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Willam Tilian lied in his bed, looking at the ceiling. The ceiling was covered with hundreds of small glass globes. Along the northern edge of the ceiling, one of the globes glowed with a yellow hue. To the far southwest corner of the room, another of the spheres glowed. Two remain, Willam thought. His bed was in the center of the old King’s Hall. After he had taken the throne, he had sealed off the hall and made it his personal chamber. Only those that he completely trusted – and there weren’t many – were allowed in. He didn’t want rumors starting about the two living heirs.

Twenty-two years ago, when he had taken Clifshire by force, he had sat in this very room and watched the Jolan spheres wink out as his assassins hunted down the members of the Garrett House. Dugan’s two oldest daughters had escaped him. The oldest had fled to Wyn, and twenty years ago, given birth, he assumed, as one of the dark lights came to life. The other daughter had been married to the Nordlander heir apparent, and had unfortunately given birth to a son before he had her murdered. Attempts to kill the son had failed, and now the young man had claimed the Nordlander throne at the tender age of Nineteen. Willam’s spies and rumors from sailors who crossed the Serpent Wash suggested the new Nordlander King, Osric Haldorsson, was rallying the long dormant warriors of his land. Willam knew he’d be coming south, to make his claim for the Hochanan throne, and maybe, if he thought with his heart and not his head, to avenge his mother’s death. No real proof existed that Willam was behind her murder, but evidence was just a formality with kings.

A few nights ago, there had been three lights in the southwestern corner of the ceiling. Willam had been lying in bed then, looking at them, when two of the yellow globes went dark. His heart began beating in his throat, and he sat up, his hands clenching the sheets tightly, while he waited and hoped that the third light would dim too. Instead, it began moving.

One of the heirs was coming.

Could it be Synne Garrett herself, or one of her children? No matter. Willam knew that, in spite of his formidable claim to the throne, the Dukes would not back the Nordlander. He was a foreign king and commanded a foreign army. No Hochanen would willingly give control to a foreign ruler. But this other one – who was it? Willam hated unknowns. Unknowns were dangerous.

The light hopped from one small orb to the next. Moving northeast. Coming for me. Willam knew that he would not be able to fall asleep tonight unless he did something. He could not rest until he acted in some way. The king rose from his bed, and walked to the large double doors that had once been the main entrance to the great hall. He opened one of the doors, and a member of his royal guard turned toward him.

“Yes, your highness?” the guard asked.

“Fetch me Stilwell,” the king said quietly.

“As you command, my lord.” The guard trotted off into the darkness, and Willam closed the door. Stilwell could go himself, he thought. It was that important. Someday, soon, he hoped to go to bed and look up at nothing but darkness.

A few minutes later there was a soft knock at the doors.  “Enter,” Willam said.  One of the doors opened slightly, and a stout shadow slipped into the chamber.  The umbrage materialized into the short, pale form of Stillwell.  “You called for me, your highness?”

Willam sat on the Cat’s Paw, looking down at the diminutive assassin.  “Yes.  Look at the sky, Stillwell.”  Stillwell glanced up, and immediately noticed that the number of glowing Spheres had decreased from four to two.

“It seems we have found our mark, after all of these years, your highness.”  The assassin’s voice was metallic.

Willam stood, and descended the steps from the throne to stand next to Stillwell.  He towered over him.  “Yes, but apparently the mission was not a complete success.  The one that remains is moving.  For the first time in twenty two years, one of the lights has changed.”  The king put a meaty palm on Stillwell’s black-cloaked shoulder.  “Do you know what that means, Stillwell?”

The assassin shrugged nonchalantly.  “One might assume that the one that lived is coming here, if our understanding of the Spheres is correct.”

Willam’s hand moved up to the back of Stillwell’s neck.  “Yes, my dear assassin, on his way here. And to ensure that whoever it may be does not make it to their destination, which one might also presume is this very hall, you will be going to personally take care of the matter.”  Willam squeezed Stillwell’s neck hard, and turned the man to face him.  “Is that clear?”

Stillwell looked up, his dark eyes two holes in a placid milky mask.  “Yes, your highness.  I shall leave at once.”  He shrugged off Willam’s grasp, pivoted on one heel, and marched toward the door.

“Stillwell!”  The assassin turned as he reached the door, his demeanor infuriatingly calm.  “Do not fail this time, or I shall see you stretched by your balls over Dolan’s Keystone until the buzzards have pecked you clean.”

“As you command, your highness,” he replied coolly.  Stillwell cracked open one of the great doors, and slipped out as quietly as he had come in.

Willam took a deep breath as his eyes drifted once again to the ceiling, carefully watching the two glowing lights.  I wonder what will happen when you are all dead, he thought.  Willam returned to his bed, lied down, and closed his eyes.  But the two glowing Spheres were etched in the back of his eyelids, and he fell asleep dreaming of them getting closer and closer, until he was engulfed in unholy flames.

Chapter 1 – Aron, 18^th day of the 3^rd passing of Noven

Aron hummed softly to himself as he closed the gate behind him. He walked lazily through the aspen and pine woods, leading his horse. The quarters of a cow elk were strapped to the animal. As he approached his family’s farmstead, the herd of goats ran up to him from the pasture. The does bleated at him incessantly, and he noticed they needed to be milked. “Hey little ones,” he smiled at them, “Follow me and we’ll see about you.” The horse snorted forlornly at the frantic company, holding its head high to let the goats know he was in no mood to have them underfoot. Many of them ran ahead of Aron, toward the barn.

Aron tethered his horse to a support beam on the house’s front porch, and began unloading the elk meat. He hung the quarters from hooks secured in the wooden awning, and then unloaded his hunting gear from the horse. He pulled an apple from his saddle bag, and fed it to the horse. “You did a fair bit of work today, Strapper. I promise a good rub down.”

Aron opened the front door, and gasped. The inside of the house was overturned. The table and chairs had been moved about. Feathers ghosted across the floor at the slight breeze his movement caused. The pillows and mattresses were all cut apart. Cupboards had been emptied onto the floor. Crockery was broken, sacks of oats were spilled.

Aron began moving through the house quickly, calling out for his family. He went room to room, noting that every room had been touched. Were they robbed? He asked himself. He came back to the main room, and spied the barn through the open front door. He ran toward the barn, snatching his long knife from its sheath on his saddle as he moved. He stepped into the straw strewn building, and saw a black-clad form lying still underneath the wagon. The family’s two mules were in their stalls, braying at him. He crouched down above the body’s head, his knife held before him. Whoever it was, he was dead. Fear rose in Aron’s chest. “Mom!” he called. “Irden? Dad?” He heard a muffled moan, and moved around the wagon, into the dark barn. Narrow shafts of dust-filled sunlight streamed in through gaps in the planks that made up the barn’s walls. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he saw the bodies of his older brother and father. Aron rushed to them and quickly noted the other two black-clad bodies lying next to them. His father had a sword caked in dark blood clenched in his cold hand. On the ground next to his brother was a similarly soiled hatchet. Both of them had multiple wounds on them. Aron heard the muffled sound again. “Mom!” he screamed. He rose to his feet, searching each of the stalls.

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Awhile ago I started writing a Fantasy novel (for the fun of it).  I had refrained from ever posting it online anywhere in case I decided I wanted to try and get it published, but what the hell, I’m never going to do that.  So I will post excerpts from it here.  So here is the  Prologue.

Prologue 

 Willam plunged his great sword with both hands through Aiden’s breast plate. His curled hair hung limp and wet with sweat before his face as he listened to the knight’s last breath shudder from behind his clamshell helm. The dead knight’s armor scraped the doors to the King’s Hall as he slid to the ground. Willam jerked his blade free, grabbed Aiden’s body with a mailed hand, and moved it aside.

Armor and weapons clanked behind him as men climbed the wide stairs. “All that remains is behind those doors, my lord,” a man’s voice said.

Willam looked over his shoulder. His brother and three other knights stood behind him, long swords and axes notched and dripping blood. “Aye, Abrecan, today is the beginning.” He turned back to the double doors, and calmly opened them.

Willam and his men entered the chamber. Sunlight filtered in wide shafts through the archways leading to the king’s balcony. Along the walls of the room hung the rich tapestries of the Garrett Histories, depicting the First King’s fight with Talgrath the Black, the First War of the Serpent Wash, and the unveiling of the Jolan Spheres. The ceiling was covered with hundreds of small glass globes, many of which glowed brightly – one for each living heir to Dugan’s throne. The king and two knights stood before the Cat’s Paw, swords drawn. All three of them leaked blood onto the rug-covered stone floor.

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