An Oath of Ice and Fire

                                                                      Prologue

                                                                                     An excerpt from the Spellsword Chronicles.                                

                                                                                                                        Translated by Gill-Eoin.

Anndrais has fallen. Seoras is a heap of smoldering ruins and its nobles are slaves of kings who used to bow before it. Even proud Alasdair has lost its ancient crown, bartering it off for a risky chance at living this miserable life just a few decades longer. This for the nobles anyway; the common people were nothing for stepping stones in the mire of the kingdoms that fell in that age. People spoke of the end of the world and it seemed reasonable for once; to add to the chaos, even nature tossed in death throes—mountains spewing magma and sulfur, earthquakes, and deadly storms from the sea. But it was not enough to stop the endless competition for absolute power. Somehow, Men believed that the best thing to do when in constant fear for their lives from a threat they could not destroy, was to become destroyers themselves.

And where am I in all of this? The tale of a Spellsword is not easy to track. Like his path, it leads everywhere throughout the world, over the greatest kingdoms, through the bloodiest conflicts, into the darkest plot systems, and runs alongside some of the greatest saints and most wicked villains ever to walk this earth. A Spellsword’s life is calculated observation. And his duty?

To bring foretold fate upon the Living.

Thus we are known by many names: the Avenger, the Deathbringer, the Blood Angel. Many titles for various tasks, the majority of them dark, for Spellswords are not known for bringing blessing. Such a thing would signify an upheaval in the balance of Fate as has not been seen and hopefully never will be seen in this world. We are heaven-sent, but only to remind Man of Hell.

Such an identity inspires various portrayals of us throughout the years. Peasants imagine us to be great archangels, sable winged, black-eyed like daemons, swooping in on a foul wind to cast some plague on their livestock. Criminals and outlaws take us for their familiars and guardians, believing us to be a mere spirit, albeit the one that drives them, while those few nobles and royals who have some grasp of tradition suspect any untraceable assassin or plotter to be an apprentice of ours, or, in some cases, our hybrid offspring. But they are wrong—all of them.  We are above and beyond these conceptions. There is a reason why they say of us that we have ceased to roam the earth, while we follow their every move like vultures posting guard over a dying beast. We are the dark they all fear. The scrutinizing light they avoid. The nightmare that hounds their brain. The pleasant dream they can never retrieve. We are the shadows that sit around them in their greatest grief, and the memories that torment their guilty souls. We are the last breath on the death bed, as well as the silence that rises to receive it. In short, we are not servants of Fate, rather we are separate  embodiments of Fate itself.

But this past age of destruction has no doubt kept us busy and, at its close, we gave the world a respite—and Age of Peace, Man called it. Rightly so. But an age only lasts for long. The earth is turning in her sleep, and evils yet unknown to her still lurk in the dark, eager to bring their side of the balance down. Their time will come, but Fate does not hurry and they know better then to force its hand.

So do I.

Or so did I. And forcing Fate’s hand is one gamble; refuting it to its face is totally another. It is a demanding master, no gentler on its hosts than it is on its prey. Of this I am living testimony. A wandering Spellsword, a hunted hunter; bereft of everything except a promise to a dying companion, and a blood oath of vengeance against those who destroyed her. Now I am alone in the dark with these two forces alone to drive me on, and I begin to fathom what Men must endure after turning traitor, or in a dungeon awaiting execution.

And, like them, I cannot go back. I can only continue like a maniac chasing a light in the dark, heedless of anything else, gifted with the strength lent by sheer desperation.

And yet, for all his running, hunted endlessly by an arcane force called Fate, which will hound him to a cliff (as it often does) and yet be there to meet him at the edge.