Prologue

Angawu Plains – 1272, The Year of the Blood

On the distant horizon smoke coiled up slowly to the leaden sky, mixing with the iron shot clouds of a storm fast approaching. Distant sound of sword and shield clashing announced the battle was not yet over, the Imperial advance yet to be stopped. Every now and then the distant bank of cloud was lit from below, a dull white seemingly lighting the sky between them and the ground below. Rayph Ashdan had never once in his short life seen sorcery but was beyond doubt it was this that he was witnessing. He could almost taste the rank, bitterness that was said to accompany the creation of magic. Suddenly, lightning flashed across the sky, followed swiftly by the deep concussion of the thunder-clouds clashing, raging across the sky fighting their own battle, nature’s reflection of intelligent life. Rayph jumped with the thunder, reminding himself he was still alive, the battle far away. Looking around he saw only the old and the young. The men of the tribe had gone off to fight against the Imperial Armies, a task Rayph now knew to be hopeless. His tribe were small, with only a couple of Shaman whereas the Imperial Army was continuous, a snake with many heads, it's mages numbering in the hundreds.
“The battle will soon be upon us. What do we do Rayph? Do we go to join our fathers in death? Do we flee like the Shaman? Are we to be cowards too?”
The voice he heard, usually light with a touch of laughter and joy, was heavy, fear echoing out with every word. Fear that was in the words and posture of every one remaining in the Angawu camp, all of them young. The village shaman had fled, fled when their dreams for-warned them of their own impeding deaths. Had decided to flee instead of remain and fulfil their own vows, made on the blood of their own ancestors, their vows of sacrifice and protection for the tribe. Instead, fathers, uncles, sons and brothers had gone off to war. Had gone off to die. Rayph had wanted to go with his father but had been made to stay behind to look after the youngest of the tribe. Now he was the oldest having seen seventeen winters. Now the Tribe Elder. It's Chief.
He turned to look at Iryth, “We flee...not because we are cowards but because we have too many young. To remain is to seal our own deaths. My father tasked me with their protection. I will not fail them. I will not fail him.” She flinched slightly at this, knowing that he knew his father was most probably dead by now, killed by sword, arrow or flame.
“But where shall we go? To the north and west of us lie the lands of the Empire, the east is a wasteland. That leaves only south, but when the Shaman used to dream walk they always spoke of the south with great fear. Warrior bands never once hunted south and no strangers have ever arrived from that direction. This is our land, we have always been here. It is soaked in our blood. Our memories. Do we now leave, to forget our own histories, our own legends? Do we now go to soak some other land in our blood?”
Rayph had never known Iryth to speak like this. Usually she had a ready smile upon her face and was quick to laughter. Now the look in her eyes was haunted, those of someone a century old, the grey once soft, now sharp. Cold. Her brown hair was blown back from her head, her deep blue robes rippling in the wind. He shivered, something about the image of her frightening him, echoing something of prophecy. Grimacing he answered her. “No. As you said, this is our land. Even now the blood of our people once again soaks the ground. We shall not forget out histories or our legends. We go only to ensure the survival of our people. One day we shall return, this I vow.”
She smiled sadly then. Taking him gently by the hand she said, “So we shall. But where do we go? Into the wastelands. Maybe they won't follow us that way.”
He turned away then, once again looking out towards the smoke on the horizon. We will come back Iryth. We will. In the names of the all the Angawu Gods I so vow. This wasn't a cowardly flight. His people must survive. The legends must be passed on. I so vow. He turned back towards her, slowly meeting her gaze. The look in his eyes was fierce enough to make her tremble. He saw the fear in her eyes and knew without doubt that she no longer wanted to hear his answer.
“We go south.”

* * *

The Holy City of Ansul, 1273

The noise of boulders hitting the city walls sounded to Balian Rautos, Captain of the City Guard, like the clashing of thunderclaps, their deep concussion causing loose masonry within the city to fall, dust swirling up, miniature storms in themselves. For two days and nights now the Kimrodii army had been trying to breach Ansul’s walls. It wouldn’t be long before they decided to sit back and let hunger take its toll on the Holy City's citizens. That wouldn’t take too long either, the stores of food already low due to the raiding of the countryside the Kimrodii had been engaged in for the last three months. The only surcease Balian could see was that the city had its own well, a vast ocean beneath the city’s streets. The Home Guard had already tried sending out a sortie. Only one horseman had returned from that battle, sitting dead upon the saddle of his blood soaked beast. The horse, frothing at the mouth, its eyes rolling back so the whites were on show made it twenty paces into the city before the wounds on its flanks took their toll. It had collapsed into a small market stall, sending crockery everywhere, blue porcelain bowls rolling about on their rims before finally settling into the dust of the road. The owner of the store sat there, staring as his livelihood went to ruins. The horse just laid there, its eyes now glassy, forever staring towards the sky. Flies soon descended upon the bodies of the dead, smothering the wounds of both, a seething mass of black. Disease was also now a concern, with the city’s cutters struggling with those already injured in the initial attack. It was a battle they were losing fast. Carrion birds were already flying above the city, their cries striking fear into the people, reminding them that life was ever a circle.
“Captain. The Kimrodii have begun their attack upon the eastern ramparts. Commander Aethandor has sent two legions of infantry to set up fall-back points and the sappers are now pulling down some of the buildings in the hopes of slowing their advance should they breach the walls.” The young lieutenant smiled slightly then continued, “Some of the merchants didn’t like that, seeing their shops being made into things of war.”
“They’d like it less if the Kimrodii were to loot said buildings.” Balian looked to the west, where fires were beginning to rage unchecked through the poorer quarters. The smell of burning meat was heavy upon the air, mixing with the smells of wood smoke and burning pitch. “Send some sappers out to the Lowborn Quarter. If those fires reign unchecked we’ll have nothing left but a city of Holy ash”
“Aye sir.”
The Lieutenant ran off towards the company barracks. The Captain watched him go, wondering if the young man knew that it was hopeless, that eventually all their endeavours were futile. The Kimrodii armies outnumbered them at least ten to one. Once they breached the city gates this siege would quickly turn to slaughter, beliefs forgotten as sword and lance drove home the truth of life.
All living things die. Why did we ever believe we were different to that truth? No Gods will appear to give us hope. They are as children, sitting atop a nest of ants, indifferent to the suffering their presence causes. Maybe now and again they’d stand up, their stumbling feet causing death in untold numbers. Or maybe they’ll sometimes give leave to their cruel thoughts, swimming ever beneath the innocence of their youth, blocking passages in and out of the nest, sending great floods into deep caverns, smiling all the while. Children could sometimes be hard.
Suddenly there was a great boom, as the gates of the northern wall crashed open, then a great ringing of steel as the advance troops of Kimrodii drove like a wedge into the defenders. Captain Balian stared as numbers beyond imagining flooded into the fresh wound, a reflection of the flies still crowding the bodies of the horse and its rider. He could see the blood-lust in their eyes and knew there would be no hope for surrender this day, no hope for a peaceful settlement. It was to be a slaughter, the Holy City to be forever abandoned; it’s streets to remain quiet, the windows of houses forever gaping empty and hollow. There’d be no laughter on its streets, no tears of sorrow or joy as a new life came into the world or an old one left, left to meet their ancestors, to face the judgement of their blood.
“Captain!”
Balian turned to see that the Lieutenant had returned, worry etching his face into that of someone old, someone who knew scenes of terror, scenes of horror.
“Send a runner to Commander Aethandor, tell him the northern gate is breached, we need sappers, infantry and we need to set up a cutter tent, there will be wounded. Hurry!”
“Aye sir! Northern gate breached, sappers and infantry needed urgent and a cutters tent to be set up.”
The young Lieutenant once again ran off, this time heading east, to where the majority of the city’s forces were being held in readiness. The Kimrodii had now advanced to the second fall-back point, the road to the north of them littered with the glint of iron amongst the red and white of dead Ansu.
At the gate, horse-warriors were now slowly beginning to advance within the city, their horses stamping down their hooves upon any surviving Ansu warriors, a few score of them being bought down with arrows that were being fired from atop the ramparts. Balian quickly scanned the surrounding buildings. Quickly looking around the group of soldiers near him he spied a young, female recruit. She was the only one among them who did not look ready to give up.
“You, recruit, yes you, come here.”
“Captain.”
“What’s your name recruit?”
“Kaylyth, sir.”
“Okay recruit, you are now a sergeant.”
The Lieutenant then returned, followed by a troop of sappers and infantry. Just behind them, carrying some long wooden poles wrapped in what looked like a large, old, dirty cloth were four cutters, their leather surcoats dyed a deep maroon, the blood now dry, slowly flaking off like some sort of horrific snow. Balian watched them begin to set up the tent before remembering the woman at his side. He turned back to her as the Lieutenant arrived.
“Sergeant, I want you to collect some archers,” he pointed towards the roofs overlooking the North Road. “We're going to turn that section of road into an enfilade. Lieutenant, get your sappers together and prepare to bring down the buildings there.” Balian pointed at the two closets buildings, one a temple, large, with two tall towers and the other was an inn, three storied with a large overhanging balcony. “Once the archers have fired their volleys into those horse-men I want those buildings collapsed. That should halt their advance enough for us to get more reinforcements up here. Move!”
“Aye, sir!”
“On my way, Captain.”
As the Lieutenant and the Sergeant left Balian made his way over to the cutters tent. Already there was a pile of limbs outside it, a few ratter dogs sniffing hopefully around it. The Captain stopped for a couple of heartbeats and stared at the grisly pile before continuing on his way. Inside the tent two of the cutters were attempting to staunch the wounds of a young corporal who lay there screaming out. Meanwhile, upon another table the head-cutter was pulling up the sheets to cover the face of someone who had just vacated the world, two apprentices moving forward to dispose of the body.
“Head Cutter! How many injured are able still fight?”
“Captain?” The man stared, looking for a moment slightly bewildered, then his eyes grew focused once more and he answered. “Twenty-three out fifty are probably able to fight, Captain. In the worst case, I'd say forty-seven, including myself and my apprentices.”
“This is a worse case situation, Cutter, but I need you and your apprentices to go with a score of my best men. I want you to find the Holy Father and escort him through the city's catacombs. You are to ensure his survival. Deliver him to the Holy City of Yer'tono. Understood?”
“Yes, Captain . . . but what of the injured?”
“There's no time, Cutter, this battle will soon be over. Now go.”
The Head Cutter stood for a second, staring at Balian, before gesturing to his two apprentices. There was a flurry of movement as they quickly collected up those supplies they believed might be useful on the journey and the began to leave.
“And Cutter.”
“Captain.”
“Be sure to warn those in Yer'tono of the Kimrodii advance. They won't just stop here. And . . . may the gods go with you.”
The cutter nodded, then quickly sped away. Captain Balian stood watching him make his way when the sound of marching caught his ears. The Sergeant and her Archers. May this all give them time. Good luck Cutter.
Balian turned about and prepared to battle to the death.

Leaving the Captain behind, the Head-Cutter quickly caught up with his two apprentices. The youngest of the two, Yerl, was deaf, while the oldest, Caren was blind. Cutter called them his eyes and ears. He was glad the Captain had elected these two to go with him.
“Caren, we need to find the Father. We must see him out of the city.”
“The High Temple, Master, where else.”
“Right. Let's get moving.”
He tapped Yerl on the shoulder to inform him to start walking. Just ahead of them, the Captains elite troops, his Wall Guard, were waiting. Their leader, Sergeant Jaen, was an old friend of Cutters, them having grown up together. She moved forward as Cutter approached.
“Good to see you here, old friend. Even better to see your bought your eyes and ears. I've a feeling we'll need their skills.”
“Glad to be here, Jaen. Where's the Father?”
“Two of my men just went to collect him. I've got six more guarding the entrance to the catacombs. As soon as his Holiness arrives we'll get going. The Captain?”
Cutter lowered his eyes as he answered. “He stayed behind.”
“Of course.”
Jaen turned back to her troop and went to sit down upon a small pile of rubble. From an archway to their left, two armoured figures arrived, between them and old man, long wispy hair grey, his robes a pale yellow, bands of gold and turquoise wrapped around his arms, starting at the wrist and spiralling all the way up past his biceps. At the centre of his forehead was a small stone of jade, surmounted upon a silver disk. This was connected to a very simple headdress by slight chains, so fine to appear spun out of silver thread. The Holy Father Of The City of Ansul, Samsama Sayghay.
Jaen stood up and surveyed her soldiers. Cutter moved forward to stand at her side, Yerl and Caren standing just behind them. Jaen saluted the Holy Father who quickly gave her his blessing.
“Your Holiness, we must evacuate the city. The Kimrodii have breached the city walls and are swiftly advancing deep into the city itself. We have orders from Commander Aethandor, via Captain Balian for your removal to the Holy City of Yer'tono. Please, let us make haste.”
“One thing, Sergeant. Where is the Captain?”
Jaen shook her head, an attempt to hold of the grief they all knew would soon find her. Just not now. Samsama's eyes widened slowly upon understanding her meaning, then grief briefly clouded them. He sketched a blessing upon the air, one they all knew was for the Captain then spun about to face the entrance to the city's catacombs.
“Okay, Sergeant. Let's not make of this city's sacrifice a thing of vain.”
Jaen nodded once, then led her troop, a high priest and three cutters deep beneath a once holy city.