Path of the Lion (Book #1 of the "Kingdoms Enjoined" Trilogy)

THIS WORK IS PROTECTED BY COPYRIGHT LAW. IT MAY NOT BE DISPLAYED ANYWHERE EXCEPT ON SOFURRY. IF YOU ARE SEEING THIS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN SOFURRY, PLEASE NOTIFY THE AUTHOR IMMEDIATELY AT [email protected] !

Prologue

A pounding rain could be heard on the roof of the fortress. It fell softly but steadily as the summer clouds swept through the mountain pass in which the fortress sat. Today was a dreary day; for the handful of soldiers who slept in the barracks or sat in the main hall, and especially for those patrolling the rooftops and the grounds, this was not the way most had planned to spend the Summer Solstice.

This truly was a summer rain; it fell in warm droplets, sometimes seeming almost to spring from the humid atmosphere instead of falling from the clouds. The spring hadn't provided much rain, leaving the dry ground unprepared for the rain that now fell. The dusty earth quickly turned to mud beneath the summer rain, leaving the patrolling guards to slough through a boggy mess as they made their rounds. Still, any relief from the unseasonable heat came as a welcome respite for the guards of Fort Sumentua.

Everyone in the Adrian Realm sensed the unnatural weather. The spring had been abnormally warm and very dry, and even though rain had come to Stratus Pass on this Solstice, the summer was promising to be little better. General Tyrnias Vandren stood on the parapet of the fortress, not caring about the rain that fell into his eyes as he looked towards the peak of Mount Klasoer on the west side of the pass. He couldn't see the mountain's peak, of course; even on a clear day, the summit of the mysterious massif was always hidden behind a veil of thick clouds.

His ancestors were there. That is, his ancestors were there if Mount Klasoer truly was the final resting place, as most Breans and Mygethians believed it was. With a gauntleted hand, the Thylacine Warrior wiped the rainwater from his face and averted his eyes from Mount Klasoer. Tyrnias had no thoughts to waste on the dead when there was still so much that concerned the living. If the world held any mercy, he would soon join his ancestors on the heights of Mount Klasoer, but for the moment, he still stood in Stratus Pass, drawing breath after accursed breath.

He turned his gaze northward, towards Mygeth. His native kingdom of Brea had made peace with Mygeth years ago, when Brea's young King Asher had fostered the Treaty of Kasten Mirk, ending the War of Flames. General Vandren had been in Kasten Mirk when the treaty was brokered all those fifteen years ago. In fact, the document bore his signature. As he looked down into Mygeth, however, Tyrnias knew that years of hostility could not be made to vanish by a simple piece of parchment.

The rain did little to wash the tension out of the air; it hung like a heavy cloak as Tyrnias observed Brea's northern neighbor. There had been a tenuous peace between Brea and Mygeth for the last fifteen years, but Tyrnias wondered if that peace was beginning to evaporate. King Asher had now grown to full measure -- he had become a very fine, level-headed lion, in fact -- but General Vandren wondered if his king fully grasped the political currents that now eddied through Mygeth's ruling class.

No, Tyrnias thought; there was more to this than mere soldiers on battlefields and kings on thrones. Something else was amiss. That war was coming was an inevitable fact to Tyrnias. Oh, King Asher and those close to him would try to stop it -- and rightfully so, but it would come nonetheless. Tyrnias had lived long enough to know that stopping a war was all but impossible in such dark times as these. And these were dark times, indeed.

The Aysir had been dormant for nigh on a century now, and Tyrnias suspected that dormancy was near an end, if the thylacine general's restlessness near Mount Klasoer could be taken as any indication. The Flame, that magical power of creation that governed the elements, was all but gone. For that reason, the Aysir (the monastic order whose members had devoted their lives to the study of handling the Flame's power) had been reduced to little more than healers and planters. Tyrnias hadn't seen a Brother or Sister of the Devout in recent memory; they locked themselves away in their abbeys, shielding themselves from the harshness of the outside world.

Tyrnias shook his head cynically. All this thought of the Aysir and the Flame and the powers that be made his head ache. He was not a philosopher; he was a soldier. King Asher had charged him with the defense of this fortress, and all he could do was be prepared to defend it. Fort Sumentua guarded the Siezvern Road, which was the most direct route from Mygeth's capital of Daraktenn to Brea's capital in Adrinia. The road wound its way into the mountains and through Stratus Pass, the only pass through Brea's natural northern border formed by the Slate Mountains.

The only other way into Brea was by sea through Katatha Channel, unless one sloughed through the nearly impassable swamps of southern Estenor and into Brea's eastern highlands. Both routes were well over a hundred leagues to the east, though, and the territory was far too harsh for a cávall or any other beast of burden.

In short, whoever controlled Fort Sumentua controlled access to Brea's northern border. Tyrnias knew that war was coming, and inwardly, he knew this war would be his last. General Tyrnias Vandren did not fear death; it had traveled with him everywhere his life had taken him, had stolen those he loved, had guided his sword against his enemies, and had even tried to snatch him on more than one occasion. By now, Tyrnias considered death a lover whose embrace he would soon welcome, but Tyrnias's service to his king was not yet finished. It would begin here, in the shadow of Mount Klasoer.

# #

Darkness ruled the city of Daraktenn, and it was a benevolent ruler for the silent figure who crept along the rooftops of the city. The darkness was this figure's ally, for he was an agent of the dark. He, of course, served no dark power, but he did not doubt the darkness of his employer's purposes. He didn't stop as he moved from house to house, rooftop to rooftop. No, his target was far too important to take one of the simple hovels of the Mygethian capital as a dwelling. The assassin moved through the night with poise, avoiding the lights that rose from the city below as he made his way up the hill. Sparing a single backward glance down the hill, the assassin paused for the briefest of moments. It was a shame, really; his actions tonight would plunge this shining city into darkness -- darkness of a kind more sinister than the mere absence of light.

The assassin turned his gaze upward, and there stood his destination: the Citadel of Darakta. It was there that he would find his target. He reached the walls of the Citadel and used his hooks to climb it. A grappling line would have made the work much easier, but this assassin was more clever; grappling lines had a rather unfortunate tendency to be discovered before the job was complete. He took no chances of being compromised, for his livelihood -- not to mention his life - depended on it. He climbed the walls of the palace itself and listened into each room through the windows.

He waited in the darkness as he approached the great hall of the palace. The Lawspeaker and the king were there, bickering with one another, as usual. The assassin supposed this was why he had been hired in the first place; the power struggle between the king and the Lawspeaker was a struggle as old as Mygeth itself -- older, in fact, for Mygeth's predecessor kingdom had had similar offices -- and that meant loyalties were divided sharply enough for one side to hire an assassin. None of that mattered to the assassin, of course; he didn't care whom his assassination advanced, as long as he was well paid for it. He truly was a mercenary. He listened to the argument for a few moments, hoping to overhear something that could later be a useful sale, but he heard nothing but more senseless backbiting.

He shrugged it off. No matter, he thought as he continued his stealthy climb to the rooftop. The assassin was content to let the fools argue. He even allowed himself a dry smile as he continued his ascent. This assassin had more worthy goals to pursue, most notably looking out for himself. Besides, those squabbling fools would have plenty of reason to argue before this night was over.

The assassin slinked across the rooftop, stealing through the darkness as he kept his focus on the task that lay before him. The lynx hurried to his destination but kept his feline poise as he looked down into each grand hall of the palace. His employer had provided him a floor plan of the palace, but he didn't carry it. His mind could recall it clearly from memory. He looked down into each room, not because of necessity, but because he knew an opportunity for profit -- whether blackmail or a potential client -- might present itself.

Finally, the assassin came to the room where he knew his target would be located. He peered down into the room through a grate in the ceiling and spotted his mark. It was a winged horse, resting comfortably on some large cushions on the dais. The High Sage of Mygeth -- the assassin would have recognized him even if his employer had not provided a description; this winged horse was known as a very important advisor, and he was a celebrated figure. The assassin almost felt displeasure at having to kill the sage; this sage certainly had his own ideas, but he was the one creature who could even remotely be considered neutral in Mygeth's power struggle. Since the assassin's job was to sow chaos, however, his target needed to be respected on both sides. Besides, even if he felt any remorse, the assassin put more worth on his payment than on the life of the sage.

Ready to do the deed, the assassin summoned the focus and swiftness his old mentor had taught him all those years ago. He lifted the grate silently and dropped into the room, and his years of life as a mercenary dominated his instinct. Without a second thought, he drew his dagger and sank it deep between the sage's shoulder blades. Oh, he could have gone for the throat or the heart or something more vital, but this wound would be lethal enough, and he wanted this victim to raise a cry. The sage did cry for help -- far too late for anyone's help to be of any use to the unfortunate creature.

The assassin slipped back into the darkness as the dying sage raised the alarm, and once again, the darkness hid him. He could easily have gotten away then, but there was no hurry; he wouldn't be seen, and he wanted to see the results of his work. Everything continued to fit with his design. The guards rushed in at the sound of the sage's panicked cries. Moments later, the king and the Lawspeaker entered, and for a brief instant, the bickering gave way to a simple, stunned silence. The assassin waited, knowing the silence would not last. Predictably, the quarreling promptly resumed. The assassin listened intently as the lies began.