Prelude I

A diplomatic mission. He was insane to have agreed to this. The Prince was mad! Ivan sat stiffly in the large chair with the dueling red Wyverns woven onto the cloth of its back. He picked up the crystal glass before him and then put it down again. The deep red Finney wine sloshed and a drop spilled and rolled down the side of the goblet. He felt a moment of guilt—he estimated that that particular vintage was worth 500 Gold Royals a glass. Then he laughed to himself at what he was thinking.

His grim smile faded as he considered his mission and the chances he would ever see his seven-year-old daughter Katya again. Then he sighed and brought himself back to the present and surveyed his surroundings. The roar of the fireplace was at odds with the chill in the room. Ten logs the size of men burned slowly in the fireplace casting their bright glow reflecting off the gold and silver ornamentation gilding the walls and edges of the room.

Surrounding the ancient stone bricks of the fireplace was wallpaper decorated with beautiful gold spirals and heraldry emblazoned with platinum. It would have been gaudy if the scrollwork and shields were not so utterly beautiful. Rugs of the finest weaving from the city of El Kahar in Bengali's once famed Cloth Sector covered the floor—each one showing a window framing a pastoral scene of uncanny realism and beauty.

Ivan gripped the crystal goblet nervously as he scanned the extraordinary wealth of the waiting room. Even the table he was sitting at was of a traditional but brilliantly crafted design, cut whole from the trunk of some great tree. The remnants of magic that he sensed from the table made him fear to his bones that he knew what kind of tree it came from. Small pieces of extremely rare statuary and jewelry was displayed on stands around the periphery of the room.

Three doors—of a black rough wood intricately carved with scenes of forest, desert, and mountains—were the only way in and out of the cavernous room. He had been brought in by the desert door. He began the relaxation exercises taught to all disciples who reached the fifth order, and slowly focused his mind so that it did not become dulled by the long wait.

He studied the beautiful, 18-candle candelabra made of mithril that sat before him. It had the mark of Gray Elven craftsmanship but had no markings Ivan recognized. The lights suddenly brought Ivan back to the village he had visited on his way through Galen's Notch. He blinked a few times to clear his mind of the image of that trampled, destroyed village with its bodies stripped to the bone and that little girl—who was probably the same age when the zombies got to her as his Katya was now—who attacked his guards. It took the Githdani to take her down because the guards were so terrified. He shook his head, and, when he looked again, the mountain door was opening.

A man stepped through, and Ivan's breath caught as he realized what, and who, this must be. The man was dressed in plain red plate armor from head to toe. It was smooth and curved with no sharp edges and fit the man wearing it like a glove. Carved into the crimson, triangular visor, right between the eyes and above where a nose should be, was a downwards-pointing carving of a straight, two-edged sword. There were no weapons, pouches, or belts on the figure. It, and he, were eerily silent. The armored figure ghosted across the floor to stand right before Ivan.

Ivan swallowed and looked straight up into the dark brown eyes that bored through him from the eye slits of the crimson triangular face plate. He felt the probe tear deep into his mind. He didn't resist at all and let him see what he would. The gaze left him and then carefully scanned the room.

“G-g-greetings Lord Malkore...I am..”

“I know who you are... and I am the Seraphaan Chiri. Please make yourself comfortable. You will be granted audience soon.”

With that the Seraphaan walked to one corner of the room, turned, faced the room and then froze in a stance of calm waiting and casual observation.

Ivan's mouth went dry and he focused his mind to still the tremble that had begun in his left hand. He remained standing next to his chair and fought hard to stay present against the rising surety that this mad plan was folly.

An eternity passed and then the forest door silently swung open. Another identically-armored figure stepped into the room, made brief, casual eye-contact with the one already in the room and then took a position in the other corner.

The door swung open again and a short, thin, black-bearded man wearing Dorian finery of blue and pink with green threading stepped in the room and beamed at Ivan.

“Ivan Chelyabinsk, Herald to the Prince of Techen, Chief Court Diplomat, First Speaker of the Royal House of Pervouralsk, and Bard of the 16th Voice in the Kiev School of Kostor?”

Ivan nodded.

“Welcome to the White Court. Please have a seat, Master Chelyabinsk. I am Fasil, and I hold the equivalent of your position for His Majesty.”

He spoke Dau-Shoan with the nasal accent of the people from Southern Kiev and the perfect grammar of a non-native speaker. Ivan heard a trace of High Dorian, and some Nekron in the last few years, and possibly some of his younger years spent in Tolnia. Ivan sat. He studied this man who would likely be the speaker of the words of the doom of his people. He drew in breath to begin his rehearsed opening speech when the forest door opened and another man stepped into the room.

His aura was the first thing Ivan noticed. He filled the room with his presence. The second thing was the eyes—blue as the sky at noon in the Royal Glades. They were startling and intense. The third thing was his beauty. He was tall, perhaps six and half feet tall, and had lightly tanned, perfect skin, and golden sun-kissed, lightly-curled hair falling below his shoulders. He had a confidence in his walk, and the casualness of a man who feared nothing. A small dangling crystal earring adorned his left ear, and a small dangling emerald hung from his right. He wore a plain black robe, tied at the waist with a black rope belt whose ends were capped in gold. It accentuated his athletic figure.

Fasil sprang to his feet, and Ivan, instinctively, did the same.

“Master Chelyabinsk, let me introduce you to His Majesty, King of the White Court, Master of the World, King Goram Hadilaya.”

The King smiled a radiant smile and truly seemed glad to see Ivan.

“Master Chelyabinsk. A pleasure to see you—I trust all your needs have been seen to?”

“Of course your Majesty. The accommodations and the service has been extraordinary—far beyond what I anticipated.”

Fasil bowed and backed away unobtrusively as the King sat down in front of Ivan. Ivan sat down simultaneously so as not to be above the King.

“I heard you had some trouble on the road. No one was injured?”

Ivan couldn't place any clues in his voice. His accent was absolutely flawless High Court Dau-Shoan. He had a slightly archaic choice of vocabulary and his “a”s were more drawn out than the modern usage but other than that it was perfect. His base accent was hidden by his mastery of the language and dialect. The face held no secrets—all of his Bardic training was giving him nothing. The King was either under the best illusion Ivan had ever seen, was a Bard Adept, or was not the King.

“The '14 Finney is excellent isn't it?”

Now we came to it. Everything Ivan had studied for years indicated that this man had no time for small talk—he ruled the single largest empire in the world. He honored professionals and disdained sycophants and people who were not direct. Ivan never expected to get a direct audience.

Ivan leaned forward.

“Your Majesty... we know your plans should not require the sacking of Techen. We are willing to provide your ...”

He paused as the King's eyes suddenly, for the first time, took on a far away look. The King stood slowly and turned to face the second red-armored figure that came in. A look of growing concern on his face. Ivan stood up too, his pulse racing.

“Something is wrong.”

He spoke in flawless Nekron in the dialect of the city of Kestur circa the First Chaos War but with a touch of a dialect that Ivan could not place.

“Malkore—Erinth and Kamir just discorporated violently. What is going on?”

Spikes of anger and disbelief started to twine through the King's voice and his face flushed with the signals of surprise and mounting anger.

Malkore stepped forward.

“I believe they and the rest of the Dark Phoenix group are with Lord Herun, miLord. At Lord Herun's orders I assigned Faulkner and Perseus to the Dark Phoenix.”

His tones registered a surprising calm and indifference given the rising fury in the King and also held a curiosity and a confusion. There was a twinge of accent that... then Ivan had it... and paled. The speaker was a native Golden Empire speaker—a language that had been dead for at least 2500 years.

“Two Seraphaan?”

The King spoke quietly, but the room rang with the intensity of his voice.

“What is he doing?”

Malkore cocked his head sideways.

“He is taking the Citadel, MiLord—you can't sense them because of the Globe of Anhuss they have around it—but I believe everything is going to plan, Sir. We expected casualties given the target.”

The King paled and gaped. Shock and incredulity swept across his face followed immediately by dread and disbelief. Whatever was happening the King obviously suspected that he knew but was obviously hoping he was wrong.

“What Citadel!?” he roared. “Who can cast a Globe of Anhuss?”

Both Seraphaan and Fasil sprang upright at the King's tone. Malkore flicked his eyes at Fasil and Ivan and then answered:

“The Citadel of the Sun Lords, MiLo...”

“NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!”

The room quaked and Fasil gaped. Power emanated from the King in immense streams in every direction. Discipline magics and Divine magics of an immense magnitude were being cast at the wave of the King's hand. He spoke a Word of Power. Ivan clenched his teeth—the Name he had just spoken belonged to one of the ancient beings from the pre-human Epoch that ruled as Death's Lieutenants.

Several of the rugs smoldered and began to rot as a pool of darkness formed. A being twice the height of a man of no shape—or rather many shapes—rose from the floor. Three red eyes stared down at the King.

“Oh great Lord of Me...” it began to intone in hissing Ancient Nekron.

“SILENCE! I need to talk to your master NOW!!!”

“My master is winning a great victory, King of the World—I am sure he will be glad...”

“I SAID NOW!!!!!”

There was a blast of cold air as the King banished the creature capable of leveling a city with a wave of his hand. Ivan's mind reeled as he tried to understand what was going on—there was an air of almost desperation in the King's voice.

“MALKORE—FULL ALERT! Warn the armies to batten down and prepare for immediate assault. I want immediate class two position reports on Army positions, the Alpha list, plus Arioch, Madra, Taliesin, Kay, Phaelen, Athena, Koentar, Ranuin, Krell, Jenric, Rhysmaeon, Kheldar, Dof-Sifrin, Nureyev, Sif, the Gwyn, the Tolnian Emporer, Zeus, the High Judicar, Abrala, the Sandwalker, and Lenore.”

Fasil, now pale as a ghost, bobbed his head and started to speak. The King spoke one word—a name so terrible Ivan almost threw up when he heard it. Fasil's whole demeanor changed—he straightened. The voice that spoke from his mouth was ancient—speaking with a thousand dialects and chilling to hear.

“Have your lost your mind, Goram? Attacking the Sun Lord's Citadel!!?!?! That is proscribed ground and ON TOP OF THAT using a Third Epoch ritual?

Dau-Penn is already marshalling his resources...”

“I am changing your charge, Soul Dancer.”

The man that was Fasil smiled an evil smile.

“You know that only gives you two more?”

“I am highly aware of the nature and boundaries of our relationship. You are now to protect the hiding places.”

The one that had been Fasil bowed and suddenly the old Fasil, trembling and pale, was returned. The King spoke quietly.

“Fasil—get the Seekers. I will meet them by the Well of Souls in a candlemark. Organize a strategic council for six bells tonight. Have Herun report to me as soon as he gets back.”

Fasil bowed and hurried out of the room. Malkore stepped forward.

“MiLord. Faulkener is here with an initial report.”

He then looked over at Ivan.

“Have a seat, Ivan, and don't worry. I am not going to kill you yet. But you will be joining us for the rest of the war.”

The King sat down, all the rage of moments ago erased and a peaceful calm in its place. Ivan's heart fell as he tried desperately to stay alert in the face of his despair.

Another Seraphaan walked in.

“Report,” the King barked.

“Mission main objective realized. Lord Arken, Krakelovitch, and Sun-God cast the Globe of Anhuss on the Citadel effectively isolating the Paladins and Heralds inside and keeping the rest of the world from being alerted to the attack. The Sun Lord Citadel has been taken, the Guardian is held and we are corrupting the portal as we speak. Secondary missions are not yet complete and we know of at least two escapees.”

“Who did we get?”

“Well Sir, initial casualty report put the major players eliminated as Nicolai Krosovitvch, Thor, the Saaren Orion, and Korlath of Ham.”

As he mentioned the now dead heroes and demi-gods, Ivan's heart sank at the mention of Nicolai's name. Nicolai had been one of the greatest of the Githdani and was one of Techen's great hopes. With his death, much hope was gone for a military solution. He struggled to keep absorbing what the Seraphaan was saying.

“We had already replaced Gamel of Athaena last week and used his soul to gain entrance to the Citadel. Balder was discorporated but his soul escaped, King Quaran of the Cherul people escaped through our portal and out again through the Hall of Gates. We have captured Telvene the Fate Walker, and Xerus, a Rider of Troy. The Lethar killed Xerus' Pegasi before we could stop them. The bard Daanaaa of Ven is still unaccounted for.

“Although we had hoped to capture Kay or the Daimyo there they were not present when the attack occurred.”

Ivan's blood chilled at this recitation of some of the greatest heroes and demi-gods of the time—and he knew the Citadel of the Sun-Lords was being used for tamper-free strategic planning in the fight against the Lich. What he could not grasp was the King's fury and despair at this absurdly devastating blow against the Allies!

“Anything else, Faulkner?”

“NO Sir”

“Dismissed.”

The room was silent as the Seraphaan left. The King rose and Ivan rose with him and, as the King turned towards the door, Ivan spoke—knowing this could be his last chance.

“Sir.. Your Majesty.. I do not understand—this seems like a Great Victory for you.”

The King turned and paused.

“The balance, my dear bard, the balance. We have just broken at least three strictures of the Agreement. Even now the Balance Keeper's power is pouring through the land... This victory may be my greatest defeat.”

And with that the King of the White Court, the Lord of the Armies of Arken, the sitter at the Throne of the Night, the Lich of Fire Mountain strode away...