Stormfyre Chapter One

Hello everyone. I dug up an old novel from my computer archives, and save for chapter 10 (which appears to be missing) it is intact. I thought just for fun I'd post it chapter-by-chapter if anyone wishes to read. Be warned: there are 35 chapters total, and yes; this is a finished fantasy novel and a prototype or precursor to The Canticles of Andurun. Enjoy! 

Book I: The High ThroneChapter One

The Honor Guard brought him through the halls of the great castle, a half dozen on either side of him, marching in a steady rhythm. Only the metallic ring of their armor upon the stone and the swish of their cloaks could be heard while they walked. Far more noticeable was the man in the center of the procession. He was manacled in iron chains at both wrist and ankle, dragging along the added weight without a sound, keeping steel gray eyes out before him, defiantly locking them with any servant or soldier that looked upon him. He didn't want their pity and scorned the black humor that ran through the halls this day.
A solid nudge with a spear tip at his back made him stumble and he picked up his pace, grumbling something under his breath. He knew the king had made the Honor Guard march him through the courtyard and into the great hall as a public display of humiliation, but he refused to acknowledge them. No emotion, no matter how black, would pass across his face, only the stare, that icy gaze, would follow the pointing finger or the snickering jeer.
A pair of broad wooden doors that were trimmed with gold embroidery opened wide before him. Bright yellow light came spilling out from the ever increasing gap and the man suppressed a snarl that threatened to contort his face. The Honor Guard marched him through the doors where a pair of men wearing shining armor waited holding the handles and bending low, showing respect to the dozen men that passed before them. All of the helmeted heads seemed to nod in unison as the guard acknowledged the greeting.
Beyond the doors, in the throne chamber of the castle, sat the new king of mighty Dagoth. The eastern most kingdom governed and protected the coast from harm with the powerful army that was the king’s alone to command. It was a symbol of great and good power for many centuries, first passed along the royal blood line of the Krestins. Then it was given over to the Steelbreeze nobility after the Magi Slayer Wars, when trust in King Krestin waned due to the fact that he had two magi as council in his court. But Haundor Steelbreeze, then a high ranking nobleman and a general in the eastern alliance army, proved that he was as adept at ruling over the masses as he was in hunting out and slaying magi. Civil dispute was lain to rest in his first years as the king, causing it to bloom into the mighty port kingdom nearly three centuries after his death..
Darius Steelbreeze, now king due to his older brother's passing away from the black fever, looked much like the pictures of Haundor and his grandson Mikal. He sat on the throne, his presence commanding with his pronounced chin and broad shoulders. His eyes were emerald green, never seeming to miss detail in anything that he happened to look upon. Curls of bright red hung from his brow, making him look younger then he truly was. On his finger sat the royal crest, the ring that stated the office that this man held with it's bright gold and diamond setting.
The Honor Guard placed him before the king, rough hands bending him low so that he paid proper respect to his majesty. He muttered a curse under his breath and a hand turned into an iron grip, sending stinging pain down the length of his arm. Pain that he did his best to ignore.
"Guard captain Emeron Jaist reporting to his majesty with the prisoner as ordered," said one of the armored men as he stepped out from the rest and knelt respectfully before the upraised throne. The king only gave the man a cursory glance, his piercing eyes trailing back to the man that had been brought before him. Kneeling in chains and clothes matted in filth, he didn't seem like much of a sight. But there was a light in those eyes, fierce and commanding as any that a king could possess. He met the king's gaze steadily until Captain Jaist slapped his head down, muttering an apology to his majesty.
"Fear not, Captain. I know this man and know him enough not to expect the respect that a king deserves," the king told him.
"Show me a man worthy of being a king and perhaps I'll bend knee to him. Until that time..." his voice was cut off by a rough hand to the side of his face, bowling him over. Captain Jaist forced him back to the kneeling position, fixing him with a gaze that invited another comment, welcomed it. For now, the man held his tongue, licking a line blood from the corner of his mouth.
The king leaned back on the throne and sighed. A slight smile crossed his lips but was quickly creased away, leaving only the grim visage and seeking eyes, "That will be enough, captain," he turned to his council then, near dozen in all that aided him in matters of agriculture, taxation and military happenings, as well as a host of other deeds, "You may leave us. I have no need for you at this time. We will council later this night when I call for you. Now go." Faces looked back at him in shock. Any could see that they were not accustomed to being so casually dismissed as they just were, but all knew better then to question the word of the king. Without so much as a word, they turned toward the back of the room and shuffled single file to a door on the right of the throne. They picked up the hems of the robes and dresses that each wore and then were gone, closing the door behind them and clicking it into place.
"Now we may continue this discussion," the king looked casually back to the prisoner.
"Do you not mean interrogation?" the man asked, smiling from the corner of his mouth, "Or do these chains mean nothing?" he held up his hands and allowed the king to look upon the shackles that clung just below dirty hands.
"I fear that you would dare something foolish if those were not there to keep in you in your place."
"What foolish act would I ponder, your majesty? That I would attempt to kill myself?" he smiled defiantly, meeting the king's eyes without flinching, "Or that I would attempt to kill you?" The Honor Guard stepped closer in unison, Captain Jaist grabbed a handful of the man's shaggy hair, bringing a dagger up to his throat. The man maintained his smile, the vein on his neck pulsing in time with the seconds.
"Captain!" King Steelbreeze shouted, echoes of it ringing in the nearly empty throne hall, "Would you spill the blood of this man at the feet of your king? Have him witness such barbarism in his throne room? If you are to bleed him, have the state of mind to take him from this place, down into the depths of the dungeon so that no others hear the screams that come from his lips."
"As the king commands, so I obey," Captain Jaist bowed his head low, and the other eleven were swift to follow suit. He withdrew the thin blade from the prisoner's exposed throat and sheathed it. He flung him into the arms of the pair of men behind him, barking orders for him to be brought to the dungeons in all haste.
"I'm sure that this will not be the last time you and I share words, your majesty," the man called out as he was drug away. Captain Jaist bowed down again when the doors at the front of the throne chamber swung closed and he had the king's private audience. Craning his head up, pulling his helmet off so that locks black as pitch spilled over the shining breast plate below.
"What would you have me do with this insurrectionist, your majesty?" the captain questioned.
"Torture him. But do not harm his mouth for I wish to share words with him later."
"As you say, your majesty, so shall it be done," the captain nodded his head once more and donned the helmet before standing straight and turning on his heel to leave the room. He heard the king's voice reach him before he was out of the room though.
"Captain, mind that you take care not to kill this man. For if any harm this permanent should be visited to him, you will be the next one to visit the dungeons below. Do you understand, captain?"
"I am sure that I do, your majesty," Captain Jaist replied stiffly, then stepped out of the room. Darius Steelbreeze sat alone on his throne, watching the twin doors but not seeing them, seeing far beyond to a tower high on a hill, where the High Throne awaited. He knew that it was all a matter of time before he could ascend to that esteemed position, a position that hadn't been taken in better then three hundred years. His older brother, Mikal, hadn't been suited for the position of king. The ailment that claimed him was an all too fitting end for one that was so weak. Such was always the end for those that were weak. Darius knew himself to be strong. He remembered in a dream only faint on his mind when the eldest of the wise, the High Father, came to him and told him of the people's need. He said that even though the people were unaware of it, they needed one that was strong to take the throne, to watch over them. The High Father told him that Mikal would grow ill, and that as the nobility ranking highest to him, he would take the kingdom from his poor frail brother. The High Father had been right. About a great many things, he surmised. The High Father also told him that soon would be time that to lay claim to the High Throne and unite the kingdom under one banner.
Darius sighed once, twisting in his seat, watching the procession of his advisors enter once more, having heard news that the Honor Guard had taken the prisoner to the dungeons. He heard them approach him, but waved them back to the seats behind the throne where they normally sat on the day of court when he had to sit in judgment over the domestic problems that arose in his kingdom.
"Your majesty," a weasely looking man with dark blond hair started, stepping forward to speak, "Captain Jaist informed us of your will to allow that rabble rouser to live in your grace. No offense intended, your highness, but if those that rallied under this man were to learn of his fate, that he lives in the dungeons below the castle, they may gather even more rebels to attempt to liberate him."
"What would you have me do, then, Raza? Kill him and elevate him to the status of martyr? No, I think not. He must be allowed sufferance enough to live, for the time being." The king stared plainly at Raza, who quickly averted his gaze and retreated back to his seat on the right behind the throne.
Darius Steelbreeze knew there would be wars to win. The kingdoms of Avalon and Southcross would never allow him to ascend to the high throne without open conflict. But he was well aware of their military status. He also knew that the size of his army, the Eastern Alliance, was growing by the day. Men flocked to his banner, their eyes bright with the gold that he promised them. Gold that he did not have. Yet. But soon, when the High Father visited him in his dreams again, the answer would come to him. In time. Darius Steelbreeze kept his gaze beyond the door to the throne room for a very long time, a knowing grin playing on his face.

He stood up against the pain, wincing and gritting his teeth to keep from screaming the agony that his body felt. The dungeon chamber was small, barely eight feet in diameter, with only a small shaft of light beaming in from the door at the front. Matted straw clung to the drying blood that caked most of his body. The Honor Guard had tortured him in ways that he never even knew existed, but he had never cried out. He would not allow them the pleasure of hearing him break in such a fashion. The clothes that he wore were nothing more then dirty rags now, even worse then when he had been drug before the king for an audience. The king wanted to see the face of the enemy. The man that had lead the rebellion, demanding that the king raise the wages for those that worked under his banner. Demanding that he lower the taxes that seemed to raise with every passing month. He was labeled a traitor to the kingdom, left in the dungeons to rot for crimes against the state.
He staggered to the heavy set door and placed hands on either bar of the window, shaking it feebly. The act made him grunt and then fall over, holding his sides tightly as pain racked him. Dimly he heard footfalls approaching the door and fought hard to be silent. The feet stopped just outside the door, blocking the light that shined in when a head peered in.
"I trust that you are comfortable," came the voice of the king from outside the door.
"It is a nice room, your majesty. I am pleased with it."
"Why is it now, that you will not give me the pleasure of your name? My interrogators could not pull the answer from your lips no matter how hard they tried. Is it that your name is so black that it cannot be spoken any longer in the company of civilized men?"
"Were I among civilized men and I might be persuaded to give you the answer," he sneered at the king, smiling in the dark despite the pain. Darius Steelbreeze smiled too, but it was not a pleasant smile. Rubbing his beard with a hand he paced the hall a moment, turning back to the cell.
"Very well then, if you do not wish to tell me your name, I will not have you tortured any longer for it. I cannot have you dying because of my over zealous guards, now can I?"
"Why do you even bother to keep me alive?" the man forced himself to stand so that he could look at the king face to face, "I surely mean nothing to one such as you. Or is it that you think I will be a bargaining chip against the rebellion?"
"There is no more rebellion, fool! The farmers that followed you in the fields melted away after you were captured. As for why I keep you alive? Because it pleases me to do so. The moment that it stops pleasing me you will be the first to know. And as to your rebels, well I wouldn't worry to much over that. The Eastern Alliance will deal with them all in a very short time. In fact," the king grinned broadly, his eyes gleaming, "I should thank you. The sound defeat of these villains will further my own cause, bring me that much closer to my goal."
"And what goal would that be, your Majesty?" he hissed.
"I wish to take the High Throne on the north island and unite the continent."
There was stony silence from inside the cell. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. No one had dared to try for the High Throne in three centuries, least of all this power hungry noble that wouldn't know truth if he fell over it. But the king had said it matter of factly, his voice void of any deception.
"Never could one such as you take the throne. The One God would never bond with you, never give you the wisdom eternal. You've gone out of your mind."
"I have dreamt of the Chosen and of High Father. He told me that I was next in line for the succession. But to do this I will have to lay my opposition out. I must prove my worthiness under the eyes of the One God."
"Fool!" the man screamed at the king, almost throwing himself against the door, "Do you really think that the One God would want this wanton bloodshed in his name? No, it could not have been the High Father that came to you in your dreams," he stared intently at the kings face from behind the door and turned cold, "My God, you have gone mad, haven't you?"
"Greatness awaits those that seize the opportunity," Darius Steelbreeze replied, "Those that take it are the wise, those that forfeit their chance are the weak. I am not of the latter half," the king gave him one last look before he stalked back down the stone path that lead out of the dungeon.
"Darius Steelbreeze!" he shouted hoarsely after him, "You will never achieve the High Throne! There will always be those that oppose you! Wherever you go there will be someone like me that will stop you! Do you hear me?" The king continued out of the dungeon until he came to the stairwell that led to the higher floors of the castle. He cast his eyes to either guard that stood their post nervously, trying not to twitch under the king's scrutinizing glare. The cries of the man still rang dimly in the hall behind him. Darius raised his hand before the two guards and grinned slightly.
"Silence him."
Far removed from castle Dagoth was another place. A land of fierce jutting rocks that clung to hard earth at precarious angles. Pools of molten fire such as the land of Umbriel and its people had never seen spewed brilliant fire into the air, air that was already thick with smoke and noxious gasses. The landscape was blasted, like some great and powerful wizard had gone mad, twisting his magic into a vessel of destruction until he had been consumed as well, dying as he killed, being consumed as he ate away at everything his magic could touch. Only hazy red, with clouds of gray hung low in the burning sky. It was not fit terrain for any man of mortal birth. They would blister in the open air, choke blood when they tried to breathe. Flames would lick clean their flesh if they touched so much as a pool's edge. The wise would say that it was Hell, the land where the damned of the mortal world went when they could inhabit their bodies no longer. There the dark ones would have them, devils that delighted in making them torment for eternity, thinking up new and clever ways to tear screams from the lips of their captives.
It did seem like the flames and vapors that lingered in the air could almost take a human shape, twisting and smoky as they passed, piteous wretches that sobbed for mercy with barely a whisper heard before hellish winds tore them back apart, breaking their form, preying on their souls. And sitting high atop a steep jutting of dark red rock, twisting about in spires that seemed more shaped than natural, was a castle. It stood higher then the gray clouds, piercing them with endless turrets and guard walls. Four perfect spires dotted the corners of the castle, with guard walls that reached into the sky, never seeming to end. Perspiration akin to blood ran freely down the smooth surfaces, allowing none to scale it, no one but those the master of the castle deemed as worthy to enter.
Inside the castle, in the heart of its labyrinth of passages and rooms, stood the throne chamber, a place twisted and black. The ceiling was supported by columns of gnashed and broken bone, bent together and contorted so that a half dozen of those gigantic columns could stand tall, holding the immense ceiling aloft. The room itself was a series of rings, circles that spread out from the throne in the center of the room, raised on its dais, to the last ring that ran the perimeter of the dark walls. A soft yellow glow emanated from those rings, eleven in all. A twelfth ring of burning energy was fast forming at the foot of the throne, enlarging the room even as it pressed its occupant further into its center, keeping him there as it had for the last three thousand years or more. But time meant little in this blasted land. Time could trickle in seconds or bound by in years, there was no way to gauge how it would shift and contort, following the flow of the land.
Near silent screams wafted through the confines of the throne room, souls feeling the burn of their own Hell calling for deliverance, knowing all the while that there was none to call for. That made their pleas all the more wretched. Sitting on his raised throne, eyes closed with a grin twisting his face, sat the master of the castle. His name was Dhoman, one of the most ancient of the devils that called the twisted land their homeland. He had been venerable when it was sealed away, he inside his castle, others in places worse still, denying them free reign of their own land. For three millennia had it been so, deemed by the One God that they should never know true freedom, that Dhoman waited on his throne for a time when he could thwart the One God, bring an end to all that He had made. Patience was a virtue that he possessed. Where other devils had failed to break this prison, he would topple it. Then Umbriel would be his stepping stone to the rest of the world. Nations would come to fear him like nothing else in their pathetic little world. Let them know what true fear meant to them. They knew it in their deepest hearts. It took so little prompting for him to bring it to the surface. lay it bare before tearing their flesh like he would do to their spirits.
Standing, flexing massive muscles, Dhoman smiled, lips peeling back from white teeth, most of those long, gleaming fangs that set perfectly along his mouth. Bright golden eyes sparkled in the light of the room, with two twisting horns that spread from both sides of his head, coming forth for better then two feet. The devil himself was nearly nine feet in this state, flesh black as midnight, glistening wet from the blood of humans that ran freely on it. His hands were large, too, with claws like a birds talons, stretching his fingers better than six inches more. A touch of those razor talons to mortal flesh would be all it would take to make them rot, to split open and peel their own skins off like a fruit being peeled.
Dhoman was just stepping down from his raised throne when a man entered the room from the main doors, black cloak trailing over him like the pall of death. The devil smiled when he saw the man, skin ashen gray in the heat of his native land, hands clasped in front of him as he studied this massive beast that he saw.
"What news have you, saevant?" Dhoman rumbled, a hundred whispering voices talking at once, blending into a terrifying chorus. The cloaked man took it in stride, smiling a touch as he stepped close to the first ring of blazing yellow. Both the newcomer and Dhoman knew what would happen if he stepped any closer to that ring. The power of the One God would consume him, simply make him be no more. Dhoman used that trap on many of the lesser denizens, coaxing them into his throne chamber with words of promise, promise of gifts as only a devil could taunt. In a flash of holy light that would make him wince, they were gone, nothing more. Nothing to tell that they had ever been. So was the power of the One. Now there were twelve rings, the last still forming. He was losing time, and he knew it. Another three hundred years or less, and the thirteenth would begin to form. A thirteenth line of holy power that would bind Dhoman to his castle for eternity. Bind him to Hell for eternity. He would not allow it. He would not face his fate as other devils had, resigning themselves to eternal power struggles in a world that never truly knew the word death. What gain was there in that? Without death, the mind couldn't be prompted in the directions that Dhoman wanted it to flow.
"I have made contact when you decreed that it would be best, master. You were right. This one's mind is most pliable, indeed. I think that it will work in your favor. So long as I keep tabs, ensure that no factors that would thwart victory come between you and your goal."
"This is good," Dhoman replied, "I have seen may things that may come of this, saevant. I would have you end them for me but you cannot. You will stand idly by and perform what little that you may to effect thoughts and actions. Hold your powerful magic until I tell you that it is time to employ them."
"Why not effect matters directly, master? It would be child's play."
"Know your place, saevant!" Dhoman roared loudly, making the walls of the throne chamber tremble as his voice filled them to bursting. Raging, livid with eternal rage, Dhoman raised both fists to the saevant, sending charged blasts of burning red flame at him. Twin balls of fire hotter then magma, faster then an arrow, scorching the blistering air as they raced to connect with him. The saevant raised his hands, folds from his robes falling along his arms, voice rising in tempo.
"Gra' fel-me to mai sovie'!" He screamed words of magic, pulling it from air that was saturated with it already. Forming a shield of invisible force around him. Just as the shield formed fully about him, the balls of hell flame struck, an impact that made his ears ring, dulling all other sound about him. The shield exploded in a silent shattering of magic that was pushed to it's limits. Shards of wavering spell power fell about the saevant like snow flakes, hissing as they vanished. If the saevant had been shaken by Dhoman's attack, he gave no outward sign. He only stared at the devil blankly.
"Good," Dhoman chuckled richly, "Very good. You are no good to me at all if so small a display of power is all that it takes to slay you, now are you?"
"No, I would not be, master."
"I have reasons for wanting you not to take actions, and you should know them well, saevant. If the Chosen of Dynasty," Dhoman choked on that word, spitting it out like a morsel that had gone bad, "suspected that you are affecting matters, then you will defeat all that I have worked for. I cannot chance such things again. King Krestin of Dagoth was ousted when magi were discovered on his council. I suspect that matters would remain the same in this matter. You are a shadow, saevant. My eyes and ears in this world, to guide my champion where they need to go. Nothing more. You understand." It was a statement, not a question.
"Of course, master. I did not mean to question your wisdom in any way."
"Good that you did not, then. I might have become angry," Dhoman strode over the rings of energy, shivering as he moved. The holy power made him writhe, want to shred his flesh for the corruption that seethed in it. Gritting his teeth, growling so feral that the saevant arched an eyebrow at him, the devil stopped walking. Past the fourth circle without being eviscerated. He was growing stronger, making himself tolerant. In time, precious time, he could make himself strong enough to step past all of the circles. Until that time, however, he would not chance such things. There were goals close to being achieved. He would succeed this time. He would leave his homeland behind and travel freely in the world of mortals.
"What do you see for interference, master?" the saevant questioned softly, taking care not to raise his voice as the devil pondered his predicament.
"I foresee may things. A journey to a tower known as Cromley Tower. A spirit of death coming to a warrior as a woman he lusted for. A priest named Alohm that will threaten to undo forty years of machinations. Avalon and Southcross uniting against Dagoth in his attempt for the High Throne. A centiant who will fight for both sides of this conflagration. You must be wary, saevant. And aware of all the sides in this battle. Do not dare to fail me, wizard."
"I will not, to be certain, master," the saevant replied curtly, kneeling before the ring of power and swaying out a hand in a mock bow. Dhoman chuckled darkly, turning his back to the saevant and stepping across the rings of power, shuddering no less until he found his way back to the throne, sitting down hard. The dark one was suddenly in the mood to be entertained. It had been too long since something amused him.
"You will return to the blasted lands and collect for me a shede or two," Dhoman ordered the saevant. His pale face jerked up to look at Dhoman with a questioning look, then straightened it with obvious effort.
"It will be as you say, master," he told the dark one before standing and making his way back out of the throne room. Dhoman cast up an ethereal eye, a part of his own blackened soul that allowed him to watch over his homeland, to watch how the wizard thought to capture shedes. The beasts were half mad at best, with little or no thinking faculties, making them something near ravenous animals. Ravenous animals that could tear a man limb from limb without half trying. Perhaps this would be as entertaining as killing the shedes. He grinned darkly as he watched events unfold. Nothing would keep him from his goal this time. He had eternity to see it through.