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Prologue

The City of Paramar, Kingdom of Peran

Matrien balanced on the sole of his left foot, the sharp rock beneath it feeling like it might pierce the skin at any moment. He was finally beginning to get used to the pain.

Heavy coastal winds tested his stability with constant cold gusts, pushing him this way and that. Matrien, feeling as though he might lose his balance, brought his arms out, his wingspan slightly wider than average for a lad his age – fifteen winters. His arms waved about as he steadied himself. Once he had, Matrien closed his eyes, listening to the waves brushing against the orange-yellow sands. Closing his eyes helped him to maintain balance. It calmed his mind.

“Are you not bored yet?” Tariyen asked, breaking him from his near-meditative state. Only as he opened his eyes did he realise she had not even been watching. Instead, atop a smooth rock – which dipped perfectly to become a cradling seat – she had pulled a book from her bag and was perusing it with only half interest.

Tariyen, like him, had fair skin – or, at least, fairer skin than many who came to visit their lord father. They were not identical twins but shared likenesses in many areas. Namely, their dark eyes, black hair, and freckles that topped flat-bridged noses – though these were things that most Peranese people had in common. Matrien tended to wear himself rugged, hair short but scruffy and clothes unpressed. Tariyen was neat in all senses of the word. Her clothes were tidy, her hair pulled back into a tightly wound bun, and her nails free of dirt.

“Why would I be?” Matrien replied. He was training. What could be more interesting than that? Certainly not a book, he was sure; he had been tutored once, long enough to nearly learn to read, but it was obvious his talents lay elsewhere.

Tariyen’s brown eyes rose to him for just a moment, the brows above them furrowing. She shook her head and returned to her book. “Prancing about as you do, Matrien,” she started, “I’m not sure how you don’t find it embarrassing. You know how difficult it is to become a Spinsword. And you also know that Father will not treat you differently just because you are his son.”

“I know that Tariyen!” Matrien barked. His sudden outburst caused him to lose his footing. His shoulder clanged with pain as he brought his arm to break the fall. He had not been quick enough, and his arm had hit the solid, unrelenting rock with full force. “Shit!” Matrien shouted, before remembering Tariyen was still there.

Matrien’s heart sank as he expected stern words from his sister. He had spent too long with the unruly men of his father’s army and their equally unruly tongues. Thankfully, she seemed not to notice, and he lay, legs and arms splayed, catching his breath. Matrien was just thankful that this rock had not been so rough and sharp as the one he had been practising on.

Clouds were forming in the sky. Strange; clouds were uncommon during Peranese summers, especially ones like those – thick and heavy, made of dark shades of grey. As the sun helplessly disappeared into nothingness behind them, things fell noticeably darker. Matrien’s heart picked up its pace as the shadow passed over him.

“Tariyen,” he said. He could hear the worry in his own voice.

No response.

“Tariyen,” Matrien repeated, though more stolidly this time. “Look at the sky.” Between his fingers, which had been brought to his face to block what little remained of the sun’s brightness, Matrien watched carefully, eyes squinted, as the clouds consumed the sky. “Why are they doing that?”

Again, no response.

Matrien pulled himself up, tensing his core. His arm had not ceased its aching and stung as he pushed against hard rock.

Tariyen remained in her nest-like seat. On her lap, her book was opened to another page of jumbled writing. Her neat hair was the same, tied into a bun, while her bright green dress had grown only a slightly darker shade where the clouds had dimmed it. But, as if time stopped still, she was frozen. Tariyen’s fingers pinched at the bottom corner of the page, ready to turn, but her eyes were elsewhere, gazing outward to where the sea expanded for miles beyond their quiet beach.

Matrien followed her line of sight. First, the beach itself, with its yellow-orange sand untainted except where water rose softly against it. Nothing. On either side, rock formations encroached upon the beach, enclosing this private haven, and protecting it. Nothing. But then he saw it. Beyond the nearest reaches of the sea, emerging upon the horizon. Ships. Huge, black-sailed ships. And many of them, at that.

The ships had approached with absurd speed, churning through water as if it was but dry land and they were horse-drawn carts.

Matrien’s legs would not rise to carry him, and his arms would not drag him away. Stiff as an archery target, he could not work up the courage to free himself of whatever gripped him. Both he and Tariyen could only watch as the ships grew ever closer.

Now close enough that Matrien could make them out in detail, the ships were a dark brown, each one appearing the size of two mid-city buildings. At their fronts, great figureheads protruded like great recreations of gods or heroes. In the case of the one that stole Matrien’s focus, it seemed more like the sculpture of some villain, sword pointed directly toward him. That ship’s black sail had on it some form of rune or writing he did not recognise.

Were these ships carrying guests of his father? It would not be unusual. Sometimes, though not in most cases, it was easier for those in the furthest East to pass around the continent, rather than through it. Fewer tolls to pay, fewer Kingdoms to pass through. But, if that were the case, who would need to send so many ships? Such visitors commonly brought only a few – usually smaller delegate parties intended to negotiate on their master’s behalf – but this was enough for an entire army. An entire army…

“Tariyen, get up,” Matrien shouted as he realised.

Something burst through his veins with a jolting pain, and Matrien found the strength to push himself upward. As his feet steadied themselves on the uneven terrain, he started toward his sister.

Thirty steps from her, Matrien manoeuvred carefully over a crevice between two rocks. He placed his feet on either side of the gap so that each step between the two was a sort of jump. Where the two rocks ended in a short drop, he threw himself down, landing fleetingly on his toes. Tariyen sat now on her knees, book slammed closed.

Matrien arrived at her side, before finding his place at her rear. He grabbed her at the tops of her arms, his fingers wrapping around them almost entirely, and yanked her upward. Strangely, his arm no longer seemed to hurt, and he was surprised by the ease of the movement. His sister was not as small as she had once been, but he lifted her all the same.

Tariyen did not find her footing at first, falling limp as his grip loosened, but Matrien managed to catch her again, and she eventually stood upright. Gods be damned he would get her moving, even if he had to drag her.

Tariyen’s eyes showed evidence of wetness alongside the empty blackness of her dilated pupils. But, it seemed, she had regained some of her conscience, and she took sluggish steps behind Matrien as he continued across the rocks.

Without their shoes – which had been left in the hurry where sand met rock nearer to the sea – each step risked the pain of stepping on a loose bit of stone or stubbing toes against solid edges. Even with callused skin, Matrien found that the speed of their movement tore more of the soft stuff away than he would have liked, and his soles stung with each step. Behind, Tariyen was quiet. If her feet were hurting, she made no whimper or cry, only silence. Matrien clutched at her wrist firmly as they continued toward the cliff edge.

Eventually, they reached the rocky wall. The jagged face was beyond ten men in height, its stone hard and dry and dusty where sand became stuck in its cracks. The cliff itself slanted inward, allowing for small, hands-width ledges on which they could stop for moments while climbing it. It was still a challenging climb at a slowed pace – one that required significant concentration – let alone when someone was nearing them rapidly at their rear.

And the ships were approaching rapidly.

Atop each ship’s deck, those who flocked to the front to watch – as if for sport – did not seem to wear armour and threw their arms about alongside what Matrien could only discern as cheers of encouragement. He considered, for a moment, that he might have mistaken them, that these were not dangerous people. Still, Matrien thought, turning back to the wall, this is no time to be taking chances.

Matrien took a deep breath as he searched for their usual path. All he needed was to find the emblem of their house – the Peranese Darkgull – that was etched into the rock at both top and bottom of the cliff. From side to side of the rocky wall he walked, but he was unable to find it. It was so obvious usually, so easy to find, yet now, in the rush of it all, it was as if it had never existed at all.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Fuck it! Matrien could feel the first drops of rain against the back of his neck. There was no time.

Matrien approached the patch of the wall that flaunted itself directly before him, grabbing at a beam of rock that protruded from it. As he applied the force of his practiced fingers, the thinner tip of it crumbled. He panicked for a moment, thinking that the stone might be too soft here, but the base of the hold stood firm. That was enough. Matrien smiled and hauled himself up, reaching for the next jut.

Though Tariyen was of the studious type – at least when compared with himself – Matrien felt no need to worry that she could not match his climb. She tucked her book into the leather bag that she slung over her right shoulder, and gripped the first, crumbly hold.

The two made quick progress, scurrying up the wall like young mountain goats. This had been their playground, their escape from the palace. Within moments they had found themselves almost halfway to the top, on one of the stopping ledges. There was just enough space that both could stand side by side, their feet turned sideways so as not to overhang the edge.

As he clung shakily to two clumps of rock, Matrien found himself glad, at least, that he had chosen well in that fleeting moment, that he had picked a span of the wall that was easy for climbing. Tariyen had followed well, mimicking each hand grab, each placement of his feet, though the pair were now drenched through.

“How much further?” She asked, her voice shaking. The girl shivered, as Matrien realised he must also be, as she clutched to her holds.

Matrien diverted his eyes upward, mapping each movement. It was as though he watched a false image of his future self, the rain stopping just before the rock where it hit his imaginary body. He would place his feet here, and push using his legs there. There were a few difficult looking spots, but he hoped it would not take them too long to overcome.

“Not too far now,” Matrien replied, before flicking the slick-wet hair that had been dangling over his brows.

Even if it wasn’t too far, he would not dare to suggest that he was confident they would make it. Their pursuers – and they were pursuers – had left their bigger vessels, and approached now in smaller, oar-drawn boats. On each, those unarmoured men that had adorned the ship decks sat three to a row, five rows to a boat. There were ten boats; so if Matrien’s maths was right, which it often wasn’t, that was over a hundred men. And that was headed for their beach alone.

They needed to get to the palace, he had realised; it was their only chance. They needed to alert the Royal Guard. Then it would all be dealt with. A single Spinsword could deal with over thirty men, or so his father’s stories always said. There were over a hundred men trained to be Spinswords in the city. If they could just make it up this damned cliff!

“Let’s go,” Matrien continued, a fresh eagerness overcoming him, “we’ve caught our breath for long enough already.”

The two continued, avoiding the ledges where they could take a break. There was no time for stopping.

Matrien cut his finger on a spike-like rock as they neared one of the more difficult manoeuvres. This one was a jump. There was a gap between Matrien’s current hold – a small rock which protruded only a few finger-widths from the face – and the next with no foothold between them. The distance could have been no more than four steps across. At a less dangerous height, this would have been nothing; Child’s play, in fact. But when nothing lay below them but sharp, piercing spears, it seemed a terrible task. A fall from such a height would mean certain death – of that much he was sure – but there was no other way.

Matrien told himself not to look down, to focus on his grip, to prepare for the jump, but he could not help himself. He smiled a nervous smile as his eyes found their way down the cliff-edge. The drop was steep, to the point that he could barely see the wall itself as it fell. There was nothing to grip onto should he fall, no protection, no safety net. This was the real thing.

Trying to calm his mind, he recalled his earlier training, closing his eyes tightly. A silly thing to do at such a height, of course, but necessary. It soon became apparent that it was much more difficult in a real situation, and he found himself unable to concentrate entirely.

Phlegm did its best to make sticky his mouth, clutching to the sides of it like soggy moss or slime, but he swallowed the stuff hard. His breathing slowed, inhaling deeper, exhaling for longer.

Matrien’s nerves were not quelled entirely, but it was enough. With enemies approaching, it had to be enough. With rain and sweat caressing the side of his face like ice-cold fingertips, he got ready to jump.

Below, Matrien could hear Tariyen’s nervous shuffling as she watched. He dared not to look at her eyes, which would surely be so full of dread.

Finger’s clutching as tightly to the wet stone as they could, Matrien had worked up the courage he needed.

Careful not to lose grip with the slickness of the rock, he first pulled his body to the left, arms stretched to the right where they clung beside the jump. Then, with a single quick movement, he swung his torso to the right, flinging himself with a push of the feet against the rock beneath him.

Matrien’s heart sunk as the rock beneath his feet crumbled beneath his weight. That was it. He was dead.

The gap beneath him grew in size. The further he moved toward the next hold, the further away it seemed to get. The dark grey rock seemed to dodge him purposefully, desperate to evade his grasp.

Shit! He thought, arms flailing unnaturally. As if some sort of kite, he tried to grab at the air, hoping it would carry him further. It didn’t. He wasn’t going to make it. There was no way.

He was falling.

And then his hand caught a clump of rock, and his legs swung freely beneath him, clattering against the solid rock face. A clanging pain burst through his knee, and he hissed at the sharpness of his skin slicing open. He almost lost his grip as his fingers found the wet stone, but he managed to maintain his hold with a solid foot against something below him. He sighed heavily. He was across, albeit landing with his hands gripping where he had intended his feet to land; but he was across all the same.

Matrien burst out into a sort of manic laughter, his heart still as rapid as it had been before the jump, if not more so. Even with his situation, that feeling of his blood rushing through him… that thrill… it rocked him to his core.

“Matrien,” Tariyen said, her soft voice rising barely above the sounds of rainwater smacking stone.

Matrien panicked, realising suddenly that he had broken the ledge as he had made his jump across. No! He thought as he moved to find himself a safer hold. No!

Tariyen was shocked still with horror. At her feet, a step before her, all that remained was the rough edge where once had been a protruding ledge.

No! Damn it. Both began to bawl. Matrien looked around desperately for another route, for another way across.

Tariyen’s head cocked as her eyes swelled with tears. She gave him the look a dog might give knowing its owner was putting it down. Not anger, just sorrow. That look sent Matrien’s heart to shrieking. Save her, damn it! Find another way across!

The boatmen had found their way ashore, beaching their large rowboats and hopping out in their droves. Once on dry land, they threw their swords to the floor, heads rising as they bawled out, bellowing terribly.

Matrien, one eye on his sister, the other watching those on the beach, could not believe what he was seeing. These men were… changing. That was the only way to describe it. He scratched his eyes, hoping he was seeing wrong. He wasn’t. Steam seemed to burst from their mouths and ears, erupting alongside the sounds of their screaming. Their skin boiled, clothing tearing into small strips then falling apart entirely.

Tariyen watched now, too. Her crying had stopped, replaced by a silent fear that the two seemed to share.

The men’s pale skin darkened, then darkened some more. It became a blackish, tainted silver. Like metal, Matrien considered, struck for any greater description. No. Not like metal. It was as if these men became metal. Like carefully sculpted statues, these men turned into something both human and inhuman at the same time.

What could men of flesh and blood do against that? Even the Spinswords…

No! There was no point thinking about it now. Tariyen was more important. If they could not get themselves off this cliff, then they were dead regardless.

“You have to jump!” Matrien called across the gap.

Matrien could not tell if the rain had worsened, or if his eyes were just clouded with tears, but the gap seemed so huge now.

“I can’t!” She cried.

Matrien shook his head. “Yes. You can.” He tapped his toe against the shelf he had found himself, thinking. “I will­—”

The men on the beach had become solid metal now. They were no longer human but for the shape of them. They instead seemed wild beasts as they erupted with steam from strange holes that no child of men should leak from. They had swords in hand once more and were barrelling up the beach toward the patch where the pair’s shoes remained. One kicked a shoe away as he passed, gas escaping as he laughed. This was a game to them.

“I will catch you!” Matrien continued, turning back to Tariyen. He tried to feign a sort of confidence with his words, but even he could hear that it sounded forced.

“I can’t do that, Matrien!” Tariyen was weeping now. Weeping terribly.

“You must!”

“I can’t!”

“If you don’t, you will die!” Hurry up, Sister! He thought. Matrien would soon find himself dead if she did not make a move.

“But what if I just go back down?” She asked. “They wouldn’t kill a child, Brother.”

Matrien looked at the madmen as they followed his path, hopping across the rocks beneath them. These were not men who followed the Eastern ways.

“You cannot be sure of that, Tariyen. They might do even worse!” Fucking jump, Tariyen, Matrien’s insides were screaming.

Finally, his sister took a weary step toward the edge, careful not to step too far; it was now at least six steps wide from there to where Matrien’s arm reached.

“Take this first,” Tariyen said, pulling the leather strap of her bag from her shoulder.

The bag? The damned bag?

Tariyen threw the thing, clutching to the wall with her free hand. Matrien found himself surprised at her accuracy and caught it with surprising ease. He pulled the bag over his shoulder. If she could just get herself across as safely!

Tariyen copied his previous movements carefully, first moving her torso to the left, preparing to swing. With a slightly slower movement than his own, she brought her arms back across. Then she jumped.