Chapter 23
Ferral’s Power
The cold wind swept across the plains of Belarn, making a sound much like a moan. Nature, itself, was tired of the abuse it was feeling from the tight control Ferral held over the land. The weather had no choice except to obey his commands, and so it cried out as it ran through the hills and valleys of the once beautiful country. The only other noise on the lonely plain was the squeaking of rusted chains and hinges from the countless cages that swung in the strong winds. Inside the iron prisons laid the remains of those that had somehow displeased the sorcerer. Rotted limbs hung limply out through the bars as a silent reminder to all those passing through Belarn.
The spell the sorcerer-king cast two weeks earlier had affected them as well. They were accused of heresy or treason for trying to abandon their king. He had them executed and then placed in the cages lining the road between Belarna and Singhal. During the day, the corpses slowly rotted in the cold sun. At night, they reached out feebly through the bars toward the citadel, hungry for the living that sought shelter inside the walls.
Travelers throughout Erinia heard the tale of Belarn’s evil king and his powers over nature and the dead. Most chose not to believe the nightmarish stories, but all took extra precautions while traveling. No one felt safe, and all felt betrayed as the weather continued to worsen in the east.
Those that did not believe in the legacy of Ferral’s ancient god or were too frightened to stay and watch the destruction of their city fled. It was not surprising to see hundreds fleeing through sewer grates or climbing down from ropes and running away from the black fortress. There was little time to get away from the dead before they came back to life at sundown.
At first, the guards fought them, forcing them to stay. It was rumored Ferral had executed their only hero, General Derout, and was assuming direct control of the armies. He decreed that anyone attempting to leave the city was to be immediately killed and the bodies kept preserved for his black arts. Those that guarded the gates thought their king’s order would be enough to keep people from fleeing, that and the constant threat of the dead that pushed against the outer gates every night. But the exodus increased significantly every day. The first hundred or so that attempted to escape were caught and killed like the sorcerer ordered, their bodies carted away for some awful purpose.
Soon afterward, the guards were mobbed by rushing hordes of frantic people. The gates were finally closed for good in an attempt to keep them from leaving, but every day, guards on the ramparts reported people heading away from the fortified city heading south. A few guards were likely making a large fortune smuggling people out of the city when their officers were not around.
Finally, the army gave up on enforcing the mandate. They tried to cover up the city’s plight by reporting to Ferral that all was in order. Ferral simply nodded, accepting the information; those selected to tell their mad king the lies would scurry away quickly afraid of what would happen if he ever found out the truth.
On this day, as the sun faded beyond the Utwan Sea and the Merciless Mountains further to the west, Ferral ordered an assembly of all the army’s officers. They were to wait for their king in the large courtyard between the inner wall and the palace. Hundreds of torches lined the walls and balconies of the courtyard as the deep shadows and the setting sun threw the area into darkness.
Most were nervous and afraid that their king was going to unleash the living dead upon them. They were herded into the courtyard by those that reverently worshipped their king and the god, Belatarn. Mad with blood lust, the faithful servants jabbed at their comrades with spears and swords threatening to slaughter them if they did not move to obey their king’s summons.
They waited in fearful silence for Ferral’s arrival. They were jolted from where they stood by the deafening boom of a large drum. It sounded three times to announce his appearance.
The king walked out onto a balcony above them, just out of range of any spear thrown from the crowd. With his thin frame hidden within the folds of a great black and red robe, he looked like Death itself. He waved solemnly to those below, a look of disappointment on his face. The drum’s reverberating sound finally ended, leaving an eerie silence behind.
Ferral raised his hands and smiled. “Welcome, welcome, great warriors. I gratefully thank you for coming on such short notice.” His smile dropped as quickly as it had appeared.
“Today we celebrate our victory over Erand and Duellr. Their lands are in ruins, and their people scattered throughout the frozen wastelands of their once proud kingdoms. Now all know my power and speak the name of our country and our god with great fear. You have helped us in our quest to make all those in Erinia remember the great Kingdom of Belarn. I salute you.”
With a dramatic flare, he pushed his robe back and waved his hand in the air. It was a prearranged signal for those behind him. Men in armor appeared on other balconies above the soldiers. They were the generals and commanders that had lead their army in the battle.
Ferral motioned to those around him. “These are your proud and heroic leaders. All of them are fearless and dedicated to our cause.” Few in the courtyard could see the soldiers hidden in the darkness of the open doorways behind their commanders or the sharp spears they held at their backs.
“They’ve all pledged eternal allegiance to me and vow to serve Belatarn unwaveringly. They wish to follow the lead of our greatest hero … General Derout, who also vowed to serve our cause by making the greatest personal sacrifice.” Ferral stepped to the side to let another figure come forward.
Soldiers and officers gasped as Derout slowly appeared on the balcony. They had all heard that Ferral killed him, but there he was standing next to the king. Then realization began to sink in as those close enough to see finally made out the gaping wound on Derout’s throat. The officers tried to back away from the balcony’s ledge as they realized what Ferral had planned for them. Ferral’s loyal servant’s lowered their spears and forced them back out to where the crowd could see them.
“General Derout is the man responsible for the total annihilation of the Duellrian army. He is the greatest hero of the Belarnian Empire. He volunteered to be the general of my … newest army. The Deathmarch Army.” Derout opened his mouth wide to shout. No sound came out, but the effect was enough to make those gathered cringe in fear.
“And now, his subordinate officers and aides have also volunteered to serve in the vast ranks of the new army. You have been invited to witness their beautiful transformation ceremony.” Ferral laughed hysterically as he threw his hands out to his sides.
Suddenly, sharp points protruded from the chests of the army leaders. They braced themselves against the railings of the balconies as their eyes widened in shock. A few turned on their attackers trying to deal out some vengeance for their betrayal, but they were easily subdued and gutted. The men that had just stabbed their generals quickly threw ropes over their necks, as well as, their own. They picked up the kicking and squirming bodies of the officers and with a shout of loyalty to Ferral threw the bodies over the railings. With another shout, pledging eternal service, the fanatics jumped from the balconies to hang beside those they had killed. The men in the courtyard below shouted in horror and pushed at the gates to get out. They looked up to see their officers swinging just above their heads; their bodies jerked a little and then stopped. Ferral laughed in pleasure through the entire bizarre show.
“Now you will be the few worthy enough to witness the power I control!” Ferral shouted. With a grand sweeping gesture, the sorcerer pointed at all of the swinging bodies. At first nothing happened, and there was a hushed silence in the courtyard. Then the bodies began to jerk again, reanimated by the dark magic Ferral commanded. Some soldiers panicked, beating on the barred gates, begging for someone to release them. Many others knelt down bowing to their lord, acknowledging his powers. They chanted his name over and over again. He raised his hands for silence.
“We have crushed all who opposed us, but some ha
ve escaped. The Prince of Erand, himself, escaped and fled west. He realizes his father is dead and his entire kingdom is in ruins, and now he likely hopes to raise a new army.” A few scoffed at the absurdity of the Erandian’s quest, but Ferral was not amused. The crowd fell silent.
“You have all proven your ineptness in catching three lone survivors. Were you not needed to fulfill another part of my plans, you would be sharing the same fate as your commanders.” They looked at each other in alarm. Were they to be transformed into the living dead after all?
“Do not worry,” he said with a reassuring smile. “I have a greater task for you. You now have a task that will lead you to glory and riches beyond your imaginings. You will march tomorrow to take control of the occupied lands to the east. Make the Erandians your slaves. Do not stop until you reach the Tarin Ocean.” The gathered soldiers grinned again as the thought of booty filled their minds.
“The Deathmarch Army will leave under the control of our beloved heroes.” He pointed down at the dead officers that struggled to reach the living below even as their necks stretched from the ropes. “They will seek out ‘King Kristian’ and any foolish enough to follow him. They will destroy everything they encounter and will not stop until they have eliminated every threat to our cause.”
He stepped to the edge of the balcony and added, “Soon I will control all of Erinia. We will make the people of these lands our slaves. They will feed the hunger of our god and live to pleasure us with their pain. And when we are ready, we will sail across the Tarin and storm the old lands of Mesantia. The entire world will know of me, Ferral, the king of Belarn. Ferral the great sorcerer and the prophet of Belatarn.” With his fervent words the gathered soldiers shouted out his name. He hushed them again, smiling.
“I also wish to announce that a wondrous day is quickly approaching. As you all know, the lovely Princess Allisia is without a family now, without a home. I have decided to show her compassion and love by taking her as my wife. On Sun’s Day, during the longest day of the year, we will celebrate the Duellrian holiday with a great feast for all of my loyal servants.” Cheers rang out from the army.
Ferral raised his hands, sending small sparks of blue lightning out from his finger tips into the night sky. The army shouted in awe and fright, bowing to their king. Ferral laughed in genuine amusement and then left.
Kristian could see faint lights flickering among the trees as the last rays of the sun began to fade behind the endless green canopy of the forest. They had ridden hard another five days before finally reaching the Spirit Woods. They had, at first, wondered how they would go about finding the secretive people.
“Well, at least we won’t have to search the entire woods for them,” Mikhal commented.
Kristian wondered whether the mysterious people would welcome them or hunt them down. He knew little of the secretive people. They could all be sorcerers, like Ferral, evil and twisted. They could be fairies that might curse him or imprison him just for sport.
“How do we know they won’t just kill us for intruding upon their sanctuary,” Kristian wondered aloud.
He looked over at Mikhal who also noticed the burning torches hidden among the trees. The cavalier did not seem worried. In fact, Mikhal appeared ready to walk right up to them. So Kristian shrugged off the bad feeling and stepped off toward the gathered flames in the woods.
Suddenly, streams of arcing fire filled the night. Their smoky trails curved down from the balls of tiny light back to where the torches had been. Kristian and Mikhal froze in their tracks, staring at the flaming arrows. Cursing, Mikhal grabbed Kristian and pulled him a step back. An instant later, the flaming arrows landed with dull thuds in the grass where Kristian had been standing a moment before.
Six arrows were aligned in a perfect barrier, blocking the Erandians path to the trees. The fires consumed most of the wooden shafts creating a small wall of orange flame. It was a dramatic sign that they were not welcome. Mikhal turned to Kristian.
“Well, I don’t think they want us to come any closer.” Kristian shook his head in disgust. They had traveled a hundred miles or more on foot since the battle. To have come so far … he was not going to give up so easily. Kristian had to try something more. The Erandian king stepped around the wall of fire, waving his hands over his head.
“Hello,” he shouted. “We mean you no harm. We’ve come a long way seeking aid and support. We need your help.” His words were cut short by the hissing sound of more arrows racing toward him. They were not lit, and he could not tell where they were coming from in the growing darkness. He looked around alertly, but remained where he was.
Another six arrows landed before him. They ringed him in a half circle forcing him to back out. He stood motionless, unable to comprehend why the woodsmen refused to listen to him. A heavily accented voice spoke out from somewhere within the shelter of the trees.
“You are not welcome here! We have no aid to give you. Now go.” The hissing sound filled Kristian’s ears, and he cringed, afraid that this time arrows would pin him to the ground. They hit one after another right at Kristian’s feet, constantly forcing him back until he was standing next to Mikhal again. The voice called out again in anger.
“Fool! Heed our warnings and leave. The next flight will not be so far off the mark.” Kristian did not want to think about how much closer the woodsmen meant to put the arrows. Disappointed, he waved one final time, acknowledging their warning.
He turned, and the two Erandians walked back over the hill. “Now what do we do?” Kristian asked in disbelief. “We finally found them, and they refuse to even talk with us.”
“Could you blame them?” Mikhal countered. “Two armed men in rags claiming they need help? We look more like bandits than anything respectable.”
Kristian grimaced, disgusted at the turn of events. He looked back over his shoulder as the shadows deepened over the forest, hiding any trace of the woodsmen and the shelter he hoped to find.
Mikhal gently pulled on his sleeve, “Let’s go back up the river a bit. We’ll camp there and try again in the morning. Maybe if we show them how persistent we can be, and they realize we are no threat, they’ll change their minds.”
Later, the two found a small depression close to the river. Bitter gusts of cold wind blew down from the north onto the grassy meadows, reminding them of the evil they had narrowly escaped. They could find no wood to build a fire and were forced to curl up in their coats for warmth. Mikhal took the first watch while Kristian tried to put their bad luck out of his mind.
Sleep came quickly for the Erandian king, but he was plagued by nightmares and twisted memories. The young man was haunted by ghastly images of himself. A cruel and evil specter, dressed as he had been during the battle against Ferral, taunted him with his failures. Laughing, the image danced through the mists of the battleground, pointing his sword toward the action. Where he pointed, Erandians rushed forward to die. Kristian shook his head in disbelief.
“No!” he screamed. “It wasn’t like that.” Ghosts of those that followed him, obeying his ridiculous orders, floated past the ethereal image of himself. They would not speak, but their silence deafened Kristian. Everywhere he turned to escape the nightmare forms, he ran into another soldier that had trusted him only to die a grizzly death.
Kristian backed away from them all, but they closed in upon him, tightening their circle. His dead comrades reached out for him, their eyes pleading for him to save them. Kristian screamed in horror, and they vanished. Slowly, an image of a solitary man replaced all of them. Stately and proud, he refused to let the burden of his death bring him down. His stern gaze fell on his cowering son.
“Father?” Kristian called out. The ghost said nothing. “Father, please, I … I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” The dead king would say nothing. His image faded slowly in the mist, leaving his son alone in an empty and terrible place. Kristian wept in sorrow.
Mikhal woke Kristian and quickly hushed the confused Erandian. When Kris
tian saw the worried look on Mikhal’s face, he immediately became more cautious. “Riders. Less than a mile from us, approaching from the north,” the cavalry officer whispered.
“North?” Kristian gasped. “It must be a Belarnian patrol.”
There were eleven of them. Most wore various scraps of leather and mail armor, but one appeared to be a Black Guard. Each rode upon a dark horse, making it difficult for the two Erandians to identify their progress. It seemed the patrol had stumbled upon their trail somewhere near the mountains and followed them south toward the forest. Riding single file, they lazily approached Kristian and Mikhal’s small depression. Kristian was afraid Old Man might whinny at the approaching horses and give away their hiding spot. He motioned toward the place where they had left the horse to graze. Mikhal nodded, cursing silently.
But Old Man did not make a sound, and the patrol continued past the depression. They were so close that Kristian could see the expressions on their faces. They were tired, exhausted, and their slack faces indicated the patrol had searched long and hard for them with little success.
If they only knew how close they are, he thought.
Just then the lead soldier, the Black Guard, halted. Reigning in his horse he said, “Wake up, you lazy whore’s sons. There are lights in the trees ahead.” The leader pointed toward the woods, and the others roused themselves, excited by the possibility that they might have found their prey.
One soldier in the middle of the patrol pulled out of the column and faced his comrades. His horse came close to stepping on Kristian who was hiding in a small bush. He cringed, trying harder to push himself back into the darkness.
The soldier closest to Kristian spoke out. “What about the tales of these woods? People say these forests are full of evil spirits that devour humans and drag their victim’s soul to hell.” The leader rode up next to the superstitious man.
“And who are we to be frightened by evil spirits? Our king controls the spirits themselves. Who is more evil than he?” He looked through the gloom at his men. “I would much rather face whatever may be holding those torches than report back to Ferral that we let the Erandians go because we were too frightened to enter the woods in the dark.” The others backed up their commander with grunts and nods.
“But what if they are just woodsmen, Jorn?” The reluctant soldier asked his leader. “We’re far from Belarn, and these people have done nothing to interfere with our king’s plans. Why slaughter them needlessly? We could ask them for information or for some food.” Others nodded, thinking about how long it had been since they had eaten something other than stale rations.”
“Do you think it’s them? Do you think it’s the cavaliers? I mean it’s a rather large reward Ferral’s offering,” a soldier called out from the rear of the column.
“Not unless they‘ve found others to help them. I count six … no seven torches,” another replied. “Either way, we’ll have some fun. If it’s the Erandian king and his survivors, we’ll butcher them and get our reward. If they’re just woods folk, well then, we’ll just butcher them, too, and take whatever we can.”
“Forget about the reward and booty for now. Worry more about what Ferral and that demon will do to us if we fail,” the one called Jorn shot back, looking at each member of the patrol. He turned his full attention to the reluctant one in the middle. “As for you, I’ll be watching you. I always knew that the High Hill people were traitors and cowards, supporting the king only when it benefited them. You better be at the front of the attack, so I don’t mistake you for an Erandian dog and slit your throat.” The soldier quickly backed his horse away but saw the determination on Jorn’s face and reluctantly moved to the front of the line.
“Maybe there are women with them. Young women,” one Belarnian said excitedly, breaking the silence.
“What do you care how old they are, Moric? It never stopped you before,” the leader snarled.
Jorn pulled free his broadsword and returned to the front of the column along with the superstitious soldier. “Now, stop your crying, children. I see people in want of a lesson in terror. And if you find the Erandians with them, make sure to keep their heads for proof or you won’t get any reward. Ride them down!”
With that they charged out of the depression where Kristian and Mikhal were hiding and headed for the dark forest. Kristian pulled himself out of the bush looking for his companion.
“Over here,” Mikhal called. Kristian rushed over to where the cavalier was.
“What should we do now?” Kristian asked.
“This is the best chance we’ll have to lose them. I didn’t think they would get this close, but if we move quickly, we can use this diversion to our advantage.” Mikhal pointed to the west. “Maybe we can cover our tracks by crossing over the river and heading that way,” The cavalier offered.
Kristian shivered just thinking about the prospect of swimming through the mountain-fed stream, but he could not think of a better plan. Finally, he shrugged, securing his pack and nodding that he was ready to move out.
They started out of the depression, heading in the opposite direction of the Belarnians. They hoped their tracks would be harder to find mixed in with those of the patrol. After traveling a mile from their campsite, they would try to find a good place to cross the river. As they climbed the small rise leading out of their protected hide site, they heard the sounds of battle coming from the woods. The two looked back over their shoulders to see flaming arrows streaking through the night. They could not see where they were impacting, but the screams and shouts of Belarnians indicated just how accurate the forest archers were.
Mikhal smiled. “You see? Their welcome was much less pleasant than ours.” He squinted through the darkness, trying to make out the results of the battle. “I hope they all die.” Kristian finally pulled the cavalier down off the hill afraid someone would see them if they stayed any longer.
“What about the horse?” Kristian asked as they ran down the backside of the hill.
Mikhal paused. It was hard for him to leave a good horse. “We’ll have to leave him. I don’t think he could make the fording, and he will never be able to out run the patrol. It will be a lot more difficult for them to track us if we’re on foot.” Kristian did not like the possibility of facing mounted Belarnians while they were dismounted, but there was no time to argue.
Mikhal let the reins go and urged Old Man to leave. The horse stood there mutely but did not follow them as they started searching for a way to cross the river.
The two stood by an old, solid oak, trying to catch their breath. Mikhal scanned the dark waters of the river, trying to find a good place to cross, but where they stood was too high to just drop in without making noise or getting hurt. So they squatted down, looking for a way to the bank.
Just then the two heard the approaching sounds of a horse plodding through the tall grass. Kristian thought it might be Old Man, trying to find them. They hid behind the tree, just in case, but it was too late. Two Belarnians came into view from the south. The riders saw them and abruptly halted.
One raised his hands pleadingly, “Please, please don’t shoot. We’re sorry … forgive us for intruding upon your lands. We surrender.” The other soldier sat slumped in his saddle hugging himself.
Kristian and Mikhal stood there unsure of what to do. They think we’re woods folk, Kristian knew. Then recognition seemed to dawn on the soldier’s face as he saw the Erandian’s hesitation.
“Wait,” he growled, “You’re … the Erandian scum. It’s my lucky day. Fewer of us left … a pity for sure,” he said to himself, “but more reward for me!” He turned over his shoulder to call out, “Over here, over here! I found the Erandians by the river.” A shout from somewhere behind him echoed back. The shout gave the Belarnian a measure of courage; his comrades were on the way. The Belarnian pulled out a spiked mace and charged.
Mikhal had no time to get his sword out. He dived under the falling ball just as it crunched into the tree where his
head had been. The cavalier came up on the other side of the Belarnian, pulling him from his horse. He was caught off guard and fell heavily to the ground at Mikhal’s feet. Seeing Mikhal locked in a struggle with the one, Kristian rushed the other soldier that still sat slumped in his saddle.
An arrow protruded from the man’s unprotected abdomen. He held onto the shaft with one hand as he tried to turn his horse away from Kristian. Kristian could have easily caught him, but he saw the wound and pain on the man’s face. It was the same soldier that had tried to warn his companions and turn them away from the woods. Kristian hesitated, wondering what would happen if he just let the man go. By the time he looked back, the Belarnian soldier was already too far away to catch. Kristian quickly forgot about him and turned to help Mikhal.
The Erandian officer was shouting curses as he continued to pummel the Belarnian scout with his fists. The man struggled against the weight of his armor to get up but could not get away from Mikhal’s flailing arms. Just then another Belarnian galloped out of the darkness right next to Kristian. Sword raised high, the grinning soldier was ready to cut him in half. Kristian reacted instantly. He pulled free his own sword, continuing the swing outward until it hit the soldier’s horse. It screamed and ran forward a bit before it reared, throwing its rider against the oak tree.
The Belarnian grunted as he hit the solid wood and fell further down the sharp bank into the water. The Belarnian shouted as he splashed about in the shallow water.
“Damn, it’s cold,” he said gasping. Without thinking, Kristian jumped off the embankment. Shouting a wordless cry of rage, he landed on top of the soldier, thrusting down with his sword. It glanced off of his opponent’s black armor. It was the patrol’s leader, Jorn. The man was in knee-deep water, but the weight of his wet clothes and armor made it hard for him to get his head above the surface. The man’s arms waved about franticly, and his hands finally grabbed hold of Kristian’s shirtsleeve, desperately trying to pull himself up. Kristian held him down firmly, fighting Jorn. He pushed down with all of his weight on the man’s head. Several moments passed before Jorn stopped fighting. Kristian looked hurriedly back to the tree.
“Mikhal?” The cavalryman stood up, looking back toward the sound of his king. “Hurry, before more come.” The cavalier turned toward his unconscious opponent, kicking him one more time, and then he ran jumping away from the embankment landing close to Kristian.
“What are you doing?” Mikhal asked, looking at Kristian in confusion. Finally, Kristian let go of Jorn. The Black Guard did not come up.
Kristian gasped, “He held his breath for a long time.” Already exhausted, he started for the other side of the river. It quickly got deeper, and they were forced to swim. They panted and gasped, trying to catch their breath, but the water was so cold their lungs refused to work.
“We’ve got … to reach … other side quick … or we’ll never make,” Mikhal was cut off by the sound of shouting behind him. He did not bother wasting effort to look back; instead he tried even harder to reach the far side.
Kristian was the first to find his footing again. He quickly pulled himself out of the water, falling down at its edge. He looked back across the river for an instant to see chaos. The remaining Belarnians were scrambling away from the river as quickly as they could. One scout fell from his horse, two shafts sticking out from his back. Another screamed in agony, clutching his stomach. The woods folk had dealt swiftly with the Belarnians. Kristian pushed himself off the ground and helped Mikhal out of the frigid water; both were shaking uncontrollably.
“We’ll be dead soon if we don’t get warm,” Kristian said between clenched teeth. Mikhal shook his head in agreement.
“Maybe crossing wasn’t such a good idea,” he admitted, shaking badly. Pain kept him from saying more. Wearily, he motioned for Kristian to get up the bank and seek cover. They helped each other up the steep slope and fell to their knees at the top.
Mikhal was trying to catch his breath as he searched the darkness to the west. “I don’t know where to go, but we have to keep moving. If we rest here, we’ll die from the cold.” With renewed determination, he stood up. The cavalier pulled his king off the ground, and the two started off with no idea of where they were going.
Kristian had never felt closer to death. He had not eaten in two days. He had walked for what seemed like an eternity. His joints were swollen from the freezing water and fighting, but he had to keep walking. They had narrowly escaped the patrol, but it seemed they had only escaped one type of death to encounter another one, a much slower one. They stumbled through that first night and the next morning and only kept warm by constantly moving. Their bodies ached from the pain.
Kristian began to fear that if he survived, he would be crippled for life. It had been three days since they had first reached the boundary of the Spirit Woods, and they still had not been able to enter or find anyone willing to help them. Somehow in the darkness, they had become disoriented. Mikhal had wanted to stay close to the border of the woods, but they lost sight of the trees and walked along aimlessly. They had no food or water and were getting desperate. They were too weak to change their situation.
It mattered little to Kristian now. He had been reduced to little more than a walking puppet, much like Ferral’s army of the dead. His mind wandered from one thought to the next, constantly changing and never focusing. He was no longer aware that Mikhal was walking limply next to him. He just kept moving because that was all he could remember to do.
Mikhal was in no better condition. The cavalier had fallen several times. Once he had tripped over a partially buried rock and banged his knee on another. He limped from the stiffness of the injury but no longer felt the pain. His eyes stared out past the horizon searching for something that he could not find.
Unlike his companion, though, his mind was focused … so strongly focused on one thing that his soul screamed for escape. He was in the golden field again with the beautiful girl. She ran through the flowers and tall grass teasing him, daring him to catch her. He smiled at her antics. Mikhal’s heart ached as he watched her dance before him. He knew she was the demon from another life. There was no mistaking those depthless blue eyes or their penetrating stare. As much as he wanted to turn away and run from this waking nightmare, he continued to concentrate on the girl. She dipped behind a hill, waving as she disappeared. He quickly ran after her, afraid he might lose her.
Mikhal stopped at the top of the hill looking down on a magnificent sight. A sprawling metropolis spread out below him in a wide valley. A hundred thousand people must live here, he thought. The houses were constructed of white and gray marble, their red tiled roofs dotting the valley floor. He also saw larger buildings, obviously designed for administrative work and worship. The height of these larger buildings made Mikhal stagger in awe. They stood higher than any tower he had ever seen. Detailed designs were painstakingly carved into every imaginable corner of the marble. Legendary heroes loomed over nearly every building and street corner. And despite the great wealth of the city, there were no walls or fortifications. The girl called to him, spoiling the moment. She was down at the outskirts of the city, waving for him to follow her. Mikhal quickly forgot about the magnificent city and ran down the hill after his love, once again entranced by her beauty.
When he got to the street where he had seen her, she was gone. The street itself was dark and miserable, a sharp contrast to the remarkable sights he had seen from the top of the hill. The warmth of the sun was hidden behind dark storm clouds and the breeze made him shiver. Mikhal slowly walked down the street calling for his love. She did not respond. At an intersection, he saw a gathered crowd. All of them were dressed in fine clothes. Silk and other precious materials were loosely draped from their bodies. Many dressed provocatively, displaying as much of their skin as they could. Mikhal noticed that everyone’s hair had the same fair color … like his loves and like his own.
Mikhal wondered what his connection to these people and
this place might be until his attention was called back to those on the far side of the street. Everyone pushed for a glimpse of something beyond Mikhal’s view. The men, women, and some children laughed and cheered. Mikhal was curious to know what it was they were looking at.
He crossed the street to where barrels were stacked by a tavern. The white stones had been stained by dirt and grime over the years, but Mikhal could still see the workmanship that had gone into building this simple tavern many years before. The cavalier climbed atop some wobbly barrels, leaning against the tavern for support. He immediately wished he had never crossed the street.
At the opposite corner of the intersection, the crowd was watching slave traders show their prized possessions. Hands bound together and naked, the slaves stood motionless on a makeshift stage. Mikhal had never seen people like those the traders were selling. Their skin was dark, as dark as the storm clouds above the fine city. Their hair was cut short, even the women’s hair was short, and they all had a lean muscular look to them. A young slave was brought forward to the surprisingly loud cheers of the gathered people. The trader pulled the slave to the front by a rope tied around his neck. The young man stumbled but caught himself quickly, his muscles rigid as he tried to hide his emotions. He remained silent and continued to stand motionless on the stage.
The people shouted out prices quickly. Several argued over the worth and cost of the slave. Eventually, only one person was able to keep bidding higher. His love stepped away from the crowd, handing the slave trader a few gold coins. She grabbed the rope that was dangling on the stage and gently guided her new servant off. The beautiful girl seemed to feel Mikhal’s stare and turned to face him. Her wicked smile quickly fell from her face as she saw his disbelief, but only for a moment. The girl Mikhal knew to be the demon smiled again, pulling her slave behind her.
In his dream, Mikhal fell from the barrels as a tremor from the earth shook the city. People in the middle of the street cringed, unsure of what to do. A statue of a beautiful goddess fell from its pedestal crushing a man. The delicate glass torch that was held in the statue’s outstretched hand shattered on the paved street. A loud boom rocked the foundation of the tavern next to Mikhal even as the earth stopped shaking. He looked up from where he lay to see a column of dark smoke rise from somewhere deeper in the city.
Mikhal’s nightmare was abruptly halted as his body fell to the earth again … this time for real. He did not feel the pain nor call out for Kristian’s help. His mind refused to let go of the dream; he demanded answers to his questions. Kristian heard him fall, but continued walking, unable to comprehend what had happened. A few feet later, he also fell to the ground, exhaustion finally taking over.
Delirious, Mikhal looked out past the grassy meadow where he and Kristian lay. In the distance, he could see many small columns of smoke rising up into the sky. And then he closed his eyes, hoping to find his love again.
Thus ends Book One of the Erinia Saga. The Epic Fantasy continues in Ferral’s Deathmarch Army.
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About the Author
Tod is originally from a small town near Fort Wayne, Indiana. He graduated from Purdue University in 1992 with a Bachelors of Arts degree in Political Science. While in college, Tod served as an infantryman in the Army National Guard. After college, Tod received a commission as an infantry officer in the regular Army.
Tod and his wife moved seven times over the next fifteen years – his assignments included deployments in support of the war on terror. Tod also served as an infantry company executive officer and patrol leader in Port-au-Prince, Haiti in 1995 during Operation Uphold Democracy.
After September 11th, 2001, Tod served on two combat tours in Iraq and has served in Afghanistan numerous times. Throughout his career, he traveled to over fifteen countries; many of the cultures were so alien and magnificent that they left a lasting impression upon him. Tod was awarded two Bronze Stars for his service and left the Army at the end of 2007. He continues to provide advice as a consultant to the Army and divides his time between living on the East coast and back in Indiana.
His dream is to spend many more years in his “home office” writing novels that help turn what he has seen and experienced into entertaining and thought-provoking stories for readers of all genres. Prince Kristian's Honor, Book One: the Erinia Saga, is Tod’s first novel. The next book in the series, Ferral's Deathmarch Army, was published in December, 2010.
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