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master arminas
The Prodigals
« on: May 20, 2009, 11:12:18 AM »

Good morning, all.  In Harm's Way is experiencing some difficulties, so it is on haitus for the moment (I plan a complete rewrite, I am just not satisfied with it).  However, our discussions have led me down another path.  This is the beginning of a story that I am writing to submit to Baen Books for possible publication.  It is a fantasy novel that has its origins in some of our talks and debates here on this site.  I will probably not be posting all of it, but let me know what you think, and I will keep you informed of the progress.  So, without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, I give you the prologue to the tale of the Prodigals.  Enjoy.

Arminas tar Valantil
Grand Master of the Ebon Rose
(a.k.a. Stephen T Bynum)





The Prodigals



An Original Work of Fiction

By

Stephen T Bynum


Copyright 2009, all rights reserved

Prologue

Distant thunder rolled across the valley floor, reverberating from the surrounding walls of the two mountain ranges—the treacherous, jagged, and steep Rose Mountains to the east, and the gentler, lower, but still rugged Shieldwall Range to the west.  Somewhere beyond the Shieldwall, over the trackless depths of the Great Western Sea, a storm was fast approaching the coast.  The clouds must be tall and angry, the warlock thought to himself, for the peaks of the Rose did not gleam with the pinkish hue the setting sun normally turned their caps of ice and snow.  An ill omen, indeed, for all the Gods are surely angry tonight.

Standing high upon the towering walls of a city built upon a tall hill in the very center of the valley, the warlock looked over the heartland of his homeland—The Vale of Tears.  For five centuries, this isolated realm had stood alone, on the very rim of the sea, far from the concerns of great men ruling the Great Houses of the interior of the continent of Carlene.  Yet, all must change.  Five hundred and sixteen years ago, the lady Amanda of the House of Valens led her people here across untamed, untracked, unbroken wilderness, in an effort to escape the cycle of wars that had shattered the Old Kingdom.  Petty warlords, each controlling a dozen or so cities waged war with each other seeking to expand their holdings—regardless of the sacrifice of the people who dwelt in those cities and town and hamlets. 

Amanda’s husband, Victor, had been one of the victims of that conflict.  Selling all that she inherited, she announced her intention to leave—and thirty thousand souls followed her into the unknown.  Leaving the long-settled regions behind, she and those who followed crossed half of Carlene, fighting only to protect those who fled with her.  Most of the warlords ignored her—refugees were not famous for great stores of treasures, after all.  And indeed, measured in gold and silver, her expedition bore little wealth.  Yet, they carried with them tools and implements, and books and knowledge—and skills in the minds and memories of the people.  Two years of laborious journey had led them—the survivors, at least—to confront a great range of mountains.  Exhausted by their journey, the refugees had rested, and that very night Lady Amanda had been gifted with a vision.

The vision showed her something extraordinary:  a narrow pass, through the mountains, leading to a deep, green, fertile valley, extending two hundred leagues in length, and some fifty in breadth.  Protected on both flanks by the twin ranges, fed by water from the glacial streams and lakes, the valley was perfect for settlement.  The next day she rode out from the encampment, escorted only by her son and two guards, and she found the mountain pass; and with it, the valley beyond.  Legend holds that she collapsed to her knees and shed the first tears of man on the virgin soil, thus giving the new home of the Valens its name.

The corner of the warlock’s mouth twitched at the myth—five centuries was too far distant to peer through time for him to ever know what actually did happen that late autumn afternoon.  But he suspected, given the nature of mankind, that the legend had been crafted far afterwards, for political gain.  As he walked upon the walls of the city Amanda had founded, the smile slowly slid away.  To the east, fire light reflected alongside the steep flanks of the Gateway; the fires of the armies of the Seven, come to force the Valens into their Grand Union.

For two centuries, the Valens had lived alone and isolated in their mountain vales.  Wintershaven—Amanda’s city, founded at the very onset of that first winter—had prospered, and twenty-two thousand souls blossomed into fifty; then seventy, and then one hundred and more.  The first city gave birth to ten in total, scattered across the rich lands of the Vale.  Ores were discovered, both precious and commercial, and the skills and knowledge and craft to work them were honed.  Oh, the mountains did not completely surround the Vale; to the south the Shieldwall gave way to tall hills, leading down to a deep firth that fed into the Sea.  And other routes—secret routes—led through both ranges.  But those could not be used by armies or caravans—only the Gateway was wide enough for that purpose.

And yet, the Valens prospered in their new home.  And when the population had expanded yet again, they ventured back through the Gateway to found new colonies to the east.  And that is when the present time of troubles began.  The Old Kingdom had fallen, true enough, but in its place rose seven Great Kingdoms.  The old, rich, densely populated cities of the core of the Old Kingdom rose anew as the Golden Kingdom.  Six warlords on the outskirts gained enough victories and power to bring their own Houses to prominence, and each carved his own realm from the corpse of that which had gone before.  Enough never being enough, the Lords and Princes began to expand, and warred upon each other with abandon.

Three centuries ago, though, contact was reestablished between the House of Valens and the new realms to the east.  Two—Ashland and Vortumlad—bordered the lands claimed by the children of Amanda.  Vortumlad was ruled at the time by a greedy Prince, who ever sought more of that which was not his.  And finding the colonies of Valens, he struck against them, burning the cities, sacking and looting them of their wealth and people.  Taking upon herself the title of Lord Protector of the Vale, Samantha proved herself a worthy successor to the Lady Amanda.  She led an army of ten thousand knights, footman, and archers through the Gateway, and met and defeated the forces of Vortumlad, beginning a hate that only grew through time between the two.

King Oliver of Ashland was more subtle.  He sought to gain economic power over the border cities, and break them to his own yoke.  But the Vale and the House of Valens were rich, prosperous, and powerful; powerful enough, at least, to hold at bay their opponents.  Perhaps they would have fallen, but Ashland and Vortumlad were bitter foes and they would not work together.

That had now changed.

Fifty years ago, King Malcolm, Lord and Emperor of the Golden Kingdom, began to forge an alliance between the seven realms.  Tired of the wars, the other rulers agreed to hear his terms, and were pleasantly surprised at the conditions.  Each of the seven Kingdoms would maintain its own governing system, while its leader would be given a seat on the Imperial Council.  King Malcolm would be crowned as Emperor of the Grand Union, but each Lord of Council would have a single vote—even the Emperor.  Oh, the details were more, but as each King and Prince and Grand Duke examined the proposal, it slowly gained force and strength.  The wars would end, and all would prosper.

And so it came to pass that twenty-seven years ago, the Grand Union was formed, in the Old City of Thalass, in the center of the Golden Kingdom; Thalass, the site where the oldest texts on Carlene asserted that Man came to the world of Alteuria.   And then a question arose in Council—led by Ashland and Vortumlad—what of the Valens?  Does not the Grand Union govern all Mankind upon Alteuria?  Dare we rest our forces and disarm while upon the border lies a power of which we know little?

Embassies were dispatched, and correspondence exchanged between Lord Protector Michael and the Emperor Malcolm.  At first, each exchange was pleasant, but every one was also rejected by Michael.  And each note that arrived afterwards was less pleasantly worded, and also rejected.  The final note—delivered eighteen years ago—had been short, brief, and to the point.  Join us of your own free will or join us as slaves in shackles.  But join us, you will.  Michael replied with but a single word:  Never.

Six months later, the Army of the Grand Union crossed the border and began to tear away at the House of Valens.  The Union had underestimated the sons and daughters of Amanda, however, and the campaign turned brutal and bloody and ugly.  For seventeen long years, war raged in the borderlands.  The Valens troops were well-disciplined, equipped, and trained, yet quality does not always prevail over quantity.  For every young man that stepped forth to defend Valens soil, ten fought for the Union.  Michael had died of the stress six months past, when the last Valens army beyond the Gateway had been broken defending the river crossing at Yee.  His daughter was now Lord of the Vale.

The Battle of Yee had been the last gasp of a dying realm.  No longer had the House of Valens enough troops to take the fight to the enemy, but instead remained in a state of siege.  Only the Vale remained, protected by the high strong walls of Gateway Pass.  The warlock considered all of this as he looked to the east, at the campfires of tens—nay, hundreds—of thousands of enemy soldiers camped beyond the Wall.  Another clap of thunder shattered the sky, and the old warlock sighed.  The storm is upon us.

*****************************************************

Martha, Lord Protector of the Vale, sat upon the hand-carved oak throne that served the ruler of the Vale of Tears and all of the House of Valens.  Flickering light from dozens of torch sconces cast long shadows along the walls as she spat at the Generals standing before her.

“Cowards!” she hissed.  “The Wall has never fallen—if brave men man it, it never shall.  The Vale will remain so long as one of my House has the will to defend it.”

The men, armed in their long coats of scale and chain, holding iron helmets in their hands, with swords on their hips bristled beneath her scathing tone.

“My Lady,” the eldest began, “every day we defend the Wall—and now every night as well.  And each day some of our men fall, never to rise again.  We lost too many men trying to defend the border lands—our finest are gone and we will never again see their like upon this world.  Half of my troops upon that wall have either seen too many winters, or far too few.  We must consider the terms upon which we will end this.”

“NEVER.  I would sooner burn Wintershaven myself than surrender my honor to those jackals upon our stoop.”

“You may yet have that chance, Lord Protector Martha of the House of Valens,” a soft voice spoke into the chamber.  Stepping from the shadows to the light, Gregor Ortiz—Warlock of the House of Valens—bowed deeply.  “This is a fight which we cannot win.”

“Your magiks can defend us, Warlock, your . . .” she stopped as the warlock began to chuckle.

“My magiks, woman?  Martha of Valens, you know better than that.  Could I sweep the Gateway Pass of all those who mean our land harm, I would.  But that sort of event happens only in bad literature.  As a warlock, I am no warrior-wizard—I read the events of the future, and deduce intent from people.  I peer into the soul, and I see what lies beneath.  I speak with the dead, and they with me; and yet, Martha, I cannot fling my hand and make your foes pass into the night.  That power is beyond me—beyond any in this world.”

“But still you would advise me to forsake the dead who gave of themselves to defend the Vale?” she cried.

“I would.  See what I have seen, Martha of Valens,” he said as he stepped forward and took her hand.

Martha felt a shock when his hand made contact with hers.  And she swayed and closed her eyes.  As she opened them, she could see the soldiers standing before the Wall in Gateway Pass, the bright noon-time sun shining down from on high.  She looked down and smoothed her robes—the warlock robes Gregor wore.  “Yes, Martha.  You are peering through my eyes, and seeing what I have seen.  THIS power I do possess.  Look to the east, daughter of the House of Valens.”

Further down the pass, another company was assembling to charge the Wall.  A thousand archers stood ready to send missiles pouring into the defenders, and then a horn blew.  The archers nocked and pulled back, and a second horn call gave the command to loose.  A thousand shafts, each tipped with a serrated steel head flew up into the heavens, and then arced back down.  Martha watched the arrows fall, but she could not make the body she was in move.  She felt her hand—Gregor’s hand—motion before her, and a handful of arrows veered to one side, missing her—missing Gregor.  Dozens of soldiers fell, bleeding from ghastly wounds, but her troops were responding with volleys of their own.

The fight was short, it was brutal, it was ugliness like she had never before witnessed.  And then she was back in her throne.  She looked up at Gregor as he gazed sadly down upon her.

“That was one skirmish, Lord Protector, on one day alone.  We do not have the men to resist for much longer.  Our lives are forfeit either way, my Lady; but do we have the right to drag all of our people with us down to Hell?  Do you have that right, daughter of the House of Amanda Valens?”

“Then it is finished,” she whispered.

“Perhaps not,” the warlock said, a sudden smile appearing on his face.

“What are you thinking, Gregor?” she asked, as she sat back in the throne, and the three Generals listened intently.

“My Lady, we cannot hold out for long.  And there is no escape for the two of us.  Malcolm—and the rest of the Seven—will demand our heads for having resisted for so long, for having wounded him so deeply.  However, the Grand Union has not yet been able to blockade the Firth.  Our ships have sunk most of the Ashland Fleet—and Vortumlad’s have not arrived, is that not correct, General Rian?”

“Yes, Warlock Gregor.  But we have only a handful of warships left intact—not enough to strike the Vortumlad Fleet before it arrives.”

“That was not my intent.  We came to this land, my Lady, to escape the wars of the past; our problem is that perhaps Amanda did not go far enough.  We shall load the merchant ships in harbor with as many young men and women as we can find—with suitable soldiers and sailors and craftsmen and warlocks and priests and scholars; well, you get the idea.  We load the ships and they sail; sail out into and across the Great Western Sea.”

“You are mad, Warlock,” the third general, the youngest whispered.  “We do not even know how far the Sea extends; you would send them all to the deaths.”

“Knowledge is my province, General Barak, not yours.  Not on this matter.  My Lady, the Sea can be crossed—and it must be if any of our culture and society are to survive.  We can delay some, but if this is to be done, it must be finished before the Vortumlad ships arrive; and they shall in just over a fort-night.  I have seen it.”

Martha closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around her chest.  She nodded her head.  “Do it, Gregor—General Modan, can your troops hold the Wall until then?”

“Aye, my Lady,” the old man said as he bowed.  “We can easily defend the Wall for that amount of time.”

“Then make this happen.”

The four men bowed to the weeping woman as they left her alone upon the wooden throne.

*****************************************************

Twelve nights later, Gregor stood upon the walls of Wintershaven once more, watching with warlock eyes as fifty-two ships sailed down the firth, even though it was a hundred leagues hence.  His powers did not extend to the manipulation of weather—few did—but his sight had seen the path that would avoid the worst of the autumn storms.  The ship captains would sail that carefully plotted course until they crossed the sea and established a new home far away.

And perhaps, the warlock thought, perhaps one day their children’s children will return to the Vale, and bear retribution for the sins of the Union.  He smiled—that future was too far distant to see, but the return of the prodigals he had placed in motion would happen.  Perhaps not for five centuries, or even a millennium, but it would happen.  And among them was a scion of the House of Valens—seven year old Samantha, youngest child of Michael, and sister of Martha.  The palace records would show the victorious Union that she had died last month of disease.  She would not be missed—none of those who sailed would be.

He sighed and turned away from the Fleet.  Martha was standing there, in her finest dress, and he bowed deeply to his ruler.

“It is done,” she said.  “The herald bore our note of surrender to the Emperor, and he has graciously accepted it.  Tomorrow, the gates will open, and they will enter the Vale.”

“Then all is complete, my Lady.”

“Almost all, Master Gregor,” she smiled and kissed the old man on his cheek, and then knelt on the stones that formed the top of the wall.  Gregor nodded at the armsman who stood beside him, and the man drew back his axe, and with a single mighty blow cleaved the woman’s head from her body.  Thus passes Martha, Lord Protector of the Vale of Tears and the House of Valens, he thought.  Attendants gathered her body, and Gregor reached forth with his power and the blood faded away—even the stains it had left on her garments vanished.  He knelt, and held her severed head close to her body, and slowly the flesh and bone knitted back together.  None shall mock you, even in death, my Lady.

The servants took her body away, and the armsman remained, waiting.  Gregor extracted a small bottle from his robes, and opened it.  The sweet smell that arose was one all warlocks avoided as a commoner avoided a victim of plague—but Gregor drank it deep.  As the elixir passed into his blood, he felt his power fading away, and he nodded.  The armsman pushed him over the edge, and without his magic to protect him, Gregor fell to his death far below.

MechRat
Re: The Prodigals
« Reply #1 on: May 20, 2009, 11:49:09 AM »

Great start to what I am sure will be an excellent story, master arminas!

I see the parallels to the Succession Wars, the House Lords, and the Periphery. Unless you are very familiar with the BT universe, it would not be noticed.

Good luck on completing this novel and getting it published. However, if - no, when - you get this published and in print, I humbly ask for an autographed copy. Grin (I'll gladly buy the book)

master arminas
Re: The Prodigals
« Reply #2 on: May 20, 2009, 12:01:55 PM »

If it happens, then of course.   Grin

The setting is--of course--based upon the rise of the Star League, but in a fantasy enviroment.  However, from here it will diverge quickly--the beginning is a sort of homage to the ideas BattleTech raised when I first read the House books, SLSB, and Periphery.  But the story itself is classic--one land defending itself against many, and their children returning to right the wrongs.

Of course it is never QUITE that simple, is it?  Chapter One will skip ahead five centuries to when the Prodigals return to the Vale.  Many things can change in 500 years--including how the House of Valens will be viewed when it suddenly appears and invades.  Does the Grand Union even still exist?  And if it does not, will the return be the catalyst for its reformation?

We have lots of fertile ground here that can sprout an interesting and vibrant tale in a world of High Sorcery and Adventure.   Grin

Ice Hellion
Re: The Prodigals
« Reply #3 on: May 20, 2009, 01:24:25 PM »

Interesting.
If you go that far, I want a signed book too.

scourge72
Re: The Prodigals
« Reply #4 on: May 20, 2009, 03:41:01 PM »

I want one too!
Nice start, can't wait to read more.

Takiro
Re: The Prodigals
« Reply #5 on: May 20, 2009, 07:57:32 PM »
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Very cool, good luck with publication.  Wink