Pillars of the Kingdom

1
Pillars of the Kingdom

Volume I: The Forming.

Copyright 2005, 2008

Jesse Pohlman

Visit www.talesofemor.com for more information, a discussion board, and art!

Check the back of the book for a glossary of terms used in the novel!

Cover art by Jennifer Hoover

(re-)Dedicated to my grandmother,

Who always has a smile.

Prelude

"I see 'em," Spoke the whispering voice of the sinister figure. Below him traveled a small convoy of travelers, wearing Gatamene's standards - A black wolf - with a small entourage of soldiers trying to stay warm in the chilly October air. The figure stared downward at them from behind vision-enhancement goggles. Dark armor, light yet sturdy, adorned this masked man's body. The mask was leather, almost stylish with the crowds of Yenohar's nightclubs, and it revealed no hair, eyes, or facial features; no method of identification at all. Only his armor seemed to give credence to a cause, a crest of a dagger dripping poison and blood adorning the center of his armor. The droplet was constructed in such a fashion that the blood was equally mixed in each droplet with the venom, often remarked by his Master to be a very suiting description of their origins.

"Proceed," rang the voice in his ears; or was it words going just straight to his head? He could never tell with what had been implanted into his body, both scientific and Arcane. He couldn't help but notice that the gathering had a small populace of children - A little girl, two little boys, and one in particular with blue hair. They were almost oblivious to the cold, running along the small wagon. It didn't, in the end, matter to him one bit.

He leapt from the cliff, a full two hundred foot fall, and landed cleanly on his feet without even a hint of losing his balance. Dirt was thrown up around him as he landed, the dead leaves of fall scattering as if thrown into a tornado. Soldiers screamed a spoken alarm as horses whinnied, and the twelve retainers quickly formed rank and charged forward to meet the sudden intruder.

The battle was fierce and over in an instant; of twelve attackers, only two of them managed to parry even the first strike from the attacker's sword. As rows of corn in the harvest time, the guardsmen were reaped without a hint of delay. The four children had leapt into the confines of the wagon, from which a middle aged man stepped out.

"I've never seen armor with that standard before. Who the hell are you?" This man looked much like that peculiar boy - Short blue hair, spiked in his case, and a blue moustache. He was a slender yet muscular man, tall, and he carried a saber strapped to his left hip. His armor was a light blue, matching the hair of his son more than his own, and a dark blue cape hung from around the shoulders of that steel plating.

"Just kill him already." The assassin's orders snapped him back to the reality of the situation, rather than the blood-doused haze of battle-lust.

"Jeromiah Frost, your life is mine." The dark armored man gave the pseudo-ceremonial salutation, typical of challengers to a noble target, and then charged forward. Jeromiah waited almost defenselessly when at the last moment, with a flash of moonlight reflecting from the blade, his sword was drawn and the two weapons clanged loudly in the night. There has hardly time to notice that an exchange of blows had taken place before the two figures were in motion.

The assassin had to admit it - Jeromiah was a true Hora. Frost, so far as the assassin had been informed, was the heir to the Regency of Icebridge - A small but vital river crossing in the southern region of Gatamene. Why Jeromiah was a target of his Master's, he had no concern: His mission was to kill. But a bonafide, not-undeserving Hora was never beaten easily.

The assassin's short sword was pressed forward and almost effortlessly deflected by a dagger which seemed to magically appear in Jeromiah's hand. A counter attack nearly landed on his shoulder, the amazing speed forcing this masked intruder to step backwards and find a new way to win. Fortunately, winning was what he was built to do.

"This is a breach of the Davidian Accord," Frost began in a relaxed voice, certain of his ability, "and I can't even tell you what Principality you're from. Are you a New-Presian? Or a mercenary from Gam?" A pause, then a rather silly phrase came to the man's mind. "It makes no difference, you will pay the cost of the lives of my men, my friends!" Jeromiah bit his bottom lip tightly as he spoke, a faint blue light radiating from his body. That veneer of calm was gone in a flash.

"The Davidian Accord? Gam, New Presia or old, it makes no difference," the assassin retaliated in a mocking tone, getting his own point across. "This is about something you will never even begin to comprehend!" The assassin smiled, a dark glow starting to emanate from his free right hand.

"Sure!" Came the quick response. "Die!" Jeromiah moved forward, becoming nearly invisible to the naked eye. Internally the masked assassin remarked that this was a truly advanced Hora's talent, and just when the assassin felt he had read Jeromiah's attack, a flash of blue light exploded from his target's body and he was surrounded with flying shards of ice. The blades mostly ricocheted against the black armor, but one or two knives found chinks and penetrated the steel. Certainly the leather mask on his face was slashed, and the assassin seemed on the retreat, leaping backwards again to avoid fatal injury from the mixture of swordplay and chunks of frozen water.

Of course, Jeromiah was a Hora, but he was not even on the same playing field as the assassin. Jeromiah leapt forward, intending to finish the fight with a final saber strike to a likely-blinded, certainly-stunned foe, when the left palm of the assassin touched the blade of his short-sword. The change in stance was minor, yet to an elite warrior with knowledge of many schools of combat, this signaled an unfortunate turn of events.

"Swordpriest?!" Jeromiah exclaimed in shock, raising his blade and dagger to defend instead of attack. The feint had succeeded. The moment Jeromiah moved defensively, the assassin pressed his palm forward to break that unusual stance. A ball of flame, black as the night, smashed unchallenged into the blue-haired adult. The ice-mage screamed, his blue armor smashed open and his body caught in flames that did not spread but did not diminish.

"Jeromiah Frost, you fought very bravely and died very painfully. Let your insolence be a lesson." The only eulogy this assassin could afford as he stood over the wounded warrior. A swoosh of a sword and the thump like that of a rock, and this part of the issue was resolved. He still had a mission to complete, all ceremonies aside.

"Good. Proceed with the plan. Hurry!" The pleased whisper from the ambiguous voice echoed in his skull with an almost unrecognized hint of urgency. It was a very quick task, even wounded, to track down the fleeing four children and Lady Esmoranda Frost. The remaining actions, though necessary, were devoid of honor. The assassin could only remember them in a blur...

...The five figures were thrown sobbing to the ground. First came the childhood friends, the lovely young girl with chestnut hair, the brown haired boy and then the blonde. In the only rational, normalized part of the assassin's brain, he realized these three children must already have lost their parents - They were likely children of Jeromiah's "friends." That part of the mind also recognized that it was sweet paradise these children had awaiting them.

"Please....Not my son. Take me...Not Branden..." The woman whispered pleadingly, offering her own neck up to save her youngster's. He had in that moment a choice - To tell the truth or to lie. In sight of the child sobbing, his blue hair covered in sweat, tugging on his mother's leg, he made a third option: a benediction with the truth.

He leaned in, ensuring that this part would remain unheard of by the young boy. "Lady Frost, I do not intend to take Branden. You, however, cannot live. It is nothing you have done wrong, it is..." He paused, considering if his words might be treason, "for the future." The blade fell, and the woman's head was joined to her husband's.

"Well, this is done." A swift kick was delivered to the side of the young boy's head, and the assassin was gone. He'd left the unconscious boy behind, seemingly by accident. Seemingly.
*****
As he woke in the morning, Branden Frost - Age twenty six, eighteen years later - Sighed. He'd woken after dreaming of that incident, still not having the truth of the issue or a resolution to it. He once again remembered what he could of the battle and the lights being turned out. He still didn't understand, didn't remember all of it in a straight line, but he did remember the pain and he did remember his parents' eyes as his consciousness was taken from him - Scared; not of their own death, but of what might be done to him. He stood up and lifted his pillow, taking the foot-long dagger underneath and moving to a closet in his room, grabbing a blue metallic belt and attaching the weapon to his right hip. He moved to a wall-mounting and removed a sword, a saber, in a blue sheath. This weapon was placed on his left hip.

He almost looked like his father. His hair and eyes were both an ice blue, the azure locks hanging down over his face and framing it unlike his father's had. He was smaller, more slender, yet he was already a Hora, or a highest-ranked warrior, and he'd been on that level for years. His friends were precious to him no matter their rank, and he had avoided killing even one human in battle. He was, in so many ways, his father's son.