Prologue

Prologue

         

King Rayland sat with his arms crossed, watching the skeletally thin oracle finish up the last of the preparations for the ritual. The lone candle on the oracle’s work station served as the only light source in the dim tent, revealing shadows of runes engraved into the dirt floor and odds and ends on the table. Rayland had no idea what the old man was doing, but could hear the clanging of his instruments. The oracle turned towards him and tossed a handful of powder into the air, dispersing and drifting to the ground below. The blind man’s ghostly white eyes locked onto Rayland’s own and sent a shiver down his spine.

         

Savage, he thought to himself.



         The oracle continued to stare while Rayland tried to mask his irritation.

         

Before he could question him the man began a loud and startling incantation. Arms flailing, the old man danced across the floor, his tattered robes flowing alongside.



The candle flickered and threw the shadows back and forth across the room. Rayland couldn't understand a word the man was saying. The fool could be insulting him, in which case he would have no trouble cutting the Oracle's head off. Louder, the oracle's chants became as the ritual continued. He retrieved something from the table and went to the middle of the room. Rayland noticed it was a small knife and tensed, preparing to take action upon any suspicious movement. The oracle brought the blade to his left arm and rested it on his pale flesh. His eyes rolled back into his head as he dragged the blade across his skin. The sight of blood immediately set the king's loins ablaze and he took hold of the jeweled dagger sheathed at his hip.



Sweat poured from Rayland's brow as he watched the majestic crimson trickle to the earth. His knuckles turned white as the grip on his dagger became tighter and tighter. With every ounce of his strength he fought back the will to attack the oracle, to hear the man's screams as he begged for his life. Rayland wondered how the man would react to being tortured. There were those who feinted from the pain. Those he despised, being weak and unworthy of life.  And then there were those who screamed at the top of their lungs, begging and sobbing. Maybe they were making a feeble attempt to mask the pain with raw emotion. Those types of people could only satiate his hunger for so long.



But then, on rare occasion, there were those who thought they were better than him. They spit, kicked, and refused to give him the satisfaction of their screams; like a creature like he couldn’t hurt them. Oh, but how they were wrong; so very, very wrong. Rayland liked them the most. Nothing gave him more exhilaration than breaking their spirit, crushing their soul. He would work on ones such as those for days, even weeks. And then, in those final moments before life leaves the bodies of his victims, he would see something in their eyes that fills him with nothing but the utmost euphoria: unadulterated terror.



Those who had thought him insignificant were shown how capable he truly was. He was King Rayland, leader of an empire he had forged with his own blood and sweat. Shortly, he would find himself controlling Caldera in its entirety. His empire will spread from coast to coast and possess every inch in between; and people had the audacity to think lightly of him?!



His attention was brought back to the matter at hand by a loud hissing sound. The spot where the oracle's blood had splattered now rose with blue smoke, filling the tent quickly. Rayland could see but the man's silhouette through the fumes.



He stood and shouted "What's the meaning of this?"



There was no response as the fog became thicker and thicker. The slick sound of metal rang as Rayland drew his sword. The smoke was now too thick to see anything, but the old fool was still chanting his gibberish which would serve more than adequate as a tool in reaching him. Suddenly, the fog began to dissipate; slowly receding to whatever foul place it had sprang. Through the thinning smoke, he could see the oracle kneeling at the site of the ritual.



"Why didn't you answer me?" he asked storming towards the man, sword in hand.



The oracle tossed a handful of knucklebones onto the floor and looked up to Rayland.



"It is done, my lord," he spoke softly.



"What's done? Speak, fool"



"The Spirits have spoken."



Rayland sheathed his blade. "I'm listening."



"The answers you seek, your destiny, lies to the southwest."



He pondered. The southwest? The oracle had to be mistaken. There was nothing to the southwest, save for mountains and a few heathens, but nothing that would help his empire.



"Nothing lies to the southwest, ask them again."



"The Spirits have spoken, my lord."



Rayland's backhand to the man's face sent him sprawling onto the ground, parting his robes to reveal his spot-ridden back.



"I know that you fool!"



The oracle struggled to his knees and lowered his head.



"Yes, my lord. I am sorry to have angered you.”



         Oh, you will be.



         “Will there be anything else, my lord?”



         [I]Much more.[/I]



         Rayland looked at the pathetic worm below him. Thoughts of carving his dagger into the man’s flesh were rapture. But, he would have to wait. He had matters to attend.



“Get out of my sight; wait for me in the slave’s quarters.”



Rising on trembling and wobbling legs, the oracle bowed his head.



“Yes, my lord,” he muttered before exiting the tent.



         Rayland placed his hands at his sides and paced the room. He was sure there was nothing to the southwest, but who was he to question The Spirits. They were responsible for everything he had achieved to this point, ignoring them wasn’t a possibility. However, the oracle could be lying; after all, he hadn’t exactly performed the ritual by choice. Earlier in the week he had entered the old man’s cottage and demanded the man to come with him. The oracle had refused and said he would perform the ritual in his cottage, for a fee.



         Rayland grinned and shook his head. Only someone of the utmost idiocy would ask him, the King of Caldera, to pay for anything. Orders were made and the fool’s home was set ablaze and he accompanied Rayland and his men back to his army’s main camp.



Even if he had offered the service for free there was no time for it; there was a war to the north to be won. That’s why he needed The Spirit’s guidance. Endith, the last remaining resistance to his rule, still fought and currently held his forces at bay. The conquest of Endith, planned to occur last spring, still seemed ages away. When his army struck, while vastly outnumbering their Endithean opponents, they were met by defenders that would strike back twice as hard. Rayland didn’t have the patience for a long siege, but was at a loss for answers. The Spirit’s guidance was his last hope, and now even that seemed grim.

Giving a sigh of frustration he swept his hand across the oracle’s worktable, sending the instruments to the floor and shattering bowls, jars, and vials. He wanted answers and they sent him to the outskirts of the world? Nevertheless, he had to make preparations immediately. Deliberately, he made for the exit.



“My lord,” he was greeted by a soldier as he broke into the cool night air, “will you require an escort?”



The soldier was young and bore a gold tabard stitched with red, the color’s of his empire. It was a pitiful sight. The blonde-haired fool wouldn’t pass off as a stable boy, much less a soldier.



“Do I strike you as dumb boy?” Rayland took a step and was face to face with the man.



“N… no, sir.”



         “Then why would you think I need help finding my own tent?”



         “I.. I’m sorry, my lord.”



         “Giving a grunt of disapproval, Rayland waved the soldier away.



         “Find General Bartosh and tell him he is needed at my command tent.”



         “As you command, my lord.” The boy stumbled away into the maze of tents.



         Rayland ran a hand through his short-cropped brown hair and looked to the Heavens above.

The stars shone brightly in a cloudless sky: the full moon flaunting its luminance, seemingly in an attempt to humble all competitors. The majestic and stagnant night sky ignored the calamity of the colossal camp: the noise, fumes, and constant activity from the hundreds of thousands of men all lost in its eternal tranquility.

All doubts were gone; his destiny lied to the southwest.



After a long trek, his tent came into view. It was a massive structure and dwarfed the surrounding enclosures. Taxing was the endless stream of men offering their assistance, but passing them without acknowledging their existence had held his temper at bay.



Two guards uncrossed their pikes as their king approached. Rayland entered as the fine silk curtains brushed his face, cascading back to the opening. Strong incense stung his nostrils and coupled with the fragrance of dozens of scented candles scattered throughout his quarters there was a brief moment of a sensation of suffocation.



Noticing their master, his servants hurriedly approached. The women, all rewards from his conquests, were naked. He did not permit them to wear clothes. Not only did it aid in the expediting of the satiation of his needs when he desired them, but it served as a reminder that they belonged to him.



“Bath my lord?” asked a servant carrying a ceramic basin filled with water.



Taking in the sight of her, he placed his hand on her right cheek and ran it through her long hair causing her to shiver. He liked it when they shivered. His eyes locked onto her milky white breasts.



“My lord?” she muttered.



Rayland slapped her in the face, not hard enough to knock her down but hard enough to hurt her. He watched with delight as blood trickled from her swelling lip. Cupping her face with his hand, he stroked the blood with his thumb. She shivered even more. He brought his thumb to his lips sucked on it, savoring the taste. Rayland placed his left hand on her breast, twisting her nipple until she squealed.



“Out, all of you!” he shouted.



Without a word, all of his servants hurried for the exit.He hadn’t the time to extract pleasure from them, despite how much he hungered for it.



Rayland walked to the large table in the center of the room. Scattered across it were papers, maps, and quills. From here he commanded his forces and discussed battle strategies with his officers. He unrolled a map across the mahogany wood. Drawn on the parchment was Caldera in its entirety. And it would all belong to him in a matter of time. Guiding his finger across the map, he made the journey The Spirits had instructed. To the southwest were rivers, countries he had conquered years before, and finally mountains. Within them was a primitive land known as Furterith, home to a few villages spread throughout; the largest of them was named Xinting. Xinting appeared as no more than a small fishing village, but it was the only place on the map that spoke to him. Furterith looked to be no more than an insignificant speck, but if that’s where his destiny lied – where the end of this war lied, so be it. He tapped the location on the map. “That’s where I’m going.”



“My lord?” came a familiar voice.



Rayland turned and extended his hand out in friendship towards his general, Bartosh. After the greeting



Rayland gestured for him to have a seat.



“You called for me, my lord?” Bartosh had a seat and scrutinized the map with which Rayland had covered the table.



“How many times must I tell you? Call me Rayland,” stated Rayland as he took a seat beside General Bartosh.



“My apologies my lord. It’s just that I hear everyone call you by your title and I feel it is my duty.”



“Ignore them. They’re all fools. They don’t have their eyes set on greatness like you or I.”



  “Yes, my lor… I mean Rayland.”



Rayland looked Bartosh in the eye and was reminded of their friendship. A long scar stretched across Bartosh’s face, from his eyebrow to his jaw. He remembered Bartosh receiving the wound; it happened during the siege of Windyale early in the campaign. Rayland, with his back to the battlements and a forty foot drop below, was surrounded by enemies; death was certain. He had decided to charge his foes and take as many as he could with him.



Somehow, Bartosh had managed to fight his way across the wall-walk and leapt into the fray. His friend had saved his life that day, and for that he would always be grateful. He owed a huge debt to his general.



Rayland leaned back in his chair. “The Spirits have spoken to me.”



Bartosh cast him a puzzled glance.



“Look, I’ll show you where my destiny lies.” Rayland motioned for Bartosh to look at the map. “Here.” His finger struck down on the parchment.



“Furterith?” asked Bartosh.



“Yes.”



“My lord, it could be… dangerous. We have need for you here. The battle with Endith still rages. Your determination keeps many of the men going.”



Rayland smiled and stood, Bartosh promptly following suit.



“Bartosh, you know war about as well as anyone I’ve ever met. You will do fine in my stead.”



Bartosh was motionless. “In your stead, my lord?”



Rayland went to his makeshift throne of gold and red velvet and knelt beside it. He retrieved an ornamental box and opened it, from it slowly easing his crown. It was heavy in his hands and the metal was cold to the touch. The crown was made of pure gold, adorned with glistening rubies, sapphires, and diamonds.  He stood, placed the crown atop his head, and turned to Bartosh.



“Yes, you heard me correctly. I want you to lead my army against Endis until I return, and I will make it known your word will be as if it were from my own mouth.”



“Are you sure about this?”



Rayland nodded his head. “Yes.”



“As you command,” replied Bartosh as he gave a slight bow.



“I have but one request.” Rayland opened a tall, oak cabinet and pulled out a red cape. As he donned it he said, “Keep the Arena protected. I have invested a lot of time and money into its construction. As we speak roads are being creating, connecting it to every major city in my empire. People will flock to The Arena and stare in awe. It will be completed before I return, but no fights are to be held until I arrive back.”



“Of course, my lord.”



Rayland clasped his hands. “Good, then it’s settled. I will leave at first light. Gather a guard of one thousand men for me before dawn. Like you pointed out, it could be dangerous.”



“Yes, Rayland.”



He gave Bartosh a nod and watched him exit the tent.



Tomorrow, the journey would begin. Rayland was tired, but knew he couldn’t go to bed. He gripped the hilt of his dagger; he and that retched oracle had unfinished business to attend.