The Curse of Arvyl's Folly

The Curse of Arvyl’s Folly

Scales over Sangrithar

Volume 1

By Chris Garson

Copyright 2013 Chris Garson

Smashwords Edition

http://chrisgarsonwrites.com/

Illustrations by Cassandra Jerman

http://cassandrajerman.com/

Table of Contents

Preface

Prophecies

Maps

Cast

Prologue

Chapter 1 – Decisions

Chapter 2 – Homecoming

Interlude 1 – Remembering

Chapter 3 – Tintammil

Chapter 4 – Tar-Numerath

Chapter 5 – Exodus

Chapter 6 – Alliances

Chapter 7 – Shades

Chapter 8 – Twilight

Interlude 2 – Forgetting

Chapter 9 - Pel Aesylle

Chapter 10 – Deception

Chapter 11 – In the Fold

Chapter 12 – Legionnaire’s Day

Interlude 3 – The Greater Realm

Chapter 13 – God-Fire

A Sangrarian Primer

Preface

Welcome, noble reader, to The Tale of Ages, a testament to a place that never was. My name is Jerilyn Haligar, formerly of Colcester, and you hold in your hands my life’s work, the annals of ancient and well-storied world of Sangrar.

The world created by the Primals, the world of my youth, is no more. That world ended with the Long Night and the fulfillment of the Prophecies, an ending so utterly final that its very existence was erased. Now, that Sangrar lives only in my rapidly fading memories and in its stead lies a new world, one with a different past. A world in which the Primals never were and there is only one Sun.

Many survived the Long Night, but only I remember the Sangrar that was. Before the end, Bayonell the Herald, he who came from the Void, named me Sangrar’s chronicler, and when the Prophecies were fulfilled, I stood at his side. By his grace, I have witnessed the turning of the ages, I have felt the raging tumult of the world breaking and have seen that which lies beyond the Girdle. I have beheld the Balance and remember, but not even the Herald’s boon can safeguard my memories forever. Now I race against time, frantically recording the ancient legends before they fade entirely into the mists of time.

This story takes place sixty five hundred years after Kandol, Aeris and Valdarag rescued Ilnaya. No longer does the ground murmur with earth song. No longer do Nammovalle’s obsidian spires glisten. No longer do Caradar’s halls echo with the pounding hammers of the Forge Folk. In Esel, Edda, Imma and Olla shine overhead, guarded by Aeriel the Dawn Mistress, who shepherds in each morn. Erlik One-Eye, the Dark Lord, battles her at dawn and dusk from his refuge in the Darkstar, and his Dark Ones dwell on Sangrar, hiding mostly by day and hunting by night. Sangrar is dominated by Mankind and the kingdoms of Man have spread across the land, surpassing those of the Elder Days in size, yet falling short in majesty. The greatest is Sangrithar, the City of the Golden Star, an empire ruled by the God-Emperors, beings with powers far greater than mortal man.

Most of the Elder Races have forsaken Sangrar; those that have not are few in number. The greatest of them, Kandol Elf Lord, rules the Fair Folk from his tower atop the Mountain of Clouds. You who are reading this will not remember Kandol, the most ancient and grand of the Fair Folk. The last of the lords of the Elder Days, Kandol was born in fair Nammovalle under the Full Radiance of the Three Suns. Silver haired, with sorrow-born wisdom in his eyes, his aura blazed with yesterday’s glory. For several years, I was privileged to sit at Kandol’s feet in his home on the Mountain of Clouds, while he regaled me with stories of Sangrar’s past. Perhaps he knew what would come from his sharing; those of his house have always had strong ties to fate.

Like the great stories of the Elder Days, this tale concerns the Warrior, Prince and Priestess. In every age, the Balance selects champions to do its will and in this tale, that champion is Hali, Lord Warden and commander of Sangrithar’s legions, an embittered patriot weary from the wanton excesses of his master, Torval Waverider, the God-Emperor of Sangrithar.

Enjoy, noble reader and salute the glory of yesteryear. Through you, may the Sangrar of my youth live once more. May the Maiden’s kiss bless you and may the Explorer guard your path.

Jerilyn Haligar,

Master Historian,

Dean Emeritus of History,

University of Colcester,

Sangritharian Fellow of the Ages

The Prophecies of the Ages

"The Years of Making shall unfold as you do our will and prepare the world for the Elder Races. The Firmament shall be raised for the Suns and Stars and you shall make the Gods of Light. The Pattern of the Seasons shall be made and the Elder Races shall arise, bringing with them the Years of Glory and the Elder Days, which shall be great beyond imagining. Songs praising them shall echo to the stars and back. The Twice Forged Sword shall be made and remade and the heroes of the Prophecies shall be born. Yet even then, Darkness shall endure and cast its shadow. Sorrow shall enter the world, born from love gone wrong, and usher in the Age of Tears. In the end, the Elder Days shall fade and their majesty shall be lost; only a few shall remain, testament to the kingdoms of old. Then the Herald shall return and the Girdle shall grow again. The Age of Man shall follow; the last of our children shall awaken and attain new glories. The Days of Myth shall unfold and Mankind shall come into its heritage and blanket the earth. Thus shall the days of Sangrar be fulfilled, until the Gates of Heaven crumble and the Long Night begins."

These are the Prophecies, Sangrar’s watchwords through the ages, as Kandol Elf Lord told them to me. The Primals first dreamt them in the Void, visions too complex for mere words, and shared them with the gods at the Feast of Creation. Though my humble prose falls woefully short, may you remember them nonetheless, noble reader, in this new age where the gods have forsaken us and only one Sun shines, and think fondly of those who came before you. Jerilyn of Colcester.

Maps

Kingdoms of Sangrar

Sangrar Geography

Northwest Fanar

Lands of the Empire

The Capitol

Cast of Characters

People in Gloryngael

Torval Ardwynn Waverider– the God-Emperor of Sangrithar. Gloryngael is his palace. Tintammil is the grand hall where the Pearl Throne resides and the nobles assemble.

Empress Celle Halvyl Ardwynn Waverider – the God-Emperor’s wife and Hali’s sister

Prince Talmynar Ardwynn Waverider– the God-Emperor’s son and heir

Maelryn the Vizier – an ancient Elven advisor to the Pearl Throne

Emerre – an ancient Elven warrior recently returned to Sangrithar

Wardens and Legionnaires

Lord Warden Hali Halvyl – the commander of Sangrithar’s legions

High Warden Avery Tavistern – commander of the infantry

High Warden Cantalor Fagan – Horsemaster, commander of the cavalry

High Warden Daerycil Belsor – commander of the Averchai

High Warden Ivrael Landella – the Admiral, commander of the fleet

Master Warden Jafal Ordalli – an officer in the infantry

Master Warden Kaphiri Fellstar – an officer and Hali’s adjutant

Deputy Warden Renjarro Palluri – an officer in the Averchai

Legionnaire Tukir Evari – a guard at Gloryngael’s gate

Legionnaire Fafingard Tuldari – a guard at Gloryngael’s gate

Legionnaire Tyrias Eversin – High Warden Tavistern’s aide

Nobles

Olantor Videssyn, the Marquis of Videssyn – a wealthy, landless noble living in Sangrithar

Count Vand Auberc – a wealthy, landless noble living in Sangrithar

Signor Pelthane Orvandal – a merchant and lesser noble living in Sangrithar

Baron Xander Lessari – the Baron of Cormane, a barony west of Sangrithar

Baron Zakari Maldane – the Baron of Tanylcar, a barony west of Sangrithar

Sangritharians

Estan Phaerizol – a mercenary wizard from Endiron

Gestarre Redhook – an innkeeper, owner of The Golden Whale

Hermyna Halkannyth – high priestess of the Maiden

Padiera Linvelt – the empress’s chief handmaiden

Tomello – a young cutpurse

Fair Folk

Kandol Elf Lord – the king of the Fair Folk.

Velora of the Dancing Veils – Kandol’s wife, the Faerie Queen

Prologue

After pulling down the Darkhold, Kandol retired to Tar-Vydael, his tower atop the Mountain of Clouds. Weary from the toils of his labor, he hoped to devote his days to the study of the Balance and leave the fate of the world to other, more deserving heroes. The promise his parents had made to the Maiden and the Beast Lord amidst the Stones of Jahar so long ago, the vow that had bound him in secrecy and forced him to lie to those he loved, had been repaid at last, or so he thought. But the Balance did not agree. Jerilyn of Colcester

The oceans of Heaven seethed with a rising tempest reflecting the greater battle between the brothers. Sworn into opposition by the grief of an age long gone, they railed against each other. Azure waves rose and fell like a molten battlefield, smashing together in violent retribution.

Heaven’s bedrock staggered in reply. On the Plains of Blessing, ripples of coruscating force rumbled over the meadows and the Pegasi ran, afraid the Elemenes were awakening after eons of slumber. Without the chattering of crickets and birdsong from the bough, the Singing Forest grew quiet for the first time since Nyllen the Minstrel taught the wood to sing. In the Caves of Iron, the endless burrowing of the tireless Vergar came to a halt. At the Mere, rainbows scintillated from the roil nearly toppling Harnor’s Spires.

Golden Finbardin, King of Heaven, watched his realm tremble and shook his head in discontent. Even in this new age, the Prophecies held sway. He could not forestall their fate. He had brought this on, this battle between the brothers, he and the Lady of Esel when they had contrived to bring forth the Vanara. He had started it, but not even the Seeress could say where it might end.

He had pinned his hopes on the Vanara and from those hopes had this battle sprung. Encouraged by One-Eye’s whispers, mad Rabyn had emerged from the depths to challenge Umbar, Lord of Sea and Storm, for his part in making the Vanara.

For time unmeasured the brothers had battled, unrelenting as the wind. Now, he sensed their battle drawing to a close. A spray of surf and foam erupted and the brothers were towering waves, crashing into one another and mingling like entwined lovers. Not even his discerning eye could tell them apart.

A spout formed around the battling titans. Small at first, it stretched from the ocean, swirling with the fury of a maelstrom. It pulled the brothers up and spat them into the Firmament. One caught himself on the lip.

The village was unremarkable in every way, except for the harbor which was haven to more fish than her people could ever catch. Built at the delta of the River Taris, the village consisted of two score thatched huts, a row of dunes and a white beach. Two escarpments jutted into the sea to form the harbor. A small hill crowned with sycamores rose behind the western one.

Raena woke before dawn, her favorite part of the day. She loved coming to the beach and watching the morning battle for the Suns. Most girls her age were happy stringing nets, weaving baskets, and waving to the men when they set out for the day’s catch. Such a mundane existence could never content her.

Just past her sixteenth birthday, she should have a husband by now, but she didn’t want any of the men in the village. She could swim, sail, clean and gut a fish, read the winds and tides, and patch a broken hull better than any of them. Several had asked for her hand and no matter how much she begged her father not to, he would say yes to one soon.

She climbed the dunes in the moonlight and sat on a large flat rock facing the sea. A strong wind whipped her short, sun-bleached hair. She sat cross-legged, quiet amidst wind, wave and gulls, while light won the dawn. Long ago, the elders taught, Edda, Imma and Olla had shone eternally and the world did not know night, but now light and dark fought each dawn and dusk.

Generations ago, the Elf Lord of Pel Aesylle had come to the village and shared legends from the Elder Days, when gods had walked the world with the Elder Races. She grew up feasting on those tales and liked to pretend she’d been born back then. She’d have given anything to see the Elven kingdoms of old or many-halled Caradar where the Forge Folk had delved. Though she only knew scraps of the Elf Lord’s tale of ages, her imagination filled the gaps.

A sudden whistle from above broke her daydream. Something was hurtling down, looming closer with each passing second. Solare burn her if it wasn’t a man passing overhead!

He crashed near the beach. A rush of wind and a thundering boom followed, like a Giant clapping its hands. The earth shook so much she thought the Gates of Heaven had been torn asunder. She fell to her knees and then, curious crawled to the edge of the new crater sloping down at a modest angle. The center was flat and smooth as glass and the man lay there, motionless on his side, knees drawn up against his chest. She scrambled down to him.

He couldn’t possibly have survived, yet she saw no sign of injury. There was no blood, no bruises, no bones, but his eyes were closed. He looked only a few years older than her and was handsomely chiseled, with a strong chin and broad shoulders. His thick auburn hair was wavy and his beard was knitted with seashells. He was naked and wore a silver medallion shaped like a lightning bolt around his neck. Bending over his still form, she held her hand under his nose. Cool breath, slow and steady.

She wondered who he was, wondered what sort of person falls from the sky. She cradled his head in her arms. He smelled of surf and foam.

Behind the dunes, she heard her people squawking like gulls snapping at whitecaps until the elder rallied them. Then they headed her way and she became desperate. She was not here by accident; she’d been meant to find him. She had to wake him before they got here.

She slapped his face and he remained deep in slumber. She slapped again, harder, and this time he blinked. She slapped him a third time and he grabbed her wrist. Though his hand was rough and calloused, his grip was warm and gentle. Strength flowed from him into her and her heart swelled. He opened his eyes and his smile was a long lost friend, warm and comfortable. His eyes were blue and inviolable, like soldiers guarding secrets, and when she met his gaze, he turned his pikes aside to let her see within.

He was new and innocent, like a babe, yet his soul was old and wise. He was the glory and wonder of the Elder Days, the fulfillment of her dreams. Had her need been so great that she conjured him?

His merest glance opened the door to her heart. She melted and could not, would not, resist him, yet he waited politely for her invite. She beckoned, sure and unafraid. ‘Come to me,’ she said without speaking, knowing that he would hear. ‘Be with me. Know me.’

He pressed her hand against his face and his gaze swallowed her. He was her other half, the part she hadn’t known was missing. Like a crackling fire on a long, wintry night, he completed her.

Do you have a name? she asked.

The man shook his head.

I shall call you Thar. In my tongue, that means stranger. He nodded. She bent her head to his lips.

Hungrily, he returned her kiss. Stranger she may have named him, but he was no stranger in any way that mattered. He knew her and she knew him. They were one and would never be apart. She did not care where he’d come from. He was here now and he was hers, as she was his. They had found one another, like Zuras and Majestrix in the Void. By the Flame, no god or man would tear them asunder.

She became lost in Thar’s embrace. She was Ollare, dancing with the Explorer among the stars. She was Spollnar, frolicking with Garruth the Laughing God. She was Ylindelay, ancient queen of the Fair Folk. And then, shouts from her people drew her back.

Thar stepped back to drink from her eyes. His tender gaze offered love and asked nothing in return. Who are you? he asked, speaking for the first time. His voice rippled like whale song.

After a long journey from Sangrithar, as her home was now called, they neared the summit, where the Elf Lord lived with his queen. The slope was too steep for the wagon, so Raena carried little Gwynna in the crook of her arm and Thar carried her twin, Averanda. Gwynna had inherited Thar’s reddish-brown curls and fair skin. Averanda had taken after her, with sea-green eyes and the olive skin common to her people. The girls were irrepressible and chattered incessantly in a language only they knew.

Coming here had been her idea. Thar’s origins were still a mystery ten years later. They wedded right away. The village elder had stood aside for him within the first year. By then, Thar’s reputation had spread up and down the coast and the village was prospering. They’d held off on children until now. Even as infants, it was obvious the girls had inherited her husband’s gifts. Like any mother, she needed to know more. If anyone could help, it was the Elf Lord.

An Elf maiden wearing a garment of colored veils stepped out from behind a majestic oak that might have taken root when the world was young. Alabaster skin, a soft aura of light and almost white hair even shorter than hers lent her unearthly beauty. She seemed no older than when she’d found Thar, but with the Fair Folk appearances could be deceiving. Only the old ones had auras.

The Elf bid them follow. More skipping than walking, she led them on a journey silent save for the girls’ private chattering. The summit was a forested meadow where Fair Folk watched from the balconies of orange streaked obsidian towers. A granite fortress rose from the center of the meadow. The massive doors swung open, revealing a well-lit marbled hallway. Kandol awaits, said their guide, her first words. She sounded like a song.

When they stepped inside, the girls grew quiet. The hallway ended in a pair of large double doors carved with the likeness of an Elven lord and lady caught in a kiss. They opened to a room simple in design yet more elegant than any in Sangrithar, with treasures stuffed into every corner and bookcases jammed with tomes, paintings, sculptures and jeweled works of art. As the wife of a chieftain, she had received many gifts, but the Elf Lord’s plainest pieces were more precious than her finest. To her, just seeing these ancient treasures was a great gift.

Two leather chairs, a small round table and a well-used leather couch occupied a clear area in the center of the cluttered room lit by a crystal chandelier. A large mahogany desk covered with scrolls, books and loose papers took up the far end of the room. A dragon head lamp on one corner burned cedar-scented oil. Sitting on the desk was a small rabbit, tan with white spots and long, floppy ears. Behind it, in a straight-backed chair, sat the Elf Lord.

The figure captivated Raena. Kandol Elf Lord, hero of the Elder Days and High King of the Fair Folk. Their guide had named him simply Kandol, as if his other titles, and there were many, were superfluous.

Good Imma, friends, and welcome to Tar-Vydael, he said. His voice was deep and rich. I am Kandol. Long have I awaited your coming.

Tall and majestic, the Elf Lord reeked of power. A glowing aura surrounded him, like their guide’s, but many times brighter. A gold headband kept his silver hair in place and he sported a finely manicured goatee, the only beard she’d seen. His eyes were between hazel and amber and flickered like embattled Suns. He wore a loose fitting tunic the color of Esel on a clear day under a silver and white cloak trimmed with lavender orchids.

What struck her most were the Elf Lord’s features. Elves possessed an ageless beauty, like prisoners in cages of eternal youth, but his face was not so innocent or so young. So many lines creased his face that he looked older than her father. The Fair Folk were supposed to be immune to the ravages of time. What could have aged him so?

His crackling eyes spoke not just of power, but of kindness and wisdom born from long centuries of life. This was someone who had met Sorrow and held off despair. Someone who had wrestled fate and emerged victorious yet wore his accomplishment with the humility of one who’d overcome ambition.

She and Thar sat in the chairs across from Kandol and their guide on the couch. The rabbit hopped onto Kandol’s lap. The girls squirmed free and ran over to pet it.

You’ve already met my wife, Velora, and this little fellow is Ren.

Raena lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Thar was sound asleep with his arms around their daughters. Three days had proven Kandol quite the conundrum. He knew more about her husband than he let on. When she pressed, he dodged her more pointed questions with impressive sounding answers that said little of substance.

Kandol was more human than she’d thought possible. She’d seen worry, guilt and sadness, but not regret, in his inhuman eyes. She hadn’t thought the Fair Folk subject to Mankind’s frailties, but the price of his choices was etched into his face. His was a gentle soul, stained by Sorrow and tempered with learned caution. He was well intentioned, but could not escape his nature. To him, the truth was a weapon with which he fenced tirelessly, feinting and parrying without ever letting down his guard. He wore an armor of secrets for defense.

For all his human-like failings, Kandol remained distinctly otherworldly. There was no denying his power, but the more time she spent with him, the stronger her first impression grew. She had met many men of so-called power since marrying Thar. Most were haughty and arrogant. She could easily tell those with true power apart from the fakers. Kandol had power aplenty, yet he held himself equal to, not above, others. Long ago he may have suffered vanity, but not after all his legendary trials. They transformed him into a humble servant of fate, to whom pride was anathema. His soul was gentle and she knew he would never harm Mankind, though he might harm a man.

In the morning, she and Thar joined Kandol and Velora in the library. Her husband carried the sleeping girls in a cradle. Kandol’s creases were deeper and his eyes troubled. I must tell you of the Balance.

She was suddenly afraid. Kandol’s was the voice of ages and there was no escaping his doom.

So little remains from the Elder days. Now listen carefully, there is much you need to know. He squeezed Velora’s hand for reassurance. All that is, exists within the Girdle. Beyond the Girdle is naught but the Void, yet greater than the Girdle, greater than the Void, is the Balance, which is supreme above all else. It is more powerful than the gods, more powerful than even the Primals. Serving the Balance are the Prophecies of the Ages, which tell of three heroes – the Warrior, Prince and Priestess. They have saved Sangrar from the Dark Lord’s schemes more times than you could know …

His face grew heavy and he walked to the cradle. He took the girls in his arms and his aura grew. The smoldering of prophecy lies within your daughters. They are Prince and the Priestess, heroes for the Age of Mankind. For them and their heirs, I see great futures.

His robes ruffled, though there was no breeze, and his eyes bristled with amber intensity. Gwynna shall be Priestess and Averanda Prince, ruling as Sangrithar’s queen after Thar, and their power shall keep the world safe from the Dark Lord. Bring Gwynna to me on her eighteenth birthday, he commanded, and I will teach her the ancient lore. Through her, the Maiden shall prosper again and when the Prophecies have need, the Priestess shall protect the world from Sorrow.

His aura grew even brighter. In exchange, I swear by the Flame your daughters and their heirs will never be far from my watchful eye!

The chandelier flickered as if giving his oath sustenance. The Flame was the legendary source of life the Primals found in the Void. An oath made to the Flame was sacred and inviolable until the end of time.

Velora paled to a ghost. Kandol, what have you done?

Chapter 1: Decisions

No, Jerilyn. I never regretted my oath to Thar and Raena, despite what came of it. Even then, I knew Thar’s identity, though it was not for me to reveal. As the servant of the Balance, I was duty bound to offer my aid. Duty can be a terrible burden. Kandol Elf Lord

If he had his druthers, Hali Halvyl, the Lord Warden commanding Sangrithar’s legions, would rather be anywhere than Cormane, but the compulsion would not allow it. He wasn’t looking forward to the engagement. From the reports, Baron Lessari wasn’t a bad man, just too poor to meet the ridiculous obligations imposed by their master, Torval Waverider, the curse-addled God-Emperor of Sangrithar.

Since Thar who was Umbar fell from Heaven so many centuries ago, many God-Emperors had ruled from the Pearl Throne, but none so crazed as him. Confident in his false divinity, he demanded others call him the God Reborn and show proper obeisance. For Torval, being God-Emperor and ruling the mightiest nation on the face of the world was not enough. He would ascend the Firmament and stand in the Heavens amongst the gods.

Hali, to his undying shame, bowed and scraped with the rest of them. Worse, he was the God-Emperor’s chief enforcer. When Torval commanded, he responded with the legions whether he wished it or not. The compulsion saw to his loyalty. The compulsion had bound many Lord Wardens to many God-Emperors. Ataryl, the first God-Emperor, had seen to it when he’d divided power between his sons and set the compulsion upon them.

Let’s get on with it, he said to his adjutant, Kaphiri Fellstar. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish.

Your legions await, Lord Warden, answered the thin, wiry man with dark hair and deep set eyes wearing a uniform with a Master Warden’s badge. Kaphiri understood the terrible burden that came with the Lord Warden’s baton. That the compulsion bound him to the God-Emperor was common knowledge. The price of disobedience was not. To defy it, to even think of doing so, brought the unbearable agony Kaphiri had witnessed too many times. Hali was not always the compulsion’s willing captive. Don’t forget to put on a proper show. They have high expectations of the Lord Warden.

Whitecaps slapped against Foambreaker’s portside hull. The starboard was tied to a rickety wood pier not built for galleons the size of the imperial flagship. Beyond the docks stretched the desolate and empty town of Cormane. Apparently, Master Warden Jafal Ordalli had managed not to blunder his assignment.

Hali patted Avashar’s neck. The mighty charger had carried him into battles uncounted. Shiny, black and eighteen hands tall, with white socks and a star on his chest, Avashar towered over other horses like a king. He was closer to the steed than many who called him friend. Don’t fret, Kaphiri. The Lord Warden shall give his legionnaires a rousing speech, not that they need it. We outnumber Lessari more than five to one and only one in ten of his are trained warriors. The rest are farmers and fishermen.

An enemy underestimated is a dangerous one. Kaphiri pulled his dappled roan closer. And a cornered foe fights with strength born from desperation. You would do well to take this seriously, my friend.

He’d learned long ago to heed Kaphiri’s advice. They’d been best friends close to two centuries, ever since Hali and his younger sister Celle had come to the Fellstar villa for fostering. Aged five and three, he and Celle were the perfect companions for the Baron’s four-year old son Kaphiri. The three of them had been inseparable, until he and Kaphiri had gone off to the university at Colcester. Celle cried when they’d left, as much for Kaphiri as him. Leaving for school ended their teenage romance before it ever really started. Since then, the adjutant’s quick smile and quicker wit had won him enough maidens to fill a pageant. Celle had long ago wed another.

He shaded his eyes with one hand while gathering Avashar’s reins. Then consider me well advised, Master Warden, but Lessari’s defeat is assured. The tithe will be paid. The God-Emperor has ordered it.

He and Kaphiri trotted down the gangplank. Only officers of Master Warden and higher rank were permitted steeds on ship. For the Lord Warden, it was not only permitted, it was expected. At the end of the pier, Master Warden Jafal Ordalli waited with an escort bearing the God-Emperor’s standard, an eye in the center of a seven-pointed golden star on a field of azure. On his orders, Ordalli had arrived in Cormane earlier and, after a battle that went overwhelmingly in his favor, laid siege to the keep.

Ordinarily, he would not have attended such a minor matter, but the God-Emperor had specifically commanded him and he had to obey. Over the years, he’d done as Torval bid no matter how sordid the assignment. He’d ordered the destruction of uncounted villages on little more than allegations of rebellion. Pallsnip had been the first, but not the last. He’d slain warriors fighting to defend home and family, and murdered women and children in the name of duty. A weaker