Prologue

He knew the injury would be fatal. Accepted it at the very moment he caught the sword’s menacing glint as it slashed down.

Fergys Thirsk, favorite son of Morgravia, began the last part of his journey toward death as a gray dawn sluggishly stretched itself across the winter sky. He faced his end with the same courage he had called upon for all of his life as General of the Legion.

It had been the King’s idea to attack the Briavellians gathered on an opposite hillside under the cloak of night. To Fergys it had seemed somehow ignoble to interrupt the traditional night’s peace in which men sat quietly around small fires, some singing, others deep in thought as to whether they might live through another day of battle. But the King had fixed his mind on this bold plan to take his enemy by surprise on a night had already run red with the blood of both armies earlier that day and Fergys had been reluctant to put the men to the sword again so soon. But his sovereign had persisted and Thirsk had accepted the challenge.

There had been no sense of foreboding as he carried out his monarch’s wishes and led the attack. He simply did not like the plan. Fergys was a man of honor and tradition. War had a code that he preferred to observe rather than flout.

Nevertheless he had fought ferociously but had been disturbed when Magnus, his friend and king, going against his wishes, had joined the fray. Without further thought Fergys had planted his feet and grimly dispatched three Briavellians before he was able to make a move toward protecting his sovereign.

“The white cloak’s suitably inconspicuous?” he had yelled above the din toward his oldest, dearest friend.

Magnus had ignored the sarcasm and even had the audacity to wink back. “Got to let Valor know I was here when his army was beaten into submission.”

It was a reckless act and more dangerous than the King could have suspected. They were fighting on Briavel’s side of the river and once the element of surprise had passed, both armies had gotten down to the business of slaughtering one another. Valor’s men were no cowards and had worked with a newfound passion to repel Morgravia.

Fergys had noticed Briavel’s standard—signaling that Valor too was in the thick of the fighting—and remembered now, as lifegiving blood leaked from him, how he had feared for both Kings.

With Briavel having the advantage of higher ground, Fergys had made the decision to pull back. His army had already inflicted a terrible price on its enemy; no need for either of these sovereigns to die. He knew by daybreak and the inevitable clash that would come later that day Morgravia would overcome its enemy once again. So he had given the order and his men had obeyed immediately.

All except one.

And it was that one man whom Fergys Thirsk had sworn to protect. The one he would give his life for.

As with the Thirsk Generals who had gone before him, Fergys had lived long, so the only regret that surfaced as the killing blow came was his absence from the family he loved. Fergys was not at all used to losing but it seemed Shar had asked more of him on this occasion; his god had asked for his life and he had given what had been requested without hesitation. He had fought so many battles and rarely returned with more than surface wounds.

And this battle had looked to be no exception until he had seen the danger, heard the man’s battle cry, and deliberately stepped in front of that slashing sword. Up to that fateful moment only a thin line of dried blood across one cheek marked the closest a blade had come to threatening him. Duty, however, came first.

Fergys had not even paused to consider the implications of pushing aside King Magnus, knowing he would have no time to block the inevitable blow. The only thing standing between the King and certain death was Fergys’s own body. The blade struck, fate guiding it ingeniously beneath the breastplate.

He cried out at the pain from the sucking wound in his abdomen but did not falter, too intent was he on dispatching the Briavellian and ensuring the life of his King. Only then did Fergys Thirsk fall, not yet dead but commencing the longest journey of all.

As they had hurried him from the battleground and back over the Tague, he was still calling orders to his captains. Once he had heard the full retreat sounded, he lay back on the canvas that would bear him back to Morgravia’s camp. This journey seemed endless and he now used the time to reflect on his life.

There was little to complain about.

He was loved. That in itself should be enough for any man, he reasoned, but then there was so much more. He commanded respect—had earned it too—and he had walked shoulder to shoulder with a King whom he called friend. More than friend…blood brother.

That brother now walked in shock by his side, giving orders, fussing for his care, whispering to himself that it was all his fault; his stupidity and recklessness had seen the great General felled. It was all pointless. Fergys tried to tell the man this but there was insufficient strength in his voice to speak above the din of the retreat. If he could have he would have hushed his blood brother and reminded him that Shar’s Gatherers had spoken and whether any of them liked it or not he must now answer that call. No regrets. Duty done.

Men were bowing their heads as the stretcher passed by. Fergys wished he could somehow convey his thanks to each. The Legion produced exceptional soldiers, loyal to a man to his command. He spared an anxious thought for how they would accept the new General, yearned for a last opportunity to beg their tolerance. “Give the boy a chance.” he would beseech. “He will be all that I am and better still.” And he hoped it would be true.

He thought of the youngster. Serious and a firm follower of tradition. Tarred by the same brush, as they say, especially in looks. They were plain, stocky, fearless men, the Thirsks, and this boy was already shaping up as a leader. The Morgravian Legion followed a curious tradition of handing down leadership from father to son. Fergys wondered if it could last. The lad was so young. Would he have time to sire his own heir to continue the Thirsk tradition or would a new family vie for the right to lead the army?

Thirsks had led the Legion through two centuries now. It was an extraordinary history for one family that bred sons with warrior capabilities, tempered with intelligence.

The dying man’s bearers were nearing the tent that he knew would be his final resting place. Once he was laid down he would have to concentrate on his King for as long as his heart held out. He wanted time to think about his beautiful wife. Helyna. of whom so much lived on in their son. Not her looks, mind. Those exquisite features belonged to their daughter alone. Fergys grimaced, not from pain so much as grief. His daughter was so young…too young to lose both parents.

How would his family manage? Money was no problem. They were the wealthiest of all the nobility, perhaps barring the Donals of Felrawthy. He would have to rely on Magnus. Knew he could. What his family needed now was time. Time to grow into their new lives. Peace must be achieved with Briavel until the young Thirsk was ready to lead into battle. That peaceful time would have to be bought and he hoped his life would suffice as raw currency.

They laid him down. The King had insisted he be settled in the royal tent. Physicians hurried to Thirsk’s side. He ignored their probing, knowing it would ultimately be followed by a shaking of heads and grave glances. Fergys closed his eyes to the sudden frenetic activity and returned to his ponderings.

The old hate. It all seemed so pointless now. Valor of Briavel was a good King. He had a daughter. Little chance now of a son. Valor had shown no inclination to remarry after the death of his wife; it was rumored that theirs had been a love gifted from Shar. And he was probably too old now. at seventy, to bother himself with trying to sire a male heir. He too needed peace for Briavel’s Princess to grow up and grow into her role. The wars had been a tradition in a sense. Their forefathers had fought each other when they were little more than feuding families. Initially it had been a case of maintaining the balance of power between two small factions suspicious of one another. But when the two strongest families established their own realms, and kingdoms were born, the battles were fought to increase power, gain more land, greater authority. Over the centuries, neither managed to claim domination over the region and so their animosity degenerated into squabbles over trading rights or merchant routes—any petty excuse, in fact, until by the time Magnus and Valor had inherited their crowns, neither was sure exactly why the two realms hated one another so intently.

Fergys shook his head. If truth be known, he rather admired Valor, and lamented the fact that the two Kings could not be neighbors in spirit as well as location. United in friendship and mutual respect, the region would be rich beyond dreams and near-invincible to any enemy. Now he would never see that dream come to fruition. He sighed.

“Talk to me,” his King beseeched. voice leaden with guilt.

“Send the physics away. Magnus. We all know it’s done.”

The King bowed his head in sad acceptance and gave the order.

All except his friend had now been banished by Thirsk. No emotional farewells would he tolerate from his captains. He could bear neither their sympathy nor their despair. They had filed out in silence, stunned by the notion that their General might not even see this day’s sun fully risen.

Thirsk asked for the tent flap to be left open so he could see across the moors to the smoke from the distant fires of the Briavellian camp, where soon the sounds of dying men and beasts would be heard again should the battle resume today. In his heart Thirsk knew the two armies were bleeding and wearied; all of the men were now keen to acknowledge the outcome of yet another battle between these ancient enemies and return to their towns and villages. Many would not be going home, of course, and their widows and mothers, sisters and betrothed were mostly from Briavel.

And yet, as Fergys Thirsk slipped further into death’s cool embrace, most from his side knew it would be later argued in the taverns that it was the great realm of Morgravia that had suffered the loss on this occasion.

The General looked wearily back at his oldest and closest friend.

“It’s over for them.” King Magnus of Morgravia finally said.

Thirsk tried to nod. relieved that Magnus had navigated his way out of the shocked stupor; there were things to be said and little time. “But Valor will try to fight on.” Fergys cautioned. “He will want Briavel to salvage some face.”

The King sighed. “And do we allow him to?”

“You always have in the past, your majesty. Pull back our men completely and let him have the news of my injury and subsequent passing.” his dying companion replied, shivering now from pain cutting through the earlier numbness. “It will be a proud moment for them and then we can all go home.” he added, knowing full well he would go home shrouded in black linens and tied to his horse.

The battle was won. Morgravia had prevailed as it usually did under General Thirsk. It had not always been so. however. There were centuries previous when Briavel had triumphed. These nations had shared a long and colorful hate.

“I wonder why I give him quarter—a weakness, do you think?” Magnus pondered.

Fergys wanted to tell his King that it was not weakness but compassion that saw today’s Morgravia resist the temptation of out-and-out slaughter. That and the fact that Magnus had never had to watch his best friend die before—suddenly the battle had taken second place in the King’s priorities. And if compassion was a weakness, then Fergys loved his King for the contradictions in his character that could see him willingly pass sentence of death on a Morgravian criminal while, on the battlefield, sparing the lives of his enemies. It was this enigmatic mix of impulsiveness and honor, stubbornness and flexibility that had drawn Fergys to Magnus from childhood.

Thirsk noticed his own breathing was becoming shallower. He had witnessed this many times previously on the battlefield as he held the hands of the dying and heard their last labored words. Now it was his turn. Death was beckoning but it would have to wait just a little while longer.

There was more to be said even though it hurt deeply to talk. “If there is weakness in this, then it is shared equally among us all.” Fergys responded. “Without it. Briavel and Morgravia would not enjoy this regular opportunity to send their young men thundering on fine steeds across the moors to kill each other.”

Magnus nodded. Fergys Thirsk never willingly went to battle; he cared too much for the sanctity of peace and the preservation of lives, particularly those of Morgravian men. But history attested to Fergys Thirsk being the most successful of the campaigners to lead Morgravia. He was legend amongst his men.

Through a haze of pain Thirsk scrutinized the grieving man before him. noticing for the first time how gray his King’s hair had become. Once lustrous, it framed a strong-looking face, a determined jaw. and eyes that somehow reflected the man’s extraordinary intelligence. The King’s tall bearing suddenly gave the impression of a vague stoop, as though his big body was getting too heavy for him to carry around. They were getting old.

The General suddenly rasped a laugh. He would grow no older than this day. The King looked up sharply at the unexpected sound and Fergys shrugged, sending a new wave of agony through his ruptured body.

“We’ve always managed to laugh at most things. Magnus.”

“Not at this, Fergys. Not at this.” The King sighed again.

Fergys could hear the pain in that deep breath. They had shared their childhood. Their fathers had raised them to be close but the friendship was not forced. Fergys had worshiped the heir and then the King, and for his part, Magnus considered his General a brother in all but birthright. He loved Fergys fiercely and relied on his counsel, had done so throughout his long and flourishing reign. They were as wise together as they were wily.

“What must I do?” the King whispered.

With his last reserves of energy, the soldier squeezed the hand of his King.

“Your majesty, it is my belief that you would no more celebrate the death of King Valor of Briavel than you do mine. Morgravia has nothing to fear from him now for perhaps as much as the next decade—make it so, my King. Call a parley, sire. No more young men need lose their lives today.”

“I want to. I have no desire to prolong this battle, as you well know, and if it had not been for my own stupidity, you wouldn’t—”

Thirsk interrupted the King’s outpouring of guilt with a spasm of coughing, blood spattering his shirt. Death would no longer be patient. The King began to reach for linens but his General pushed the monarch’s fussing hands away.

“My death should suffice—it will be seen as a major blow for Morgravia,” he said matter-of-factly before adding. “Valor is proud but he is not stupid. He has no male heir. sire. His young Princess will be Queen one day and will need an army of her own, and for Briavel to breed the soldiers of the future, they need peace. But their men. and ours, would do well to dispense with the ancient quarrel altogether. The threat from the north is very real, my King, for both our realms. You may need each other one day.”

Thirsk spoke of Cailech, the self-proclaimed King of the Mountain People. In the early days Cailech had merely been the upstart and impossibly young leader of a rabble of hard Mountain Dwellers who rarely left their high ground among the imposing sprawl of ranges that framed the far north and northeast. His kind for centuries had kept their tribal squabbles to themselves, contained within the Razors, as the range was called. Back then, fifteen or so years ago, this young warrior, no more than eighteen summers, had begun to stamp a brutal authority across the tribes, uniting them. Thirsk had believed for several years now that it was only a matter of time before Cailech would feel confident enough to look beyond the mountains and out toward the fertile lands of Morgravia and Briavel.

“I will continue your strengthening of the Legion to the north,” the King said, reading his thoughts.

“That will help me rest easy.”

Both men could hear Thirsk’s increasingly rapid breathing.

Magnus had to push back all the emotion welling inside him. “And so for you, my dearest friend. What can I do for you before you leave me?” They clasped hands for the last time in the Legionnaire manner.

“A blood pact, sire.”

The King’s eyebrow raised. He remembered the first time they had mixed blood. They had been lads and permitted to witness the ritual being performed between the former dukes of Felrawthy and Argorn—a special linking of Morgravia’s most powerful duchies in the north and south of the realm. The two boys had watched the rites wide-eyed, impressed at the solemnity of the occasion and the deep commitment between the participants. It had been Magnus’s idea for them to do the same. “We’ll commit to each other.” he’d said to Fergys. “You will love me as your King and I will love you as my General, but we will be blood brothers above all else.”

They had found the courage to cut each other and hold palms together as the two nobles had done. They had not been even ten years old.

Thirsk coughed violently again. His passing into the dark was just moments away. They could sense it.

“Name it, Fergys!” the King growled, his anxiety betraying him. “Whatever you ask is granted. You know it.”

Thirsk nodded, exhausted. “The children. My boy. Wyl. He must return from Argorn immediately. He is already General of the Legion and does not know it. He must finish his training in the palace.” A new fit of coughing interrupted him. “Bring Gueryn with him. sire. Keep them close. There is no better teacher for him.”

“Except the one who leaves him now,” the King replied grimly. “And Ylena?”

“All I ask is that you make a good marriage for her.” Thirsk looked toward the table where his dagger lay.

Magnus moved without a word and fetched it. He sat down again beside his friend. The King passed the blade over his palm and did the same to Thirsk. They rejoined hands, mingling their blood.

The King spoke softly as he made his promise. “Ylena will want for nothing. Your son is now my son. Fergys Thirsk.”

“A brother for your Celimus.” Thirsk rasped as his breathing turned ragged.

“They will be blood brothers, as we are.” the King said, fighting back tears. His grip on his friend’s hand tightened. “Go now. Fergys. Struggle no more, my friend. May your soul travel safely.”

Fergys Thirsk nodded, the light already dying in his eyes. “Brothers in blood.” he whispered, breathing his last.

King Magnus of Morgravia felt the clasp of his friend’s hand slacken as death claimed Thirsk. “Our sons will become one.” he echoed gravely.