Prologue
They were a story, told to restless children on cold or stormy nights, and even there they were nearly forgotten, their accomplishments only recounted by those of long memory or scholarly nature. A few storytellers would chant their lesser deeds, weaving tales such as Därnik’s Sword and Lily’s Song, but no longer did any know of the Battle for the Heart or the Day of Storm and Ash. Gone were any thoughts of the Two Leaders or Ternák’s Change, or even the Living Statues of Töra; no one remembered Cerevun, or Felmar, or Zerak the Lost. They were faded myths, legends known only to Time that meant little to even the most adventurous and dream-stricken child.
Or so it was thought.
Four years after Zerak, the last Leader, died in futile battle, the stories so rarely told around the fire took shape. A new Leader emerged, one as strong as those before Zerak the Lost, though--young as he was--he was just as unknowing as his unfortunate predecessor. There was a stirring of power in the Heart, powerful, yet unnoticed by any but the Traon, those distant enemies of the Clans. They grew frantic, desperate to stop their ancient foe from returning—but they were six years too late, and what had begun was beyond their power to end. Children, orphaned by the Traon's efforts, were slowly becoming aware of their unnatural powers, while the adults finally began to acknowledge what they had long been aware of, but tried to ignore.
The Clans were awakening.
Chapter One
Michael eyed the ship on the horizon with justified mistrust, trying to distinguish the symbol on the flag. A sudden breeze sent it flapping, and he grimaced as he recognized the tiny crossed sword and spear—an unmistakable meaning, even for those not used to the sea. Lowering his gaze, he called softly, “I see ’em. Tell Ma to start bringing up water an’ storing food, ’cause we’ve got unwelcome company—pirates, just over the horizon but moving fast.”
The small girl standing on the ground below his perch nodded and cocked her head to one side. Her question was obvious.
“I’m sorry, little one, but I’ve got to leave. The neighbors, they might not know an’ . . .” He trailed off under her accusing stare, which also held a hint of fear and concern. “I’ve got to go.”
Shaking her head wearily, she turned and ran back to the house, her twin braids bouncing over the back of her homespun brown dress. Michael followed her with his eyes for a moment, smiling to himself as he watched his younger sister, then swung off the branch and dropped neatly to the ground.
Racing off in the direction of the nearest farm, determined to warn them, he never saw the shadow that followed him as he passed through a darkened part of the path; his only thoughts were about his best friend’s family, who might yet be unprepared for the pirates sailing ever closer to them.
The young soldier looked at his four older, more experienced companions and stated flatly, “You’re wrong.”
They looked at him in mild surprise and waited.
“They won’t come from the mountains,” he continued, pointing toward the map in front of them, “but rather the forest; it suits their purpose much better. We know their main camp is here,”—he pointed to a place marked by a red X, only a few miles away from the heart of the forest,—“and if they take a route like this,”—his finger moved in a line that curved around the center,—“then they’ll be here in four days at most. Whereas if they go like this,”—this time the line went straight to the mountains and through the pass until it reached a blue X,—“it will take them ten days at least, probably more. Plenty of time for us to catch them, destroy them, or move our camp. It also allows us time to gain reinforcements, something they most certainly do not want.”
“Juilin,” a bass-voiced man put in, “while this may seem reasonable, it is not. Why would they take a path that leads them along the edge of the Dark Heart when they could take a much safer, if longer, path? The stories—”
“Exactly,” the younger soldier cut in. “Stories. Fables, nothing more than tales used to frighten children into obedience, or to scare them on dark nights. In case you haven’t noticed, those Asmór aren’t exactly children.”
The other three men in the room chuckled in spite of themselves.
“While that may be,” the first man replied, beet-red, “we know they aren’t tales. We know people disappear or—.”
“Yes,” Juilin interrupted yet again. “We know; they do not. They’re strangers here, remember? And even if they did hear the tales, they would dismiss them as a trick we are trying to pull to gain time and ground on them—a reasonable assumption.”
“Very well,” one of the other men conceded. “We will do as you say and move our forces from the passes to the forest. But if you are wrong . . .”
Juilin’s eyes darkened. “I’d better not be wrong.
Silence fell for a moment as they all considered his words. Then a deep, cheerful voice commented, “You lot are more solemn then I expected, seeing as we’re winning!”
All five soldiers jumped and turned as one.
Before them stood a tall man with brown hair, only lightly streaked with gray, and keen blue eyes. His smile—as if he had not a care in the world—was at odds with the gleaming armor and scabbard he wore; on his brow was a slim circle of gold with a single glowing sapphire set in it.
“Your Majesty,” exclaimed the leader, a man named Orion. They all bowed deeply. “We had heard you were coming, but we did not expect you for another three days—we have had no chance to make the camp presentable!”
The king waved his hand dismissively. “It seems perfectly in order to me. I prefer coming earlier than expected so that I can see the true camp, not the one fixed up for my benefit.” His powerful gaze, so unlike the simple smile on his face, inspected them all one by one. It settled on Juilin, then swept back to Orion.
“I did not know you let boys into your councils,” he said cheerfully, and Juilin flushed. “Will you not introduce us?”
Orion bowed again. “Forgive me, Sire. This is Juilin—he’s part of an experiment of mine, if you will. He has a natural talent for leadership and strategy, so I decided to make him part of my council, sort of. I think you will like him, and benefit from his service in the years to come—if he’s still alive then.”
Juilin bowed respectfully to his monarch, who chuckled. “Strange indeed for one so young. What is your age, boy?”
“Fifteen come midsummer, Sire.”
“Fourteen,” the king mused. “Young indeed . . . Usually the army does not allow anyone younger than seventeen in—yet you fall three years short, and are higher than nearly all others. Why were you chosen for such an honored position?”
“I could not tell you, Majesty. Commander Orion never really said why he chose me.”
When the king turned his questioning eyes toward Orion, the Commander explained, “When I first saw Juilin, he had been ambushed by six Asmór, though why I can’t say. His fighting skill and talent drew me, though I knew he was young and probably inexperienced, and I followed him after he won the battle; he did not see me. He was twelve at the time, and I wasted no time in taking him for proper training, to make him a proper soldier—he’s my apprentice, if you will, my prodigy, and I hope he’ll become Commander after me.” In a softer voice Orion added, “He’s an orphan, Sire.”
The king looked at Juilin thoughtfully, but the young soldier merely gazed at the ground. “What happened to your parents, then?”
“Raiders,” the boy replied softly. “I was eight, and my mother was slain covering my escape. My father was dead before then. Our neighbors helped me by afterwards, but I didn’t feel right living with any of them, especially after I turned ten.”
King Daniel smiled despite the somber mood in the air. “Too stubborn, lad? That’s common enough among people. I’m sure it was hard for you, and you’ve come far indeed. I don’t doubt in the least that you’ll become Commander one day, once Orion has finished with his post.”
“You’re too kind,” Juilin replied seriously. “I doubt any such thing shall happen to me; there are far greater and wiser men.”
“Sire,” one of the other men put in, “forgive me for interrupting, but should we not be speaking of the war? It is foremost among matters these days.”
“No need for forgiveness, Spymaster Aaron. You are quite right; we should be discussing the war.”
The ruler of Nashta strode to a chair at the head of the table and sat down. The four older men also took their seats, while Juilin pulled up an extra chair for himself. King Daniel pointed to the red X that represented the Asmór and growled, “They are challenging us on our own land. While they seek to pull us down and bring us to ruin, rising themselves up in turn, we strive to uphold what is right and true. Remember this if you forget all else: We are here to protect the innocent and weak, the people who do not, and cannot, fight for themselves. We are here to defend the children, both those with and without families.” His eyes flicked toward Juilin and back to the others again. “The Asmór come to destroy all that is good in this land. Only we stand before them; let us do our job well.”
The others murmured the agreement, and Daniel nodded once when he saw they understood his point. “Now,” he began, “this is what we’ll do . . .”
