The mist of time reveal one split asunder,

Hand against hand, brother against brother,

Death and dark takes power o’er light,

Life and order no longer take flight.

Battle rages across the lands and gathers

Sons of each to their own fathers.

Dark destroys the future of light,

In that dark moment with no hope in sight.

Out of the ashes of life a faint glow

Rises and sets forth to find a new home,

Embers bring kindle to a new blaze

Then darkness driven back for always.

Ancient prophecy spoke of the Princes of Haltria, though it didn’t speak of them by name. At first it wasn’t obvious to whom they referred. For who could have known that out of such a pristinely beautiful kingdom could such a contrast of death and life, of chaos and order, of light and darkness, arise?

Haltria was a green country with rolling hills, rocky outcroppings, massive port cities, and vast farmlands. It even had the occasional woodland, though wood was considered a precious commodity. Prosperous and with many resources, people in Haltria, even the poor, lived well enough. Starvation was non-existent and confidence abounded. If someone had need, they simple had to put in a few more bells of labor to have the need fulfilled. In fact, it was only in the darkest alleys on the deepest nights a person had any need of fear. That didn’t mean there wasn’t need for guards to handle the local brawl, occasional assassination attempt on the king, or crime, but for the most part it was peaceable.

Its capital, Gandon, was a lovely city build of mostly stone from the surrounding hills and quarries. Light grey in color, for the most part, a slightly magic lighting system design in ancient times made the stone almost glow at night. It was a city of romance and elegance, a city of art, culture, and mystery. That last fell in with the first four in a mix that seemed most natural. It was one of the few cities the prophets of old, the ancient and powerful wizards, had a hand in designing.

It was those same prophets Lorenth’s forefathers claimed as their blood relatives and gave his family line the legal right to rule.

Lorenth, the older of the Princes of Haltria, lay on a hill outside of the city. With the bright midsummer sky overhead, plush white clouds hung motionless in the air. The birds chirped and called in the grove of trees in the distance at the foot of the hill.

Lorenth grinned and brushed a lock of blond hair from his forehead. The distant cheerful sound of a hunting horn said his escorts, nobility from the local court, were still caught up in their nidae hunt.

Lorenth didn’t much enjoy hunting the cunning little tree climbing dogs, though he did admire their intelligence. Not so much for their intellect itself, but his appreciation was more for the moments of freedom the clever animals managed to conjure up for the Prince while tying the hunting party in proverbial knots. It was a rare opportunity to circumvent his normal responsibilities as the son of the aging King. The small mammals were so smart that Lorenth had even seen one give several one word answers to questions posed to it during a performance at a fair a several years ago.

It wouldn’t be long now, in just a few days in fact, before he turned twenty and would be expected to assume his role as a Commander of the royal guard. His half-brother turned seventeen on the same day. Though three years apart and from separate mothers, they shared a birthday. Lorenth’s mother had died during childbirth. Valith’s had died from consumption ten years later. Thus the kingdom was without a queen. Their father had never married again.

His half-brother was already in the field of battle gathering fame for his cunning strategies and apparently magical prowess as well, if recent rumors proved true. This last time, Valith had been dispatched to deal with the raiders on the western coast; rumor said they were from the lands across the torrid waters of the Strait of Martos. A talented commander and soldier was his brother, Lorenth was privileged to have such a one commanding a large portion of the forces that would soon be under Him.

The extensive age of the King meant no end to the requests for audience, gifts, begging, pleading, scraping, and jostling for favor. In short, no real end to the political intrigue. With the aging King near to passing away, many whispered it wouldn’t be a bad idea to begin currying favor with the older prince and the assumed heir to the throne as well. While many in the court may have found that to be entertaining, even enjoyable, Lorenth did not. Instead, he enjoyed other pursuits.

Art, music, and the sword were Lorenth’s favorite hobbies. The last one was to keep him alive and for the enjoyment of exercising his lean physique, and the first two for his amusement and pleasure. Add in weekly attendance to the services in the Halls of the Prophets, and Lorenth’s schedule was full enough to keep him busy. It was a pleasant life.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Attendance to the services was no longer in vogue with the royalty in the city, with the exception of special holidays, weddings, or death rites for loved ones. It often involved acts of service and obeisance. Most persons in the kingdom found even weekly attendance to the services, a realistically minute imposition, outweighed the meager amount of sincerity in their hearts. Lorenth did not. He believed in The God’s existence, and believed he was of “The People”. “The People” was what the priests called someone who placed their faith in the ways that had been established by the prophets long ago. Lorenth knew he wasn’t good at actually following all the rules and the way, he couldn’t see how anyone had enough time for that without joining the cloister, but sincerely tried to partake in what he could do. Besides, like the hunt going on below, it arranged more time away from the court with something his mind said mattered.

Movement near the distant gates of the city drew Lorenth’s eyes to a fast riding horse. With a sigh, Lorenth pulled himself from the ground and stretched. A fast horse meant a message, and a message meant an end to the hunt. The end of the hunt meant Lorenth’s absence would be noted and he would be required to return to the city and all that entailed.

Lorenth leaned on the trunk of a nearby tree that appeared to have been struck by lightning sometime recently. As expected, a few moments after the rider reached the small forest where the hunting party partook in their sport, the sound of the hunt ceased and another rider made his way out of the woods towards Lorenth.

As the rider approached Lorenth could just make out one of the royal body guard.

“Sire, it is time to return to the city. A messenger brought news of your brother’s victory over the raiders from Jant’koyt and of his imminent return! He will be at the gates before supper is laid out, and your father plans a small midday meal on the morrow to welcome him home.”

___

Valith sat atop his horse several leagues away from the city, a flinty expression upon his face. Cold and unemotional. His long straight black hair slightly swayed in the breeze. A bandage wrapped around one arm hinted of a recent wound taken in battle, that and the slightly insipid pallor of his skin. However, a man of Valith’s demeanor and statue didn’t let any weakness or pain show on his face. Well burnished armor, gilding only barely scarred and scratched by enemy weapons, shone in the sun with the glint of gold.

Homecoming, for his men, was a joyous time. After an exhausting campaign, they were all ready for some well-earned relaxation and a chance to spend their wages, or a chance to drink away their sorrow and grief for their recently lost friends. Valith was a great commander, but loses were never uncommon in the frenzied battles with the barbarians off the west shores. Diplomacy was no option and the raiders were well accustomed to battle and also were trained warriors from birth.

Valith enjoyed cities as much as the next soldier, but in this city there would be little pleasure for himself. While he worked to secure the throne for his country and his brother, at the cost of lives and time, his brother drifted through life with an ease foreign to Valith. Lorenth, the shining prince, able to best the most well-seasoned soldier in sword to sword combat without ever having entered combat.

Lorenth, the prince who managed to stay in favor with their father without any obvious attempt to earn favor and love. Lorenth, who never faced the pain, death, and exhaustion of battle because he would become King someday and was too valuable to risk.

A small smile creased Valith’s face. This time would be different though. The barbarians were defeated and it would be years before they managed to field another incursion of this magnitude. Of the thousands that had landed upon their shores, only a small handful managed to escape with their lives. That handful managed to sail away on five leaking ships, and Valith had high hopes the ones that managed to survive the dangerous trip across the Strait would spread word that the forces of Haltria were death to those that attempted to seize their lands.

Memories of arcane power surging through him, as the enemies that had nearly overcome him burst into flames before they could strike, made a slight chill crawl up his back. It was gruesome, but at the same time the power was thrilling beyond compare. Even when the flames burned his arm and left it bandaged as it was now, the pain was only a minor annoyance in the background of Valith’s mind, a cost worth paying to see the retreat of His enemies and their terror.

Even more, a cost worth paying to see his father smile at him and give him a hero’s welcome.

Valith had even managed to find a relatively talented bard and employed him to compose a work about the battle. Valith had gone over the lyrics with the bard and added his own words about the battle and the experience. It had a realism to it unlike any tale Valith had ever heard told.

“My Lord Prince,” a voice said next to Valith. So lost was Valith in his daydreams he had not even notice the man had drawn up next to him upon a horse. “The troops are growing weary of waiting, my liege, may we continue on our march? They say the taverns beckon them and some swear they can hear their wives and lady-friends shouting for them even now.”

Krastor, Valith’s second and a brilliant strategist, smirked at the thought. Still leagues from the city, soldiers on the march rarely bothered with reality when bravado and tall tales would suffice.

Valith grinned and raised an eyebrow at him, “Surely, they must mean they can hear their mothers hollering that they are out passed their bedtime. Very well, tell the men we’ll march into the town if they all swear it wasn’t Valith who kept them out playing for so long!”

Krastor chuckled, “Aye, my Lord, I’ll make sure they know.”

As Krastor nudged his horse round and made his way down the slope to give the marching order, Valith had no doubt before the city was reached every man would have heard the tale. Marching soldiers were often more like a group of riotous children than grown men. One needed to be when facing down surly death.

Valith urge his own horse about and rode down to the soldiers as they mounted. They all knew their duty by now, but command meant giving the appearance of being in authority even if unnecessary. The appearance of power was needed even if the power went unexercised.