inland Sea, from towns like Bangorum and Durumkai, Telos and Dunskol, and from Zagorbia itself. There was even a newly arrived ambassador from Dulcai, which rested far to the south along the coast of the Outer Ocean. They represented the last remnants of the free forces of their respective cities. Each, in his turn, had fought against Fantar and lost as that power-mad regicide had ravaged his way from city to city all around the Inland Sea, beginning with the conquest of his native Valeria, and the killing of his own father, the former High King.

    Fantar was also thought, at that time, to have killed young Valerian, his half-brother and the legitimate heir to the High King's name and throne. But Valerian had not died. He had escaped, and lived under an assumed name for many years-even fighting beside many of these same men as comrade in arms-before being able to reveal himself and crystallize a movement to regain his throne. In the past few years, this movement had gained momentum, first with the establishment of a secure base of operations in the Hidden Valley of Kantar and supported by an underground network of resistance fighters set up by Thorngere. Then, in a series of stunning victories the previous summer, Valerius had destroyed Fantar's naval forces in Dulcai, crushed an army sent to corner him in Kantar, and with the aid of Ragnar's resistance, had captured Zagorbia itself. Now, with word of his successes spreading throughout the empire, and with fresh recruits and resources flooding in to him, the stage was set for his next move.

    But what move? For months now, these men had been training and waiting, expecting any day to be ordered aboard their ships. But where they would sail when that order came, and where they would land, they had no idea. There were rumors, of course; there are always rumors in an army waiting for battle. Some said Valerius planned to march eastward and take the empire back one city at a time. Others said he would sail east, to the end of the Inland Sea, and there cut the empire in half by taking Palmeria. Still others said north, that he would gather the unconquered tribal chieftains there and sweep down on Valeria from the mountains, just as Fantar himself had done. But of his actual plans, King Valerius had said nothing.

    All they knew was that couriers came and went almost daily and that many late nights showed candles burning in Valerius' special map room high in the palace. They knew, too, that the season was advancing, especially in the north, and that another few months lost would see the fall rains begin. And they knew that this council, whatever it portended, was not a scheduled meeting, and that the galley which had entered the harbor only an hour before flew the royal banner of Kantar.

    But it was not thoughts of Valeria, or even directly of Fantar, that occupied Valerius as he paced restlessly about in an adjoining chamber, awaiting the arrival of Thorngere. With him was another of royal rank, a tiny, dark-featured man, not half the size of Valerius, who sat quietly on a bench against the wall, tugging gently at his beard and watching the pacings of his massive companion with quick, inquisitive eyes.

    "I must say, I'm surprised at your reaction, Your Majesty," said this one.

    "Eh?" said Valerius, the words obviously breaking in on his thoughts. "Oh, I beg your pardon, Koltar. I guess I'm not being much of a host this morning. What did you say?"

    "What I meant, Your Majesty, was that you seem unduly distracted by this news. I would not have thought that a few unruly Iblis would occasion so much concern."

    "Oh, it's not just Haradin-though I can't help but notice that you, my friend, have deemed his depredations serious enough to come here yourself. And it's not that I disagree, mind-it's just that the interruption is so frustrating. I've near fifteen thousand men here and a fleet, manned and ready to move, and now this!"

    "You're convinced he's not acting on his own, then?"

    "On the contrary, I'm almost sure that he is. I can't see the Iblis allying with anyone. But I can't take that chance, you see? Once we launch our assault in the north, we could be tied up for months. Our support lines must be clear. If there's any chance Haradin's in league with Fantar, or if there is even a chance that a significant force is lurking among the Fortunate Isles, I have to take care of it now, even though it means a delay."

    "Well, I can't say I relish the prospect of leaving Kantar undefended with him on the wild either," said Koltar. "But what if you catch him?" The little man was sitting very erect now, his head cocked, and an eyebrow raised.

    "Oh ho," Valerius laughed ruefully. "This time the bugger will hang. We've given old Haradin more than enough rope before now, wouldn't you say? It's time we used it."

    Koltar seemed to relax when he heard this. "I would say he has more than earned the distinction hanging would confer, though I doubt the example would improve his people."

    Just then, a breathless and embarrassed Thorngere hurried in from the side door, muttering apologies as he came. But when he saw Koltar, his face lit up with delight. "Koltar!" he grinned, grasping the tiny man's hand. "I mean, Your Majesty! What are you doing here?"

    "Koltar has brought some very disturbing news about our friend Haradin in the Fortunate Isles," said Valerius. "But, there's no time for explanations now: you'll have to hear with the rest of the Council," and with that, he flung open the inner door and marched into the Council Chamber, leaving his two fellows-a golden-haired giant and darkling pygmy-to trail along in his wake.

    At the appearance of the King, the Council leapt to their feet, their scraping chairs shattering the somnolence of the chamber. "Good morning!" said Valerius, moving briskly to the head of the table, and motioning for them to resume their seats. "I believe most of you know King Koltar here," he started, then interrupted himself to call for a herald. "Here," he said, "fetch a box, or a stool, or something for His Majesty that he may sit in dignity with the rest." Most of the men did indeed know Koltar, having helped liberate his land in the Hidden Valley, but several of the newcomers stared agape as the tiny figure, so childlike and yet so obviously mature, climbed up onto the offered stool.

    "As most of you probably know," Valerius continued, "I was intending, with the arrival of His Majesty here, to announce the final dispositions for our next move. Our fleet is in the harbor, manned and ready, your men are trained, their rations cooked-we've even seen to extra tent pegs! But instead of that, Koltar here has brought news of a situation in the south that raises new questions we need to discuss. I'll let him fill you in. King Koltar?"

    From his perch, Koltar addressed the Council in a voice that was surprisingly deep and resonant for one so small. "Thank you, Your Majesty, and good morning. I see many familiar faces here-Grumwald, Daemon, Gainor, Zimlait, and the rest-my greetings to you all. And you, sir," he added, nodding to a rough, red-bearded chieftain beside Thorngere on the King's left, "We have not met, but I do believe you must be Ragnar. A special good morning to you. Your deeds have long been sung in Kantar, thanks to your friend Thorngere, here." Ragnar beamed at this, though it was apparent that he, too, was suffering the effects of the previous night's wine. He bowed in return as Koltar continued.