Chapter One

In the hundred years since the deaths in Arkhumshire, the surface of the world of Altiva had changed little. The old Kingdom fell and the Third Age of Man, the so-called Age of Reason, went on with the jealousy, hate, intolerance and desire that had become the touchstone for human existence. The two suns, the smaller, red Younger Brother and the blue Older Brother, rose and set in sequence ad infinitum, and life went on.

In the dark of a small cell of the Academy Kova that nestled in the center of the capital city of the country of Cozen, a man tossed in troubled sleep. Standing, he would be a tall man, and well-muscled with long, straight, black hair hanging to his waist. While he tossed in the bed, his hair escaped a sleep braid and exploded around his head in a tangled mess reflecting his inner turmoil.

Suddenly, he shot awake, covered in sweat and breathing hard as if he had been running a sprint. "By the Rhythem," He gasped in expletive, "the grave calls to me." His gray eyes lingered on the inner landscape of horror, focused on what he had witnessed. Before him he stared at the apparition of a beautiful face, green-eyed, red-haired and pleading, a face from his past.

"I'm sorry, Caution." He said to the phantom woman," I didn't mean to kill you."

* * * *

The two moons danced in and out of the clouds above the green fields and forest hollows of Arkhumshire. On this, an unusually cold night for so early in the fall, dense fog crawled throughout the hollows. Wrapped in cloaks against the unseasonable chill, two figures rode down the country road on two vorns. The antlered mounts snorted and bleated in protest at being out in the cold night air.

"I'd check down by The Old Miller's Bridge around midnight, Connel," one of the riders said in a quietly commanding voice. "That's when that grog place in the old shack closes, and—"

"I know, father," Connel said. "Seems I was doing just that myself not too long ago."

The two men laughed.

"Was a time, son," the older man said, "before you went off to fight with the Guards, when I would've said you were too wild, too restless to be happy up here being a country sheriff. You’ve mellowed, lost some of those rough edges we used to fight about--"

"I haven't lost all my fight yet, old man—" Connel said with a smile. The two men laughed again.

"You make this old sheriff proud boy, but I'm not so old I can't whip your--" The mustached sheriff's shrewd face took on a serious aspect. Connel saw the look.

"What's the matter, father? You look like you've just seen a ghost!"

"No," the older man said in a quiet voice. "Just remembering old Tirum Brandal said almost those very words to me the night before I--"

Connel was a handsome man with a world-weary aspect to his face, but he had caring, intelligent eyes and he focused them intently on his father. "You found him, didn't you?"

"Almost five turns ago," the sheriff said. "His face was torn up so bad that if it wasn't for his signet of office, I wouldn't have known him." He shuddered with remembrance but tried to pass it off as a chill from the night. His son noticed and said nothing about it.

"They never caught anybody, did they?"

"No. Some said it was a wild tvek; but I never believed that. After them other three, Lady Daemon being the last, the killer just went to ground."

"What's your guess—a Markoffan or somebody from that Ashun cult?"

"Drifter, more likely." The sheriff said, "Sure wish I'd have collared that bastard; but I'm retiring so it'll be your job in a year." Father and son sat in silence, letting the tension dissipate.

The two vorns pulled up in front of the sheriff's isolated waddle-and-daub house, where the sheriff climbed down with a show of groaning. "Gonna feel good to get these old bones under the comforter."

"'Night, father. Tell mom I'll stop by tomorrow." Connel said.

"'Night, son. Take a care getting home."

The sheriff waved to Connel and turned to walk his vorn to the little lean-to shed that served as stable beside the house. He whistled an old dance tune softly to himself. Connel watched him go for a moment, smiled to himself and turned his vorn to head back up the road toward town.

The sheriff unsaddled his vorn, and threw a saddle blanket over its dappled back. He set out some feed and scratched the beast between its antlers. "We could both use a little rest tonight, eh fellow?" The vorn bleated as if to answer.

When the sheriff turned to approach the door of his cottage the vorn made an unsettled noise and stamped nervous hooves. The sheriff stopped and stood looking around. "What is it that's upset you, Dagger?" A rustling at some bushes near the house attracted his attention.

He stepped toward the bush and halted, drawing his belt knife. The bushes rustled again followed by a low sound like a growl. The sheriff took a step back and brandished his knife as if to reassure himself.

In an instant, a woman dressed in a white flowing gown emerged from another bush some twenty feet away, drawing the sheriff's attention. Fog crept up from the hollows, giving the appearance that the woman floated forward toward the man. As the young woman moved closer, he admired her beauty and red hair. There was something vaguely familiar about her features and he tried to focus on her face, but when she got almost to arms length his eyes were drawn to a jagged open wound in her throat.

"Lady Daemon?" He ventured looking again into her dark-blue, haunted eyes.

She smiled and hissed just as the blade of a rapier shot out of the bush beside the sheriff. He screamed.

Barely half a league down the road, Connel heard his father's cry of agony. He spun his mount about and raced back. When he galloped into sight of the cottage clearing, his mother was already out of the house and by his father's side. He leapt from his mount and was at the old man's side almost before the scream died. But his father was already gone to the world beyond.

He cradled the lifeless man. His mother cried hysterically beside him.

He looked up to speak to his mother, tears blurring his vision, and started for a second, for he thought he saw a figure at a distance in the fog. A spectral red haired woman laughing hideously…

* * * *

The training yard of the Academy Kova was open to any of the free companions who frequented the Kovar quarter of Tolan, the capital city of Cozen. The School of Justice—the combat academy--occupied a central courtyard of reasonable size, fitted out as both a sword school and an Iskarian Monk-style Martial Arts School. Weapons racks lined the area and bright pennants bordered the space.

On any day, rain or shine, and many nights as well, the yard choked with the Kovar faithful; in the viewing section students from the schools of 'brand' studies and the odd free companion who wished to study the secrets of the Iskarian or "Old Kingdom" style of martial arts.

In the fencing area were two figures in conflict. Attired in workout clothes, each wore protective wicker masks and armor. The male towered over his female opponent, but she was obviously the stronger fencer and she pressed him hard.

They used one-handed rapiers with straight three-foot blades which had acorn sized "buttons" on the end. The woman moved like the wind, her footwork driving the taller man backward, her sword thrusting like steel lightening. It was all he could do to parry and avoid the attacks.

The two drew a crowd of students, many of them in the third and final year of training for their warrior skillbrand. Trained as swordsmen and women, they could clearly see every nuance of the blade play. Bets started to change hands, with his less talented technique, despite his reach advantage, tilting the bets in her favor.

Finally, the woman lunged. Her opponent just barely avoided the point, grabbed her wrist and sent her flying in a joint lock throw. She rolled well and popped up to a sitting position. When she removed her mask it revealed short-cropped red hair, a surprisingly young pretty face and an annoyed expression. She spoke in a cultured voice with the vocabulary of a sailor.

"What in Bukrum's belt and the seventh Markoffan hell was that, Erique?" She stood up and marched over to her opponent to stand face to chest with him. She poked him in the chest protector with a stiff finger. "Where is that in the royal academy rapier technique syllabus?"

"Sorry, Arinna. I just lost my head and let my instincts get the better of me."

"Well, My Lord Kickbottom," Arinna said, "you use the Iskarian Monk stuff on your own time. On my time it's all Old Kingdom rapier style. Now again, and try to feel my blade with contact. On Guard!"

Erique snapped to attention with his sword, and went on guard as she called out the parries so rapidly he had no time to think.

"One, six, four," she yelled as she moved in on him, driving him the full length of the packed earthen square that constituted the fencing school's play area. "Eight; okay, that's it. See what I meant about keeping contact with the blade?"

She moved to his outside line, forcing him to change his guard to a high one to defend. "Press the blade. Yes, keep the contact." She pushed in on him, and he was able to just barely parry and make a touch on her above her heart.

"Yes!" she cried with the true enthusiasm of a teacher when a pupil ‘gets it.’ "That is how to do it, Lord Kickbottom!"

Many in the crowd applauded the end of the lesson, and money changed hands. Erique accepted a sip of water and a rag from one of the first year brand students, a pretty girl named Gensel.

"Thank you, Gensel," He wiped the sweat from his forehead. With his helmet off, he showed a handsome square-jawed face with piercing gray eyes, waist length black hair and a smile that lit any room he entered.

"You are welcome, Reverend Lord Shoutte." She smiled and did her best to hold his look, but his gaze went to the faces in the crowd as if he were looking for someone. He was often oblivious to his reputation as the 'Dragon of the Kova' among the female students.

"His mind is on someone else," Arinna said, accepting her own sip of water from Gensel," A certain Myrran who is off on the island of Stavos these three moon cycles—" Lord Erique Shoutte threw his cup of water at Arinna, who dodged, caught the cup in midair and smiled.

"See what I mean—he missed me." Everyone around the enclosure laughed at Shoutte's expense, and he reddened with embarrassment.

"Let's get changed, dragonlord." Arinna said to her tall opponent, "I know a great place to unwind--and you're buying for me and Yuzen. I'm broke this week."

Shoutte saluted her, and they began to remove their armor. His chest piece and mask went on the rack. He took off his linen shirt, which was embroidered with his family crest of a feathered dragon, and rubbed himself down with a wet cloth, revealing his skillbrand in the center of his muscular chest. It was the triple interlocked diamond brands of the Omphast, symbol of his religion, the Kova.

Most of those in the training yard bore at least one diamond branded into the center of his or her chest. Each of Shoutte's three diamonds had been earned after each three year cycle of study and course completion: First Priest singer, then healer and finally as warrior. Now a fully ordained priest of the Kova, Shoutte had only completed his nine-year journey the last fall. Assigned a frontier parish north of the city, he had only recently returned from riding his parish to take refresher courses, receive counseling and train for a few days.

"When have you ever not been broke?" Shoutte smiled at Arinna.

"When I'm not gambling," she said. They both looked at each other and said as one:

"Which is never!" And laughed again.

* * * *

The office of the Reverend Master Braphon Cabal was at the shadowed end of the quadrangular training yard. It had been his sanctum for the twenty years that he had been the swordmaster in residence at the Academy Kova. Winter or summer, the door was always open to students, and the wide double window gave him a panoramic view of the training field. The sound of the daily practice was the hymn that sustained the graying, broad-chested Kova priest.

The Master's office had been a frequent stop for the student Shoutte, and now that he had been ordained it was his touchstone to his humility.

"Master," Shoutte said as he entered unannounced (the master discouraged the custom of knocking), "Arinna has gone to change; we're going to go into the city for a bit, Can we fetch you anything?" Lord Shoutte helped himself to a piece of Juva fruit in the crystal freshbowl on the edge of the master's desk. The fruit was out of season by months, but the grown-crystal bowl kept it at the peak of freshness until the moment someone removed it.

The master sat reviewing enrollment records, his dark wood desk strewn with scrolls. Beside him, at easy arms reach, rested his grown-crystal sword Wickcutter, in its carved crystal scabbard. It had grown over a long month around drops of his ever-freshened blood, bonding it to him in life and death. Not two hundred such crystal weapons existed on the world; it marked his skill and dedication to the way of the sword.

Master Braphon looked up, refocused his eyes, and smiled. "It's like you never left, Erique," he said. "Every time I look up, you and Arinna are either fighting or going into town for sport!" He stroked his full gray beard. "I could use some of that Belisian ink and some more sweets; you know the kind."

"As you wish, sir," the younger priest said. He paused for a moment, as if to say something. Master Braphon saw the doubt in his gesture and took the initiative.

"What is wrong, Reverend?" Master Braphon said. He took his duties as senior cleric seriously.

"I have had several dark dreams of late," Lord Shoutte said, "this ten day past."

"And what do these dreams consist of?" the elder priest asked.

Lord Shoutte stood by the window looking out to the training yard and watched the first year students at waster play. The wooden swords clack-clacked in a steady rhythm, punctuated by the voice of the arms master barking commands: "Right flank, left flank, head!" Shoutte felt it as comforting as a truth chant and realized how much he had missed it since he began riding a parish.

"I have had dreams of devouring beasts and blood, Master," Shoutte said. "Of a skeleton emerging from a tomb to embrace me and overwhelming darkness. I can be no more specific."

Master Braphon considered for a moment then smiled at his protégé. "The world of night and day has a thin line between, Erique. Destiny, as other religions believe in it, has no hold on us who are of the Kova. We believe if we face the fate that is laid before us, we may change it. The Kova is the principle of change: so nothing is immutable." The older priest rose and put a hand on Shoutte's shoulder. "No shadow is forever. The suns’ light will shine on you again. Have faith. Now hurry up—my daughter is impatient when she is hungry and thirsty!"