Prologue.

Year 243 of the Mancer's Tale.

June the 30th.

High Lord Tresbin d' Rothwall, High Lord of County Roth, Guardian of the RothGate, Keeper of the Eldermark’s southern reach.

With my own hand, write.

My wife has perished. The burdens of child birth were beyond her ability to withstand. The midwives said it would be so.

For more than seven months she has laid in bed, nothing but the midwives and the old Auramancer, Borley, to care for her, our Biomancer having fled the city when the Orcs Blackford first began their invasion. It was shortly before we discovered my wife’s condition. Perhaps Olette would have stayed had she known.

The midwives have been nearly useless. They insisted that she would have six children, and that none would survive. Borley insisted there were eight. They were wrong. He wasn’t.

What good is all the magic in this Mancer's Tale if it cannot save my wife?

Eight children in one birth. The midwives insisted that none would live. Yet seven breathe, only one lies still. Six sons. One daughter. Five sons and the daughter seem healthy, if somewhat small. The last son will never walk, his legs twisted beyond repair. Borley insists that even the average Biomancer would be unable to fully fix them, as there seems to be magic to blame.

The people began to whisper as her condition became known. They saw it as an evil sign, and many blamed the recent Orc invasion on it. I have had to keep her under a special guard, of only those I know and trust best, for there have been attempts.

Perhaps the only gift here is that Borley tells me the first five boys are all Mancers. Powerful ones, with proper training, he believes.

Small gift, as we will all be dead soon.

Perhaps it is better that my wife has died so…. the Orcs Blackford will not be so kind.

For nine months the Orcs Blackford have attacked us…for the last two months we have been under siege. I do not need my commanders to tell me that the walls won’t last out the week. I can see it for myself.

Perhaps we would be faring better if we had not struggled to get the people of the nearby villages inside the gates. Surprise attacks by the Orcs had damaged the gates and bridges. And the siege began before repairs could be done.

The only hope for my children is the legend of a Dragon Road hidden within our city. A magic road that only Mancers can travel. It is believed to travel North many miles. Borley looks for it as I write. He tells me his power is enough to mimic the auras of the other two children as though they are also Mancers. He can also take one adult. He means to take me, but I will not abandon my post. I will send the barbarian, Khurk, with them instead. He is fiercely loyal, and a powerful warrior, who once slew sixty two orcs in a single battle.

It is better to not go with them…they should not grow up with a father that does not love them. And I cannot love them, though I wish I could. They have taken their mother from me. My love, the only joy in my life.

Melyss, my lovely lost wife, would be ashamed of me. But I cannot drive this bitterness from my heart.

Borley says time will change my heart. Her death is recent. But I do not feel it could be. Khurk will keep them safer than I ever could…and poor Mancer he may be…Borley still has magic to see them thru.

Still, I shall name them, as I believe their mother would have named them.

The first boy, dark of eye and hair, with a serious face, I shall name Dewolt , after the first of my line, First Hero of the Demon Invasion War, Slayer of the Demon Lord of Wrath. He was a poor country knight, charged with the protection of the village of Rivercross. At the Battle of Rothfall, when his liege lord fell to the Demon lords' blade, Dewolt, filled with fear and rage, struck the beast a desperate, and fatal blow. He perished before the war was over, but he was still honored with rank and title and lands, given to his first born. Dewolt was Erenian, the fair skinned, dark-haired people of the Eastern Middle Empire.

The second boy, dark of eye and fair of hair, also with a serious face, though he looks at me and smirks, I shall name after Dewolt's first born, Khelnarn. His mother was an Urang, the golden skinned, golden haired, people of the Eastern Southern Empire. His legs were crippled in his very first battle of the Invasion, but he did not let his crippling despair him. He turned to books, and became a knowledgeable and skilled orator. In the days between the Demon Invasion War and the Spellmancer War he became a famous statesman, and earned even more lands for the family, and was one of the only nobles to keep his title in the New Empire of the Mancer's Tale.

The third boy, with bright green eyes, a full head of fiery red hair, and a round jolly face, I shall name for his mother’s brother, Keridan. The boy is the fattest of the babies. It took Borley’s quick intervention to keep the elder midwife from putting an end to him as he came out. He came out, not crying or silent as the others, but giggling. They found it an evil sign to come laughing from your dying mother. But I believe he came to this world with his mother’s humor. The only thing she loved more than laughing was yelling at me. His uncle Keridan had been a great jolly fellow with a round face, and long red hair and beard. He died defending the eastern bridge.

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The fourth boy, with fair eye and fair hair, I shall name Valenn, for the Champion of Eldermark. He is one of the greatest Sworddancers in all of the Empire. With very similar looks. And he has been my friend for a dozen years now.

The fifth boy, fair eyed and dark haired, shall be Romen. The name is of no one important to us…a merchant that travelled thru some years ago, but Melyss loved the name for some reason. So Romen it will be.

For the last boy, the crippled, he has no hair and his eyes are undiscernible, I shall name him Halflig. Some will call the name cruel. But it is what his mother would have done. She loved the pun more than any other humor. And perhaps, between his name and his twisted legs, he will grow strong of mind and character. Though I doubt he will live to his first birthday,

And last…. last but not least, my daughter. Like every father I dreamt of having a beautiful little girl. Would that I could love her as I should. But I think I hate her the most. For she is her mother's double to my eyes. Fair of eye and hair. With a beautiful smile. I would name her Melyss for her mother…but the pain is too great. And her mother loved the name Shaelyn. I shall combine the two, Shaelyss.

Though he was lost, I shall name the still born also. Thomvin, for my brother who was also lost at birth.

I shall send copies of this letter with Borley. One for the provincial archive, and one for the imperial, as is the custom. But also, another, to be given to any surviving children when they come of age. On their sixteenth birthday, and not before, they will learn my feelings.

I have held them each once, in their mother’s honor. Dust filled the room from some source, as my eyes began to sting. By the time I came to Halflig, they had begun to water. I held him longer than the others, though I know not why. His defects scream a reflection on his mother’s death. When I came to Shaelyss, the nurses looked at me and wept. They assumed it was more than the dust.

My eyes burned, and my throat swelled. As I held Thomvin last, I could not breath, and my face was wet. This old castle is full of drafts and dust.

And so, I bid them farewell. Go with God. For He and your mother will be with you, always.

As will I.

*    *    *

Borley sighed as he reread the letter once again. It was ten days to the children’s birthday, and he had things to do. He picked up his pen, and began to write.

Year 259 of the Mancer’s Tale.

June the twentieth. 

Auramancer Borley of Rothwall, called Borley the Mild, former servant of High Lord Tresbin d'Rothwall, servant of the High and Honorable House of Rothwall, Guardian and Mentor of the Rothwall Heirs.

With my own hand, write.

To the Imperial Magistrate of the State of Zanthire, Adon Larock; and to the keeper of Imperial Records, Jama of Tarn, and to Goral Herath, Advisor of the Eastern Parts of the Empire.

I greet you with all the hope of this Mancer's Tale. And ask humbly that you hear my request.

For it has been near to sixteen years since the Fall of the Rothwall. As Lord Herath is recent to his place, I will cover some of what has transpired since the Fall, of which he should be more than aware.

For two weeks we travelled the Dragon Road, out from under Rothwall to just north of Bittermeet. Though to us it seemed but a day, such is the magic of those Roads. From there, we travelled three months to the northern parts of Zanthire, to the village of Rivercross. From where hailed Dewolt, first of the Rothwall line. With seven newborns the journey was long, longer still with two men who knew little of infants.

The High and Honorable House has kept its ties with the village, though the village and city are not close, and the New Empire does not recognize the connection of the Eldermark and the northern Holds.

The people there knew me, and by the time we arrived they had long since heard the word from the south. Though the village is still small and poor nearly three hundred years later, they were quick to take us in. They of course had no Mancer, for how many small villages do? They were happy to have one, even of my strength. And of course, a warrior as powerful as Khurk was always a welcome addition, even if he was a Barbarian of Tomalk’s Horde.

Most were happy to assist with raising the children, especially old nan Hallah. She was their surrogate mother, and they love her more than life. The widow Melga was there as well, always stern, always with a firm hand, but always there. The children care little for her now, but will in the future come to appreciate her. They would do so faster if she stopped feeding them her gag causing pond scum stew. She insists it is very healthy, but I digress.

My Lords, it turns that I was mostly right about the children’s fate. The first five boys are indeed powerful Mancers, some of the strongest I’ve seen. One of each of the major types. And in alphabetical order by their birth, even.

Dewolt is an Aeromancer, Khelnarn an Aquamancer. Keridan is a Biomancer, Valenn a Geomancer, and lastly Romen is a Pyromancer, each with the personality to match.

But surprisingly, the other two are also Mancers. Shaelyss is a Wind Dancer, an unbelievably talented one. Even her brothers fear her. And Halflig, precious Halflig, an Auramancer like myself, and yet unlike myself. I believe he could be the most powerful in the whole of the Mancer's Tale, but of course his twisted legs limit how the magical energy can flow thru his body. 

They are indeed talented youths who would greatly benefit the Empire should they be given proper chance. Which is why I beseech my Lords to give them that chance. Do not drop their title, as last month's letter tells me you are want to do.

Though I am not greatly powerful, and am considered poor at my art, I have had my training, and have always been considered a good teacher, and I have taught them well. Their Mancer powers are beyond any I’ve seen of their age. And also, Khurk has taught them the martial ways, so they are all talented fighters, too. Indeed, between their education, fighting skills, and magical prowess I do not know if this Mancer’s Tale has seen their like.

Do not take away their chance to hold the title. Not all of the Eldermark has fallen, and rumors are that there is still resistance in County Roth, holding out against the Orcs Blackford even now.

I must also write them a letter telling them all of this. I am near one hundred and three years old, and my mind has started to go. Even now I hold my wits together with magic, and my magic grows weaker. Which is why I implore my Lords to approve my request.

And my Lords…what is that noise outside? Don’t they know I am in here writing, like the whole of the village is carrying on of a sudden. I see movement out the window, but my old eyes cannot make it out.

Oh.

My Lords, I fear this letter may not ever reach you.

The Orcs Blackford have come.