Reign of Shadows

In
the beginning
of time there arose a mighty warrior named Kostimon, who used the
power of his arm and the cunning of his mind to make himself a king. Favored by
the gods, he drove his army against the provinces, using sheer force, trickery,
or raids to subjugate them. At last the provinces were joined together, and he
stood as emperor over a united land. One by one, through choice or coercion,
the warlords swore oaths of eternal allegiance to him.

When
it came time to marry, he chose a red-haired and untamed bride, a beauty with
the blood of warriors in her veins. Together, Kostimon and Fauvina ruled well
and wisely, creating laws both fair and just for government. Religion
flourished and unified into two state cults—the Vindicants and the
Penestricans—balancing each other in perfect harmony.

Thus
did the fledgling empire prosper. Through diplomacy and alliance its borders
spread. When war assailed it, the empire prevailed. Fauvina bore sons, and the
gods willed they grow straight and strong.

But
as the years lengthened, Kostimon’s ambitions soared ever higher. He saw his
work unfinished and his dreams incomplete. His quarrelsome, impatient sons
thought only of their own pleasures and never of the responsibilities of rule.
Into Kostimon’s mind came a most unholy plan. He turned unto darkness and
petitioned for immortality. A fearsome bargain was struck, and Kostimon was
promised life for one thousand years. Fauvina would not share his bargain and
died at the fated end of her time, her soul consigned to the fertile earth from
which it had come.

Slaying
each successive generation of sons so they could not challenge his throne,
Kostimon lived on, feeding on power and glory, lusting for new achievements,
building impressive monuments to himself. Under his obligation to the shadow
gods, Kostimon turned against the light and built temples to darkness. No
longer did he tolerate his enemies. Those who spoke against him were destroyed,
and when the Penestricans dared to criticize the injustices of his reign, they
were reviled and driven from their place of counsel. Greed walked the streets
of his cities. Corruption swelled in the halls of justice. And it came to pass
that men ceased to obey laws and followed only the capricious will of their
emperor. He became a legend, more than a man but less than a god, greater than
any other mortal.

But
prophecies tell true, and the gods forget no reckoning. Kostimon has reached
his last century. His final years are running out like the last few coins in a
spendthrift’s purse. Kostimon has forgotten how to accept defeat; even now he
struggles against his fate. Yet the shadow gods remain deaf to his entreaties.
Again and again the Vindicant augurs have cast his future, but for the first
time in a millennium his sign does not appear. Nor does the sign of his one
living son. The heavens are silent; the gods send no answer. The lack of
portents has made even the augurs afraid.

The
empire waits with trepidation to see if the world will end with Kostimon. His
enemies plot and circle, growing bolder as the sun of his empire sets. The
shadow gods, released by the tolerance of his reign, wreak their own form of
destruction on the hearts and souls of men. Yet Kostimon’s subjects still hope
for a successor. Many lift prayers to the gods of light; others send their
appeals to the gods of darkness. All seek clues that will reveal the founder of
the next dynasty.

Who—or
what—will come?

Beyond
the marshlands
the sun was a ruddy orb sinking into the trees. Clouds scudding across
the pale indigo sky turned gilded bellies to the west, reflecting the last rays
of sunlight toward the frozen ground.

At
the close of afternoon lessons, a silent line of novices walked solemnly across
the courtyard of Rieschelhold, famed school for the healing arts. The line of
first-termers was led by an older, gawky boy in the long, medium blue robe of a
disciple. Sauntering at the very end of the line, Caelan E’non cast a wary eye
around for proctors and lagged back until he could step behind a stack of cider
kegs near the wall.

No
one seemed to notice his disappearance. Grinning to himself, Caelan crouched
low in his hiding place and waited impatiently for the courtyard to clear. The
stone blocks at his back were very cold, and he had no cloak or mittens.
Sucking in his breath, he tucked his hands in the wide sleeves of his grubby
novice robe and felt content. This was freedom, tiny moments stolen at every
opportunity to escape the tedium of his life here.

Tonight
the serfs seemed slower than usual in finishing their chores. Drumming his
fingers on his knees, Caelan listened to the cadenced sounds coming from the
road outside the walls and mentally urged the serfs to hurry.

Finally
the cobbles were swept clean of straw, mud, and leaves. The women hastened to
finish gathering the laundry, and the carts holding apple baskets from the
harvest were rowed up neatly along a wall. Even the well rope had to be coiled
neatly over the crossbar. Nothing could be left undone or untidy, lest it
attract the mischief of the wind spirits that blew at night.

Already
the breeze was picking up, sweeping down even into Caelan’s hiding place.
Pine-scented and frosty, the air held a promise of snow.

He
shivered and didn’t care. The serfs were gathering the last of their tools and
heading for the hall. From the tower, the Quarl Bell began to toll the first of
its nine solemn counts, calling all inhabitants of Rieschelhold indoors to
safety.

The
sound of the bell made Caelan crouch forward.

Everyone
would hurry now to get inside. It was the best part of the day. Besides, if his
absence hadn’t been noticed by now, it was unlikely to be. He had to stay after
class so often for punishment drills that his fellow novices wouldn’t even
notice his failure to show for washing up.

He’d
be inside by darkfall, and at the table for supper. The proctors counted heads
at supper and made a bed check at lights out. The rules here were strict, but
the ironclad routine made it easy to dodge most of what he really wanted to
avoid. He just had to pick the right moments.

Like
now.

Scooting
past the cider kegs, he dashed for the steps leading up to the ramparts of the
wall. Bending double, he scuttled along below the crenellations until he
reached the open-topped lookout turret near the main gates.

Inside
the circle of brick, he could not be seen from the courtyard.

Grinning
broadly, Caelan flung himself at the sloped tip of a crenellation and balanced
there on his stomach with his toes barely touching the ground.

From
up here he had sweeping views of the surrounding marshlands and forest. A place
of evil mists said to shelter wind spirits and the evil spawn of the shadow
gods, the marshlands were mysterious and forbidden. Even now, a dank fog could
be seen rising above them, gilded on top by the sunset. The sky was tinted a
muted gold, with streaks of coral and indigo. Winter geese flew overhead in a
ragged V formation, calling plaintively. The wind nipped bitterly at his
uncovered ears and blew his hair into his eyes, but he didn’t mind.

He
was in time to see the soldiers.

All
day he’d been obliged to do his chores and work at his lessons, while in the
distance came a steady tramping of feet along the imperial road that passed
beside Rieschelhold. Word had passed among all the boys—imperial troops were
marching home from the border wars.

None
of the masters would release classes even for a few minutes so the boys could
see the army. Rieschelhold clung to its routine no matter what the rest of the
world did. But alone of all the students, Caelan refused to miss this
opportunity.

Now,
at last, he saw them, and it was a sight worth the risk of lingering out here
past the forbidden hour.

The
fading sunlight reflected off the burnished spear tips of more men than Caelan
could count.

His
mouth dropped open at the sheer size of the army. They filled the road, as far
as the eye could see in either direction, marching ten men abreast. Never in
his life had he seen so many. And they had been marching by all day.

Caelan
drew in a slow breath of wonder. It must be the entire eastern force—three
legions at least, perhaps more. Eighteen thousand fighting men and their
officers. A force larger than the town population of nearby Meunch. Staring at
the sight, Caelan’s spirits slowly sank. Was the war over? As long as he could
remember, his dream had been to join up and become a warrior in the service of
the emperor. Right now the war involved fighting off the heathen Madruns who
were overrunning the eastern borders of the empire.

Caelan’s
fists clenched on the wall. The war just had to last until he could be a part
of it.

But
it couldn’t be over. The bells would be ringing if there had been victory. And
the standard-bearers on horseback still carried banners and legion emblems, so
there hadn’t been a defeat. These men must have been replaced with fresher
troops, although none had marched east on this road.

Still,
to see an entire army—even a small one—real and entire ... Caelan leaned out
farther over the edge of the wall, absorbing every detail of these men who were
his heroes.

Silent
and grim, the veterans looked battle-worn and tired. They trudged along,
crusted with mud and frost. Some of them wore bloody bandages, but not many. He
knew army regulations separated wounded men from sound troops.

All
the foot soldiers wore winter-rusted mail and tattered cloaks. Few were
clean-shaven. Besides the long spears, they were armed with two standard army
daggers each—barbed blades that were nearly as long as Caelan’s arm. A regiment
of archers passed by next, clad in tunics of imperial red and winter fur
leggings. These men were tall and mostly blond. Their longbows were slung over
their shoulders, and each man carried four quivers.