Prologue

<Writer's note: okay, got a revision in - it's a little better now, but still needs plenty work.>

<>    Snow gathered about the coffin as the great barons paid their final respects.  Baron Friederick Widlow stood at the front in black leathers and a chain shirt; he remained the Protector of the West even at a funeral.  Friederick’s face was cleanly shaven, as always, and his hair cropped short and neat; his hair was never allowed to grow past his cleft chin.  The mountain of furs and flesh that was Baron Kel Blackwood stood just behind, his face red from the cold and an unaccustomed frown playing across it.  Though Kel’s strength had been famed in his youth, much of his muscle had gone to fat, and his once flame kissed hair had turned a dull gray.  Kris Valtane, a tansy stuck in the top button loop of his silks, was next, the snow settling among his auburn hair.  Kris was not a man to walk; rather he preferred to lift his steps in sudden bounces as though he wanted to dance.  And Young Northollow stood last in white woven wool, a green doublet offsetting his blond hair.  The four stood, heads bowed, observing the silence in honor of the deceased.  The sun sank from the sky as the barons stood in silent prayer. 
    Orison’s southern courtyard was used for the funeral, as both the chapel and the entrance to the royal crypts were there.  The four Barons and high Father Carmon, as leads in the ceremony, were left a generous clearing around the coffin.  The lords, ladies, and knights of Orison, as well as those retainers who were close enough to make journey to the funeral in time, stood in a semi-circle, observing the penance of silence in mourning.  Chancellor Mahler of the coin, coughing Marquis Belweather of the stone, lord Myles of the cloaks, and sir Marbray of the guards, the king’s advisors, stood foremost among the lords.  Just behind the gentry stood the wealthy and prominent of the lowfolk: merchants, artisans, and prominent guildsmen.  And farther yet, pressing in from the gate around the rich and noble, the rest of the lowfolk of Orison watched the burial of their king.  King Pergrim’s funeral was a great exception in the history of Orison in that both high and low born shed tears in abundance.
    As dusk closed around the courtyard, Baron Blackwood stepped forward, leaned over the lip of the coffin, and laid a sword of five hand lengths inside.  Bowing his head once more, he turned and walked back towards the church, his scowl deepening.  As baron Blackwood entered the church, baron Valtane stepped forward.  A scroll case of fine vellum, gilt along the metal encasing, rested in his hands; Valtane placed the case in the coffin, canted his head, and walked towards the church.  Baron Widlow took one step forward, the snow settling among his jet tresses.  Bowing deeply before the coffin, he placed the iron scepter in the coffin, and turned to walk towards the church.  Finally, baron Northollow moved forward.  <>
    Even in death, Pergrim’s strong jaw line and high cheek bones dominated his face even in the coffin, and it seemed he could never look truly peaceful.  His brow was knit in a disapproving frown, as though he had died while hearing of an only son’s failings.  Pergrim’s hair had gone white as the snow collecting in his coffin in his old age, and the wrinkles and weathering made him look even older than he was.  The best work of the Pental Order didn’t hide the wear of his life.  It was whispered among the smallfolk that the news of Pergrim’s great rival, Consul Exercus’s re-election in the Republic had been the last blow to a dying man’s spirit.
    Pergrim had been healthy and strong but three weeks prior, Young recalled.  The crossing of the Guelen river played across his mind.  The high rains of the autumn had swelled the river greatly, and Young had watched from the dock as his king’s boat had yawed and pitched Pergrim into the river.  When Young’s men fished the half-drowned Pergrim out of the river, many feared for the old king’s life.  Pergrim fought to last, and was coherent up until the final evening, when the fever finally started to cloud the man’s mind.  Young remembered Pergrim’s face that night; even in the fits of fever, Pergrim’s face blazed defiance and strength.
    Young forced himself to gaze on the face again; it was strange to feel grief over the death of this man.  Young lacked the words to describe it even to himself.  It was not the same as the last funeral he attended, though burying a father is always a different matter, he supposed.  His eyes rested on the body for a time, before he layed the gilt amulet in the coffin.
    Father Carmon nodded approvingly to the departing barons, and spoke the final words of the ceremony.  "Ora poniano questo re fra i re fra le cripte di Orison. Può unire i re passati nella proteccione della gente," Father Carmon chanted loudly in the northern tongue.  Four coffin bearers stepped forward and took hold of the mahogany coffin, lifting it such that they carried it at shoulder height.  Led by the high priest, the small party descended past the two stone knights guarding the steps to the royal crypt.
    Northollow stepped into the shelter of the church just as the wind picked up, and the snow started to fall harder.  Young closed the beech doors of the church quietly, noting the quality of their craftsmanship to himself again.  Pink and brown of the heartwood with a fine, smooth finish.  Northollow slid his finger along a crack in the wood, the only imperfection; beech could be an unforgiving wood.
    “The bloodline is too diluted, my lords.  There is no clear claim to the throne,” baron Valtane said, his forehead resting on the thumbs of his clasped hands.
    Young approached the other three barons, listening intently as they argued.  They kneeled in the foremost pew of the church, cherry wood to Young’s eyes.  Young padded along the tapestries of the center aisle quietly, rolling his weight from heel to toe as he did when he hunted.  <>
    “An heir must be found, regardless.  We have no other recourse,” baron Widlow responded.
    Young was precisely that - young.  At the age of twenty he was the youngest of the barons, and the youngest baron ever to inherit from a father.  Young knew better than to talk in such matters; he was too young to have respect, to have command, to have influence.  Young smiled to himself at the thought.  It was, after all, only a matter of time.
    "He has no heirs, Friederick!  There is no king unless we decide it, here and now!" Kel Blackwood growled angrily.  He leaned on his right elbow, his left arm free to gesture; as he spoke, his palm spread wide and closed into a fist.  "If we do not settle this now, the land will be thrown into chaos, and you know it!"
    Friederick Widlow fixed Kel with a stony glare.  "We cannot ignore the difficulties of our situation.  No king has died without heir before, and by the precedents of our laws a king is different than a feudal lord.  This requires delicate arbitration, Kel.  We cannot do this lightly..."
    Baron Valtane fixed his gaze on Baron Widlow.  "Ah, but what else can we do?  The serfs don’t care about who’s the closest relation to Pergrim.  And you can be sure as shit runs through a goose the Republic doesn’t.”
    Baron Widlow frowned at Blackwood, but nodded in agreement.  "But then we have the hard question.  Which of us can be trusted to do this?"
    Kel Blackwood snorted derisively.  "I can't possibly trust either of you."
    Friederick shook his head.  "Nor I you.  It seems we cannot agree, then."
    Baron Valtane raised his hand.  "Perhaps the question should not be which one of us, but rather all three of us.  If we come together to keep order until the scholars can compile his majesty's family tree, we may be able to keep order across the land." <>
    "I will do this if Kel will," Friederick said, nodding once more.
    Baron Blackwood glanced between the barons Valtane and Widlow.  “Look what we’re becoming, lads.  A new Republic.  You’re set on this are you?” Widlow and Valtane nodded.  “Bah.  What of you, boy?” Blackwood turned to look at Young.  “What do you say?”
    “I would defer to my elders,” Young said, smiling to himself.
    Blackwood shrugged, and threw up his hands.  “Fine.  We’ll do it.  But build no walls, southerners.  I’m only doing this to make sure you two don’t steal what I would rightfully take.”
    "Of course," Baron Valtane said, smiling broadly.  "I'll inform the stewards."
    As Valtane sauntered out of the church, Widlow turned his head again to Blackwood.  "We have not agreed for years, Kel.  I do not expect this to represent a trend, but if we must work together, let's do it well."  Widlow then strode after Valtane.
    Baron Blackwood sat down upon the lead pew heavily.  The wood creaked beneath his weight; the baron had gained considerable weight since the wars five years past, but he still moved as though he weighed thirteen stone.  "Ridiculous... a council of lords to divide the power that should be isolated in one strong man.  We are fools if we choose this route... and fools if we do not..."
    Young approached quietly, positioning himself just behind Blackwood's left shoulder.  "My lord, I want you to know that I, and my people, will support you in any decision you make."
    Kel turned his head to look up at baron Northollow.  "You will, will you?" <> 

    Baron Widlow woke with a start at the shouts outside his door and the acrid odor of smoke.  Fumbling momentarily in his covers, he slid his naked body from his bead lithely.  His hands clutched at the sword he kept by his bed reflexively, pulling it free from its sheath.  The night was cold on his skin as he slid to the side of the door, raising his sword up into a two-handed grip.  He only had the light from under the door to guide him.  The shouting grew louder as Friederick crept to the side of the door, weapon at the ready.  Finally a commanding voice roared over the others, and a fist pounded upon the baron's door.  "Enter," baron Widlow called.  The door opened, casting torchlight into the room.
    A knight of the King's Own stood framed in the doorway by the light, dressed in a chain shirt and sturdy leathers - the armor for a midnight battle.  He had a square jaw, bushy black eyebrows, and a bald head.  "Your grace, you must gather your men.  Marquis Belweather has seized the throneroom and has put the royal archives to the torch.  The castle is in an uproar - you must go now!"
    Widlow stood and considered.  "The very night the king dies, and lord Belweather attempts to seize control?  I cannot run now!"
    The knight bared his teeth.  "Baron Blackwood is leading his men to try and contain the rebellion, but the castle guard joined the traitor, and several of the King's Own,” he said tensely.  “Northollow and Valtane have already fled; if this kingdom is to endure, my lord, you must survive!  Go now!  I shall deal with the traitor."
    Friederick sized the man up briefly.  The knight was a bear of a man, and held himself tensely.  He canted his knees almost reflexively, even as he stood still. Widlow almost nodded approvingly; this knight had a clear familiarity with battle.  A thick moustache and commanding green eyes dominated his face.  Baron Widlow had not learned the names and faces of each of the King’s Own.  “You would have me abandon Orison within hours of the king’s burial?  I cannot go now, of all times!”
    “My lord,” the knight said, “a large portion of the town guard and even some of my sworn brothers of the King’s Own have joined the traitor, and he hired many sellswords for this.  Gods know where he found them all, but there are too many.  You must flee!”
    Widlow shook his head.  “Do you have a count?”
    “The throneroom is held by twenty men when I came to warn you, but the guard and sellswords number in the hundreds, lord, and they are streaming in from the east and north gates.  Please, lord Widlow, you must flee.  My king,” the knight near choked on the word, “my king would have wanted you to live, my lord.  To put his true heir on the throne.”
    Friederick was quiet for a time, the peels of iron on and iron and shouts of battle unheard.  I cannot refuse.  Father, where is my honor now?  Friederick shook his head, and strode back to the wardrobe by the bed.  He lay his sword carefully on the bed, flung the doors of the wardrobe open, and pulled out the first breeches he saw.  Black, like most of his clothing.  “My household guard shall aid you, sir.  I only brought twelve with me, and I shall keep the two at my door for my return south, but the other ten swords are yours.  Win that throneroom, knight.”
    The knight nodded in clear relief.  “My lord, thank you.  I feared you would waste your life here, when the realm needs you.”
    Friederick slipped a chain shirt over his wools.  "I mislike what I do, knight, but there is precious little choice in this.”  Friederick gathered his sword and sheath, and drew his belt through the hemp loop of the scabbard, shifting it about to hang at his left side.  “Swear me an oath, sir knight.  If you put down the traitor, make certain you bar Baron Blackwood from control as well; this night marks the start of a turmoil this land might not survive.  But that turmoil, no matter how destructive, will be less a danger than a rule by that baron."
    The knight nodded.  "I will make certain no man takes the throne as long as I live, sir.  My oath to King Pergrim still binds me; only a man of his blood will take the throne!” He pulled free the double-headed axe slung over his shoulder.  The steel reflected a dull blue-gray in the torchlight.  “By my axe, I swear."
    Friederick nodded.  "Thank you, sir knight.  I would know your name before I depart."
    The knight bared a gap-toothed smile.  "George Rauschen, my lord."
    “I shall trust this to you, sir Rauschen.  When I can, I will send you aid.  You shall not be forgotten," Friederick said, touching the man's wrist softly.  Rauschen smiled, bowed, and left the doorframe, hefting his enormous axe.  <>
    "May Heironeous protect you, lord Widlow."

    Baron Valtane waited at a snow covered hill overlooking the western wass of Orison, his attendants beside him.  Great plumes of smoke rose from the towering blaze in the center of the royal city, the marker of the royal archives.  Kris stared, wordless, as two scouts rode up to report from the city.  <>
    "Milord, baron Widlow is withdrawing from the city with his coterie, but he has managed to rally a portion of the city night watch to aid the King's Own - he asks that you send a contingent of your house troops to help defeat the insurrection, as he is," the lead scout reported, his air turning to frost in the air.
    Kris stared blankly at the scout for a moment.  "He is a stubborn man."
    The scout hesitated.  "Milord?"
    "What good will stopping this insurrection do?  It can't hold power anyway.  The archives are ashes," the baron shook his head heavily.  "This is madness... no thinking man would do this, unless by some greater design."  Kris paused and pinched his nose, squinting at the fire.  After a few moments, he lowered his hands and nodded.  "We can do no good here, friends.  We shall return to Caerdora, and prepare for war."  Baron Valtane's retainers set about making ready.  "You will remain and inform Baron Widlow of my actions, and rejoin us at the castle.  Tell him that I will help where I can in this crisis, but that I have my own people to look after," he said to the scout.  The scout saluted, and turned his horse back towards Orison.  <>
    Duke Pelumer, who remained silent during his baron's orders, urged his horse forward.  He rode a saddle as naturally as he might walk.  Pelumer’s horse stepped forward to Valtane’s side, and Pelumer turned in his saddle to face his Baron.  "My lord, you know what this will mean."
    Valtane nodded.  "We must gather what strength we have, Wil.  Baron Blackwood will undoubtedly look upon us as the first conquest in his bid for the kingdom.  We cannot let that happen."
    "We have an oppurtunity here, my lord.  If we go to baron Widlow's aid and stop this rebellion, we may be able to impose order and ascertain the true heir.  Surely some records must remain elsewhere..."
    "Pelor favors us little enough tonight, Wil.  Our king is dead, our capital is in flames, and our unity is shattered.  The Mace and the Voice of the King will fight, and we must determine who shall win," Valtane responded.
    The Duke paused for a time.  "Surely there must be a better way.  Is there no means of securing the throne for a rightful heir?
    Baron Valtane sighed.  "If there was, believe me Wil, I would do it.”
<>

    Baron Blackwood picked through the still-smoking remnants of the royal archives.  The biting morning wind streamed his fur cape behind him, and he squinted carefully.  The ash and smoke drifted across the remains of the royal archives in the wind, adding a dry odor to the air.  "Nothing left.  Not even the barest scroll."
    Duke Courvosier kept his back to the wind.  He was a short man of slight frame, and the wools he wore comforted him little in the wind.  "Nothing at all, my lord.  No records, no books.  A dozen generations of history..." Lyle paused momentarily, his eyes misting slightly at the thought of all the lost knowledge, "It is all gone.  What a waste."
    Baron Blackwood shrugged, and kicked aimlessly at a half-burnt timber.  "Now there is no way to tell who has the best claim on the throne.  Think, tactician.  What will happen now?"
    Lyle raised his eyes to his lord.  "There can only be war."
    Blackwood nodded.  "Exactly.  It's time we returned to Silvermount.  If there will be a war, and we know there shall, I intend to win it.  Plan, Lyle.  Northollow is with us, and Valtane was born without courage.  Widlow is our only true opponent; concoct a strategy to best him."
    Lyle's eyes drifted back to the burnt shell of the archives.  Blackened granite and collapsed timbers; when the supports collapsed, the roof had sunk into the library, adding more fuel to the flames, and tearing down the western wall, crumbling the southern some.  Nothing was left of the shelves of books, nor the illumination room; all that had survived was a pair of reading tables, sadly devoid of tomes now.  "Your will, my lord."  Lyle turned and walked away quietly, his troubled frown deepening.  Lyle paused and gave a quarter bow to Baron Northollow as they passed, Northollow padding softly through the snow to Baron Blackwood.  Northollow did not respond.
    Kel kicked another timber aside, and drew his fur cloak about him.  "It will be a cold winter, and a colder summer, Young.  We have work to do."