Prologue

“The wind’s picking up again,” George Mairdrin, Counselor and close friend of Lord Dorrin said softly. “It looks as if another storm is brewing in the north.” The wind sought out his words, carried them away, and howled quietly in the dim light of the early evening sky. Dark clouds drifted across the gray sky with no visible sight of the sun, all other light seemingly coming from elsewhere.

“If another blizzard blows down past the Divide, we’ll be in for more rough times,” Guardian Karl Kalgur spoke up from beside George, his voice deep and rough yet commanding despite his olden years.

“And it’s moving quickly,” George added.

“That it is.”

The early evening sky was darkening, quickly, without warning, without regret. It moved in around the procession of fifteen men, enclosing them, trapping them. Lord Anton Van Dorrin and General Jordrin Gartrin led the two single file lines of men with grace and caution. George and Guardian Kalgur’s heavily clothed warhorses marched behind them with eleven of General Gartrin’s finest warriors following.

George’s soft, light eyes, which burned with watchfulness at each falling branch and snowflake, turned to Anton. “Are you sure they’ve come this far?” He shivered despite his woolen clothing and heavy brown cloak and hood, hiding his short graying brown hair. He was a younger man, or at least in comparison to Guardian Kalgur and General Gartrin, at the age of thirty-six with a soft face of few battles.

Lord Dorrin turned to face his friend with a smile across his hardened face. His dark green eyes were strange in this snowy white environment. He laughed and answered, “Of course they’ve come this far. And they’ll keep going until we catch up with them.” He turned back to the darkening forest surrounding their procession with searching eyes. Unlike his childhood friend and trusted adviser, Lord Anton Van Dorrin had seen many battles and had learned well from each. With long brown hair and a beard, decorated with white and trimmed close, he was indeed a younger man than the general and Guardian though a man whose youth was gone.

The sun was hidden, otherwise gone, and the newly brewing storm’s clouds and winds were already sweeping across the vast escape of the Midnight Wood. The frozen land beyond the Divide was stirring with another blizzard, another presence, and it was about to send it on its way downward into Vikear’s realm.

“What’s wrong George?” Guardian Kalgur asked amusingly. “Never been in the Midnight Wood before?” He clapped the younger man on the shoulder with a smile broadening his scarred face, seemingly carved from marble; his gray eyes full of merriment. “Is it pulling on your nerves?” He brushed long strands of white hair from his face and hid it once again within the dark reaches of his black hood.

George Mairdrin kept his horse moving behind the others as he turned to regard the older man with a sidelong glance. “No, I’ve been in the Midnight Wood before.” He glanced around the named wood, which surrounded them now, dark, inviting, threatening, and seemingly calling out to them. “I’ve just never been this far into the Northern Darkness before, that’s all. It feels as if we’re about to ride up into Falling Sky’s main court any second now. We’ve been out here a couple days now.”

Karl laughed again but shook his head. “Understandable. The Northern Darkness is not for the light-hearted and that’s why we’re here, ain’t that right Jordrin?” The middle-aged general riding before them nodded, never turning. “Nay, we ain’t anywhere near Falling Sky. That lost city’s about another good four days ride from here.” He saw the shocked expression across George’s younger features and laughed. Karl Kalgur was an aged, seasoned fighter of fifty-eight who still fought as strongly as any young, eager youth fresh out of the barracks. “I’ve seen the towers myself young man. It ain’t a pretty sight; nothing for the weak-hearted.”

General Gartrin turned in his saddle, his leather tunic creaking with each movement. “George is right, my lord,” he started, facing Anton, who turned in his own saddle to meet the older man’s rough, darkened eyes, “how can you be certain they’ve come this far? We ain’t chasing ghosts, are we?”

Lord Dorrin laughed. He was no fool. “No, I guarantee we’re not. These men aren’t frightened smugglers or thieves. I saw the looks in their eyes. They’re seasoned warriors just as you and your men are general and they’re not going to stop until they reach Falling Sky or Hell’s Waters beyond.”

“They wouldn’t be crazy enough to set sail across Hell’s Waters in this weather, would they?” George Mairdrin asked, questioningly.

“I’m sure they would,” Lord Dorrin replied, turning his gaze back to the Midnight Wood around them, watchful, cautious. “King Odell’s already sent his orders. I’m to capture this group and return with them alive for questioning. And I’m not going to return to Castle Heaven empty handed. Besides, Emissary Alwrin’s still there and that man’s beginning to disgust me.” He twisted the man’s name in his mouth like foul tasting meat. “I’m not willing to deal with any more of his bullshit, not in my castle.”

The two columns moved slowly, steadily, with every man’s eyes watchful and alert, their ears up and listening, and their minds set on the task ahead. No conversation stirred in the small columns as they picked their way through deep troughs of snow, moving ever onward further up into the Northern Darkness with the Divide inching miles and miles further away to the south with each horse’s step.

Birds shouted to one another. It wasn’t joyous singing of southern birds but rather the shrieks of eagles, sparrows, and flesh-eating vultures. This wasn’t a peaceful environment and none truly knew what resided in the far reaches of the Northern Darkness where the Midnight Wood thickened.

General Gartrin’s fist went up at his side. The columns abruptly halted. Lord Dorrin was a military man himself and a gentle, caring, trustworthy man at that, and he didn’t dare speak out against the seasoned general’s call though he did regard the older man with a wry expression.

The general’s voice was a whisper, “Steel upon steel. Hear it?” Anton shook his head. “A battle,” he paused and tilted his head to the wind, eyes closed, “about a quarter of a mile ahead. It might be our guys; hard to tell though in this weather.” His rough, midnight eyes opened and met Lord Dorrin’s green-eyed gaze. “It might be the group we’re tracking. Should I scout ahead my lord?”

Anton Van Dorrin shook his head and turned in his black warhorse’s saddle to study the small group following. “No, I need you here at the front Jordrin. Your men need you now. It’s been a rough ride up here, I grant you that, but I promise that as soon as we accomplish our goal we’ll be back and a round of ale for every man here. From my pocket general.”

General Gartrin’s lips peeled back into a smirk and when he spoke, his voice was gleeful but his breath was steam set out before him. “Thank you, m’lord.” King Odell had ordered General Gartrin’s faction to garrison at Castle Heaven four years ago and they had been there ever since with no sure leaving in the future. The older man had led countless expeditions across the Divider and into the Northern Darkness in those four years and had the best knowledge of the Midnight Wood, thus becoming one of Lord Dorrin’s most trusted and skilled warriors.

“We move forward,” Lord Dorrin instructed loudly over the wind, kicking his horse back into a steady pace with the two columns once again following.

“Blades ready.” General Gartrin drew his broadsword and shouted the order to his men.

Steel being drawn rang out throughout the dim world surrounding them. George looked over to see Guardian Kalgur bare his double-bladed axe and lift his hunting knife to his mouth, closing his teeth around the cold surface of the blade. The man’s eyes met his own and sparkled with delight, his eyebrows rising in eagerness. Lord Dorrin drew his longsword and rode steadily onward.

Between the two columns rode the bannerman. Lord Anton Van Dorrin’s flag fluttered aggressively in the heavily speeding wind that howled around them. It was the flag that flew from the towers of Castle Heaven, the symbol of Dorrin’s House: a soaring black raven on a green background.

The trees of the Midnight Wood surrounding them were dead; their branches bare save for collected snow, to never shine green again. The solid background of the flag was the only color to match Anton’s eyes and both shone with pride as he marched the columns through the deep sets of snow. They moved slowly to allow the horses to gain footing but the sounds of battle soon reached them.

Just as abruptly as the sounds reached them, they fell silent again with only the wind to break the silence of the wood. Anton and Jordrin glanced at one another uncertainly as they led the columns further north into the forest with attentions fully focused on the trees surrounding them; a perfect place for an ambush.

The horses broke through the tree line and entered a vast opening with the sounds of rushing water overtaking them in mere seconds as if the wood simply ceased to exist; as if they had stepped through a portal into another lost world. Their hooves stomped down on padded, thick, solid ice rather then snow and they easily gained their footing. The two columns broke free of all tree cover and slowed as they crossed the ice-covered ground; it creaked beneath them with each step of the heavily armored assembly.

“We’ve reached the Waverin River,” Guardian Kalgur exclaimed, removing the cold steel of his hunting knife from between his teeth and staring around the open area with feverish eyes. “Gods! We’re further north then I thought!”

George Mairdrin knew the Waverin River flowed into and through Vikear and he knew it flowed out of the Northern Darkness and past the Divide into their realm but he had never seen it frozen. It babbled and roared before them beneath a thick covering of ice. He never would have guessed that he’d ever see the famed Waverin River frozen for he knew from his childhood, growing up in Vikear on the docks and the marvelous color of the speeding river that he had swam in as a boy.

This was marvelous yet unmanning at the same time.

“This isn’t good,” Counselor Mairdrin whispered hoarsely.

Guardian Kalgur clapped a black leather gloved hand down on the counselor’s shoulder and shook him. George looked at him and followed the man’s pointing finger (on the hand still holding the warrior’s weapon) up past the treetops before them, and across the dimly lit sky to the towering mountain range beyond them, their tops hidden in clouds and unknown shadow; blurry with raging snowstorms.

The old man’s voice was soft, harsh, wandering. “The mountain range of the Northern Darkness. They say the Waverin starts there but none’s ever been there. Stories say one can touch the moon from those mountaintops and see all the way down past Rar’Viine and into the Scorched Lands beyond. Hell, they even say you can see across the Akiyril Ocean and past the Southern Trade Towns of the Eastern Continent. None know.”

George knew his expression was that of doubtful wander.

“Don’t take it lightly young man,” Guardian Karl Kalgur continued, meeting the younger man’s gaze again. “I knows I’m old; I ain’t as sharp as I used to be but I ain’t stupid. These ain’t the ramblings of an old man. They’re real or so I’ve heard.”

General Gartrin once again had his head tilted upward with his eyes closed, listening once again. The man knew this wood like his own home and his hearing was one of the best in the realm. None dared speak up against his decision.

Opening his eyes, he shook his head. “Nothing. There’s nothing out there. I don’t know what happened to it. I know I’m not going crazy.”

“You ain’t crazy,” Guardian Kalgur agreed, allowing his scarred face to sweep across the vast plain before them. “It’s this place. It does things to you. It ain’t right for you to trust it. I know these things for I’ve trusted it once and see where it got me…” He traced a deep scar set across his face that ripped into his hairline hidden beneath his dark hood where the hair was thinner and whiter then elsewhere.

Some said that years ago the old man had been attacked in this wilderness and had been possessed by an ancient ghost, an ancient warrior, cruel and harmful but George Mairdrin didn’t believe these tales. Guardian Kalgur hadn’t done anything for him to mistrust the older man yet and George wasn’t going to begin now.

George leaned closer to Lord Dorrin. “Anton, we shouldn’t be here. We should head back. Now.”

Silence answered him.

Anton didn’t stir in his saddle nor did he utter a reply. He just sat still watching the open terrain before them and the Midnight Wood beyond it with only the sounds of the hissing blizzard wind and the snarling river beneath them.

“The young man’s right,” Guardian Kalgur finally agreed. “I know it ain’t right to hear but he’s right. Something’s wrong here. We oughtn’t be here; not now; not in this time and weather. Something’s terribly wrong.”

Anton was silent a bit move, only moving his head slightly from side to side as he continued his sweep of the empty plain. George looked out over the vast empty whiteness before them and saw that in some areas there were mounds on the ground while in others there weren’t any.

“My lord,” General Gartrin said, joining the others, “they’re right. We need not waste anymore time. We should head back now. There’s nothing more we can do here, not with this weather growing in strength around us.”

“You’re right,” Anton Van Dorrin answered, turning his horse around when the enormous gust of arctic wind struck them. It blew across the plain and struck them with a numbing intensity to cut through their leather tunics, woolen garments, and ringmail. Each man raised a gloved hand to shield his eyes while the other was used to comfort the rearing, screaming horses.

It quieted seconds later leaving snow and ice covering the small party.

“Bloody hell!” Guardian Kalgur cursed angrily, lowering his arm and wiping flakes of snow from his dark clothing. “It ain’t a good sign of future events. If that storm sweeps south across the Divider to Castle Heaven, we’re in for one hell of an awful time! I ain’t gonna die out here!”

“Gods!” A warrior in the column behind them exclaimed breathlessly, pointing out across the white field before them. “Look, my lord, look!” They all turned back to the field that stood before them with astonishment and fear. “By the name of Tarlagon, this place is cursed! This weather has come from Hell’s Waters to murder us!”

General Gartrin swung around in his saddle and commanded furiously, “Stand fast and hold your bloody tongue knight!”

“Sir.”

“I will not have my knights utter such bloody blasphemy and nonsense! Leave the stories and utter foolishness for the children! Do not be corrupted by them; pay them no heed and don’t voice them around me!”

Lord Dorrin looked as terrified as the rest of them. “General, your man might be right.”

“I knew this wasn’t good,” George insisted weakly.

“I knew never to trust this fucking place again!” Guardian Kalgur uttered beneath his voice, cursing angrily. “I ain’t gonna die in this blasted place!” Counselor Mairdrin saw the seasoned knight tighten his grip around the handle of his axe and that terrified George more than anything else. Something was seriously wrong here if the older man was frightened.

The terrible gust of blizzard wind—of Northern Darkness’s wind—had ripped the top layer of snow and ice away from the ground revealing to the small procession what the mounds, that George Mairdrin had noticed earlier, truly were. And it frightened not only horse but man as well. Gasps were released into the wind and some mutters of curses or prays. George knew that Guardian Kalgur was no religious man so the words from his aged, scarred lips could only have been curses to the gods or whatever creatures lived beyond in the Midnight Wood beyond.

Each mound was a body; a bloody human body; dead, slain. The snow was a carpet of red now as dark as any southern red ale; as red as the blasted flags of the warrior nation of Rar’Viine. The ground drank it greedily, thirstily, hungrily as if it truly was alive beneath them. There were perhaps thirty men before them, all slain in combat with their armor and weapons lying among them. Their darkened blood seeped through the ground, through the ice, and into the raging Waverin River below their mangled corpses. There was no movement; no sounds; no life anywhere before the small group.

Each corpse wore jet-black clothing and armor as if they had been a Rar’Viinian army but George knew that was doubtful. Rar’Viine hadn’t sent an army north since the Northern Raids across the Divide or against the docking ships of raiders from Hell’s Waters and the islands beyond the Akiyril Ocean. Rar’Viine was a nation concerned with the safety of the western continent but not with the safety of Vikear or the northern nations as long as there were bad tidings between them.

George dared speak his mind. “Rar’Viinian knights?”

“Nay, Rar’Viine couldn’t send knights across the Divide without Vikear knowing or even allowing it,” Guardian Kalgur answered, shaking his head and rubbing his scarred chin with a gloved hand. “It ain’t a Rar’Viinian army. Be one hell of a thing if it was but it ain’t. Nay, it’s something else.”

“Is it the Midnight Men from the forest and Falling sky?” General Gartrin asked wonderingly. They all knew of the barbaric tribes of men beyond the Divide that took refuge in the lost city of Falling Sky and the mountains that Karl had spoken about earlier but it was rare to see these men unless they had the courage to raid the Vikearian realm below and beyond the Divide.

Lord Dorrin shook his head with a strange smile. “No, it’s the men we’re looking for. But this isn’t comforting. King Odell won’t be happy with my report of these strange events.” He looked at Jordrin and sighed. “General, the king might want us to further our advances upward across the Divide to see what’s caused this once he’s heard of it.”

The general nodded, solemnly. “I’ll have my men ready themselves as soon as we return to Castle Heaven.”

“I think we should move forward,” Guardian Kalgur suddenly urged, gaining all eyes on him. “It ain’t good wasting this chance to further our knowledge of this damned place. It might help us in time.”

“He’s right,” General Gartrin admitted. “I haven’t seen anything like this in my four years here and I’ve been up here plenty of times. I think we should give it a chance. It might give us a better report to send the king. He will be pleased.”

“Very well,” Anton Van Dorrin replied, urging his warhorse into a steady walk again, its hooves echoing on the ice as the two columns followed. “Blades out and ready, eyes open. Take no chances.”

They advanced slowly, cautiously, watching the forest surrounding the frozen field on all sides. As they neared the red ground where the black-clad men all lay, movement finally caught George’s eye and before he could speak, he saw that the others had seen it as well. He drew the dagger sheathed on his left bicep and held it ready in a white-knuckled death grip.

Anton Van Dorrin threw his fist up same as General Gartrin did earlier. “Company, halt!” The assembly reined their fifteen horses to a halt and the columns stopped, each man watchful and alert with naked steel in hand.

A tall man fully clad in black clothing and armor stood before them in the vast whiteness of the frozen field before them. He stood alone among the dead—death surrounding this unknown man—but he stood tall, elegant, and fearless.

He looked like the others lain out around him though with life yet. He was tall, perhaps six feet or more, with shoulder length jet-black hair and dark eyes hidden beneath a black hood. He was dressed for the weather in all black woolen clothes with a long, gleaming, silk cloak that flowed down his back and out behind him like the rushing water of the Waverin beneath their feet. His only visible skin was his face that his hood didn’t cover.

Anton slowly started his horse forward with his bodyguard, Karl Kalgur, at his side. The older man held his axe with skill and learned discipline while Anton held his longsword with dignity, pride, and honor. He wasn’t a weathered warrior but he had seen his share of battles in his lifetime.

Anton stopped his horse and Karl slowed next to him, never taking his eyes from the black-clad man ten yards in front of them with the first signs of snow swirling around his shadowed figure. “I am Lord Anton Van Dorrin, Realm Lord of Castle Heaven and Fortress Midnight. By order of King Odell Rankin, of House Rankin, King of Vikear and Protector of the Vikearian Realm, I order you to lay down your weapons and surrender yourself to the nation of Vikear.”

The man laughed.

“Ah, so you’re the realm lord of Castle Heaven, huh?” His voice was deep, strong, commanding; that of a skillful leader. Lord Dorrin nodded and tried to speak but the man cut him short: “And you’re the one whose been following my group for the past couple days. You’re slower then I thought.” The man laughed again and took a couple steps forward. “And I suggest you let me pass.”

“You’re in no position to speak that way,” Lord Dorrin replied, looking down at the man from his mount. “Your men are dead. You’re alone against fifteen.” He turned to face General Gartrin’s men behind him. “So, surrender yourself and you will not be harmed.”

“My fight’s not with you realm lord!”

“You should have thought about that before leading your party in a raid against my castle!” Anton shouted back angrily, his voice carrying over the wind. “You struck out against my people and therefore you struck out against Vikear! Vikear’s justice must be served so lay down your weapon and your justice will be honorable!”

“I won’t surrender to you realm lord,” the man hissed back angrily, stepping forward again and leaning down to pick something up out of the snow. His straightened; his hand came away in a grip of icy snow around a wooden handle of a long pole. A flag was at its other end: a blood-red wolf charging across a solid black background with dark blue stars shining above it. The handle was snapped in half; the banner pole shorter then normal. “And I will have my revenge against whoever murdered my men.”

Lord Dorrin sighed. “Very well. General, have your men detain this man for the voyage back to Castle Heaven.”

“Gladly, m’lord.”

He threw the banner pole into the ground and watched the banner begin to flow in the wind with a smile across his lips. Pushing his hood down, he threw his cloak from his shoulders revealing a coat of ringmail covered by a high-necked black woolen shirt buttoned to his cheek. He drew a black-handled broadsword from his back, a chain falling downward from the bottom of the hilt with a grinning skull attached to it.

“Last chance,” Lord Dorrin urged. “Lay down your steel and surrender. Your judgment will be swift and honorable for your mishaps. You may be able to fight alongside the Vikearian knights to secure the safety of Castle Heaven and the Divide.”

“I fight for no nation!”

“Your mistake.”

Two Vikearian knights rode past Anton and Karl as they turned their mounts back towards the party and started forward. The man lowered his right shoulder in a battle-stance and held the gleaming blade behind him with an open-mouthed smile splitting his face, a pair of fangs visible in his grin.

Steel rang upon steel as the first mounted knight reached the man. The black-clad man swung upward, then grabbed the knight’s arm, and pulled him free from the saddle. The Vikearian knight went down fast and hard, striking the ground with his back, a blade soon through him. The other knight reached the man, who swung upward and sideways taking General Gartrin’s man in the side with thick, sticky blood spraying outward like rain. It decorated the man’s face as the knight fell from his mount, groaning in pain. The warhorse, like the other, disappeared into the thick, deadened wilderness of the Midnight Wood.

“Bloody hell!” Guardian Kalgur cursed heatedly under his breath, turning to face the skilled footman standing before the smaller party. “This ain’t right. This ain’t good at all. We shouldn’t have come so fucking far north!”

He lightly started his horse forward but stopped when George grabbed his arm.

“No, don’t go. Let General Gartrin’s men take care of him. Anton needs you at his side Guardian. You’re his bodyguard and where he goes, you must go also. Don’t fail him now by throwing your life away.”

“Very well lad.”

Anton Van Dorrin turned his green-eyed gaze to General Gartrin, who nodded understandingly. “Forward knights! For Vikear!” The battle cry echoed through the Midnight Wood as the remaining nine men started forward with their general leading them to battle once again.

Though it was strange to consider fighting a single man battle, George Mairdrin was certain that the general knew exactly what he was doing. After all, George was a counselor to the realm lord of Castle Heaven and Fortress Midnight. He was no warrior and when it cam to battle, he didn’t know the first rules. He held his dagger ready nevertheless.

The black-clad man smiled and laughed as the charging warhorses with armored knights approached and soon neared him. His black-handled broadsword met the forged Vikearian steel with more accuracy than George Mairdrin had ever seen before in any barracks.

As the remaining Vikearian knights surrounded him, the man uttered a single war-cry into the darkened evening sky. “For Nightfell!”

His blade met the others with more pride than even the king of Vikear could muster.