Severed Destinies

KINGDOM RISE

BOOK ONE: SEVERED DESTINIES

by

David Kimberley

Prologue

Ormar fled for his life, not daring to look back.

He urged the horse to drive as much distance as possible between himself and the massacre left behind but his thoughts were of the soldiers he had seen slaughtered; men he had known for years and considered friends.

Due to leave the remote Rotian border post for good in another month, Ormar had been enjoying his final days on the northernmost edge of the kingdom. He had been due to return to his home in Ashgar first to see his family and then report for reassignment. He had wanted to join the ranks of Fort Calden, guarding the eerie mountain pass to the east but knew that his chances of such a placement were slim.

He had spent too long gazing north along the quiet road into Morassia. The other soldiers at the border post saw it as a relatively easy life and many of them had grown lazy. However, Ormar found it too dull there and the fight against boredom was his daily struggle. He had relished the chance to be involved in a real battle.

Fate had granted him his wish but this was not the outcome he had dreamt of. He was the lone survivor of a brutal attack on the post, fleeing south as fast as possible. Covered in the blood of his fallen friends, Ormar had barely managed to escape before the attackers set about destroying the place he had called home for the last three years.

They had emerged from the shadows of night; black forms flowing across the moonlit ground like an approaching tide. Before the soldiers could react, the gates were open and the dark forms were inside the compound. He did not even get a chance to see their faces.

He shivered as he recalled seeing one of his closest friends – Barram – impaled before his eyes then trampled over as the attackers moved on to their next kill. Some soldiers died bravely, managing to kill a handful of the attackers, but only Ormar would ever remember what had happened.

His first priority was ensuring that he was safely away from the border post and then he could focus on getting his bearings. Tamriel and Barentin were the two nearest towns and they needed to be warned about what had transpired.

He spurred the horse on through a copse of trees and felt a branch whip him across the face. However, the pain was quickly forgotten as he concentrated on trying not to slip from the saddle whilst the animal danced between the looming trees. At that moment, he was glad of the riding lessons he had undertaken as a child and, despite his parents urging him to join the Rotian cavalry, Ormar had preferred the idea of being on foot in battle.

As he gripped the reins tightly, the horse broke clear of the copse and Ormar could see open grassland ahead. To the west stood the dark mass of the great forest and he considered pushing for the safety of the dense foliage but the thought entered his mind that it was the middle of night, with the only illumination being the silvery hue of the moonlight. He must have been a fair distance from the border post by now and, even if any of the attackers had pursued him, they would have been left far behind. He decided not to slow his steed down just yet but soon he would stop to determine where exactly he was.

The horse raced across the open grassland, hooves ploughing the soft dirt, and soon Ormar could see ahead that the ground began to slope upwards very slightly until it reached another smaller copse. Before they reached the incline, he pulled on the reins and the horse reluctantly slowed then drew to a complete halt.

“
Well done,” Ormar whispered, patting its neck.

For a moment, he listened to his steed breathing heavily and then dared a glance back over his shoulder. All was still, apart from the distant trees swaying in the occasional breeze. He had expected to see the dark tide once more flowing towards him but he gave a sigh of relief upon seeing no signs of pursuit.

He gazed up into the night sky, noticing a cloud passing in front of the moon, and allowed himself a moment to relax.

A crossbow bolt flashed silently across the open ground, taking Ormar in the throat and pitching him off the horse, which reared in surprise.

As he lay prone on the cold ground, trying to breathe but choking on the blood rapidly filling his oesophagus, Ormar could only wonder how they caught up with him so quickly and how one of them had shot him at such a distance. He did not feel any pain, nor did he hear the soft footfalls of his killer approaching.

By the time the figure cowled in darkness stood over the Rotian soldier, it was clear there were no survivors from the border post.

Chapter
1

Early morning was his favourite time. The cool breeze whispered around him, whilst the light of the sun could be seen rising beyond the ocean. Stars still twinkled in the sky, as if reluctant to give way to the light of day. The sea birds had already begun to awaken, their shrill cries echoing above.

The young acolyte pulled the thick robes tighter around his thin frame to protect against the chill and sighed at the beauty of the sunrise. He then cast his eyes over the still-sleeping city below him.

There were a few people already on the streets, mostly shopkeepers preparing to begin their daily trade. The bakeries had most likely been open for the last hour or so. Several people could be seen at the docks, but only local ships were moored there. There were no early visitors to the port city of Boraila this day.

The acolyte yawned. He had risen early to tend to his chores and had managed to escape long enough to watch the sunrise. It was not the first time he had done this. He leant upon the wall before him and peered down the other side. He stood atop the sole temple in Boraila, which had been built many years ago on the east hillside, overlooking the port. It was a magnificent structure that was open to all, no matter which god they worshipped.

The acolyte tried to remember the names of all of the gods and goddesses he had heard of during his time at the temple. He had been training to become a cleric for three years and the amount of deities - real or fictional - whose followers had visited the temple was vast. Being a cleric of the Rotian Kingdom meant that his belief rested with Ardan, the Lord of Destiny. Ardan shaped the lives of men and was reputed to have etched each person’s destiny into time. Some believed that life was without a plan, but many trusted in Ardan. However, over the years, belief seemed to be diminishing in the Rotian Kingdom. King Afaron himself had been heard to say that a man’s destiny was his own. If the king had stopped believing, this religion was surely dying.

A bell rang from deep inside the temple and the acolyte lazily glanced back at the open hatch behind him. Something inside him cried out that he was not ready to go back to his mundane chores yet. Quickly, he moved to the hatch and closed it quietly before then looking out over the land, catching sight of the glistening River Ulmerien to the southeast. He could not see the mighty fortress Turambar, which sat on the north bank of the Ulmerien, guarding the river against any would-be attackers.

Taking in a deep breath of sea air, he looked back at the rising sun beginning to peer over the horizon and then moved to the opposite side of the temple roof, where he looked out into the countryside. He allowed his thoughts to drift.

The Rotian’s three neighbours were very different to one another. To the north was Morassia, a quiet kingdom governing most of the northern territories, including the plains of Halgin, which he had heard many rumours about, all stating it to be the coldest place in the known world.

South lay Karnath, a land of expansive wilderness. The population of Karnath comprised mainly of settlers from the other kingdoms, who lived in numerous villages scattered across the verdant countryside. Karnath was an intriguing prospect also for explorers. Who knew what might be in the unclaimed territories, waiting to be discovered.

Finally, to the east, and hidden by the Darov mountains, lay Skarda. Once at war with the Rotian Kingdom some sixty years ago, Skarda was a place best avoided. Tales had been told of evil magic-users, suicidal cultists and man-eating beasts roaming freely there, but these may have been to scare people away from their borders. However, a fact that haunted the Rotian people was that the Skardans were ferocious in battle. Much Rotian blood had been shed by them before an end was called to the war. The real reason behind the fighting beginning in the first place was never made public but popular belief was that the Skardans had lived in a land across the eastern ocean centuries ago before realizing that the Rotians and Morassians were thriving neighbours nearby. Their desire to build the Skardan empire led them to settle the empty lands on the opposite side of the Darov Mountains and there they grew and plotted until it was time to attack the unsuspecting Rotians. Whether this was true was still mere speculation.

The acolyte was glad to live in the Rotian Kingdom though. Ruled by King Afaron, the land was expansive and, apart from the occasional internal politics expected from such a large state, times were peaceful. King Afaron was a young ruler, taking his throne at the age of twenty-six. Now, he was thirty-five and made it a priority to be seen amongst his people. He insisted on dealing with matters of the kingdom personally and this gave him the respect of most of its citizens.

As with anywhere though, the Rotian Kingdom did have its darker sides. Thieves operated in cities, people would occasionally be robbed on the roads and there were some places one simply did not go. Up until recently, a smuggling ring had been using Boraila as an unwitting place to hide contraband. The city guards had been hunting them down for months before Guard Commander Vohlkern discovered their hiding place and raided it. The acolyte had come to accept that these underhand activities would always be a part of the kingdom.

He heard the bell ring again, this time with more definition. The clerics were impatient most of the time and he wondered why he had ever chosen to become one of them. He had wanted to be a soldier when he was younger. His parents frowned upon bloodshed and, being heavily religious themselves, they slowly coaxed him to become an acolyte. Now twenty years of age, he had been living at the temple since joining the order but still tried to visit his parents frequently. However, they had recently travelled southeast to Kariska to visit his uncle and family. They were to be away for nearly half of the year, no doubt enjoying their freedom to travel without having to worry about their only son.

For now though, he would stay with the clerics and continue his tedious chores. Perhaps soon, they would begin to teach him the magical arts, although the cleric profession was prohibited in the use of any magic that could harm another living being. He had seen one of the clerics heal a deep wound to a man’s leg within seconds and this power intrigued him.

He turned to face the rising sun once again, leaning on the wall behind him and watching the shimmering ocean waves. Soon he shifted his gaze to the horizon.

Beyond the outer islands was a seemingly endless expanse of water. The Rotians had not yet crossed this but the last handful of years had seen an increase in curiosity as to what was beyond the western ocean. Were there other large land masses? Who lived there? What were they like? The mind reeled from such thoughts. It was likely that there were other inhabited lands out there of course and that eventually cultures would encounter one another but the Rotians seemed in no hurry to leave the kingdom shores. He did not know whether the Morassians or Skardans had already ventured out into the unknown and wondered if they would share it with their neighbours if they had.

There were islands of varying sizes off the coasts in every direction but they were uninhabited when first discovered. Several to the west and north were now settled by Rotians or Morassians.

Sighing once more, the acolyte shook the thoughts from his head and stood up straight. He quickly brushed his white robes down and found a stitch loose on one of his sleeves. He tutted to himself and then chuckled at the fact that he sounded like one of the older clerics, who seemed to be constantly moaning about some tiny fault or insignificant dilemma.