Prologue: Cormac

Even from half an ocean away, Amatera Mountain loomed magnificent and terrifying. For all of Cormac Din Trellis’ life, he had been in view of the great mountain—its peak was always there whenever he dared to cast his eyes south. By day, the blackened mountain stretched into the sky almost high enough to cast a shadow upon the land, but by night, its crater glowed red and bright, a constant threat that another cataclysm may come if Amatera grew displeased. If They ever would, it’s not as if anyone could do a damned thing about it.

“My Prince?” a voice behind him called out, pulling his mind from Amatera Mountain, back across the Boiling Ocean, and to the cliffside once more. Underneath him, his unicorn shifted uncomfortably before he pulled on his reins and turned them both around. Perhaps even he is unsettled by the mountain. On horseback, the knight stood before Cormac, his helm dangling about his waist.

“Sir Caedric,” he nodded at the knight, remembering the few interactions they had on their journey. “Is there a problem?” Caedric shook his head, setting a lock of his brown, pulled-back hair free and hanging in front of his eyes.

“No, Your Highness,” he said. “It’s just…we really should be going. If we’re to make it back to High-Mountain for the Princess’ birthday, that is.” Now, it was Cormac’s turn to shake his head.

“We’re too late for that,” he told the knight, turning back to look at Amatera Mountain. “Orsella’s birthday is tomorrow. We’re two days ride from High-Mountain now.” He sighed. This will be, what, the fourth birthday of her’s I’ve missed? Across the ocean, Cormac thought he could see the mountain shudder for a moment. He imagined it cracking open, spilling the hot, molten guts of the world out into the open, burning the sky and boiling all the water in all the oceans until everything became like the Scorched Lands.

“My apologies,” Caedric appeared next to him, once more pulling Cormac from his daydream. “I know you wished to arrive before the birthday.”

“There is nothing to apologise for,” he told him. “My sister will no doubt give me a thorough talking to upon my return, but nonetheless, she will forgive me soon enough.”—He looked at the knight, his lips curling upward despite his best efforts.—“That being said, let’s not keep her waiting too long.”

Returning inland, Cormac and Caedric soon found the road once more. Though, in Cormac’s opinion, it could barely be called that. Years upon years of horse’s hooves and men’s boots had beaten down the blackened soil of the Scorched Lands into something of a path, but when compared to the cobbled roads of High-Mountain, this was nothing more than a slightly more bare piece of land than the rest of the barren area around them.

“Once we get around that mountain,”—Caedric pointed to the less magnificent, less interesting mountain some way down the path and past the Scorched Lands—“We should be able to see High-Mountain, my Prince.”

“Finally,” Cormac couldn’t help but sigh.

“Glad to be coming home, sir?” Caedric said, smiling through his moustache.

“Very,” he shifts in his saddle, resisting the urge to turn his head south. “Cavernite is a beautiful place, I shan’t deny it, but when you spend four years getting lost in those damned caves every day…it’s enough to drive a man insane. Even without the studying, the university’s a stressful place to live in.” His companion laughed, not a fake laugh like so many he had heard from those who wished to be on the good side of their future king, but a genuine laugh of amusement.

The two of them rejoined the caravan, a score of men with just less than half on horseback, gifted to Cormac by Lord Van Cavernite for his return trip. ''Good men. Perhaps too good for a Van to be able to spare for so long.'' They rode on for a few more hours, the prince and the knight talking of their lives back in High-Mountain as they edged their way around the mountain. The more they talked, the more Cormac grew to understand the older man. He learned of Caedric’s younger sister, Terissa, waiting for him at High-Mountain, serving as one of Orsella’s personal maids.

“It seems we have more in common than once thought,” Cormac told the knight, which seemed to leave him glowing as he fell back to return to his duties. Soon, the eastern sky was filled with the setting sun, casting a golden-orange glow on the horizon. He ordered the caravan to a halt when they came a march from a wall of trees. No light seemed to penetrate the thick canopy ahead, leaving Cormac unable to shake off the feeling of being watched. “We should make camp here,” he told one of lord Van Cavernite’s men, a scrawny boy just a few years younger than himself. “I don’t like the look of this forest. And no doubt, the Tree-Demons will be waking soon.”

As the sun fell, Cormac’s tent rose and was—by his order—left with a roll of parchment, a quill, and a pot of ink. After ordering the guards not to allow anyone inside, he sat himself down on a wooden stool and began writing a letter. For the years he had spent at the university, Cormac had written to Orsella and their father often, telling them of his studies and—more importantly—his escapades at Cavernite’s various taverns. Now, however, he had to tell his sister that he wouldn’t be able to reach home before her birthday.

When he was finished and the ink was dried, Cormac folded the parchment up, poured melted wax over the seam, and pressed his stamp over it, leaving the symbol of the house of Din Trellis—a broken circle, its left side lower than its right—imprinted in a deep red. ''I’d best get this sent off now. I’ll have the messenger avoid the forest.''

Cormac pushed himself to his feet just as he heard the tent flaps shifting. I told them…but his thoughts were cut off by the sight of his visitor. There wasn’t anything overly suspicious about him, not that Cormac could tell anyway, but something in the way he held himself made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.­­­­­­­ He was young, with short brown hair and a crooked nose that had definitely been broken at least once. The stitching on his clothes had begun to fray and the end of his black, woollen cloak was caked with mud and leaves. In his right hand, he held a long, thin sword that was red with blood. He stared at Cormac with a cool, unblinking smile, turning his hand so that the end of the sword pointed at his chest. Cormac’s own sword was in its sheath on a table to his right. Many a trainer had told him that he was a good fighter, better than most, but that would do him no good if there wasn’t a sword in his hand. And even worse if I was actually being flattered the whole time.

The man’s feet shifted, and Cormac knew a charge was coming. He leapt to the right—his heart pounding in his chest—dodged the tip of the sword by a hair, and rolled over the table, kicking over a lamp and managing to grab his blade. When his feet landed on the other side of the table, Cormac twisted around, wrenching his sword from its sheath with a hiss. Even in the dying glow of the lamp, Forrin’s gift still reflected the light so brightly it almost glowed. Whoever his attacker was, doubted he had ever seen a true Black-Steel blade before.

Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to have the effect Cormac had anticipated. Instead, his opponent followed him over the table, swinging his sword in a wide arc as he landed. Cormac deftly parried this, hitting his blade against the man’s with a loud clang and sweeping it away. He then returned the attack, thrusting the tip of Forrin’s Gift forward and aiming for his opponent’s neck. The man dodged and fell back. He’s fast, but not fast enough. Cormac thrust again, sweat clinging to his skin. The man dodged once more, this time ducking and driving his sword upwards. He jumped backwards, only just managing to parry his opponent’s attack. Cormac’s lungs burned, but he pressed on, determined not to give the man any more ground.

His attacker was losing energy, too. Cormac could see it in the rise and fall of his chest, in the whitening of his knuckles as he grasped his sword just a little too tightly. He charged again, this time more obvious than his first attempt. Cormac dodged to the side and swung, cutting through the man’s sword arm. He cried out and his blade fell from his hand. Seeing the opportunity, Cormac moved up and kicked the sword away, pointing Forrin’s Gift at the man’s throat as he bent over and clutched his bleeding arm.

“Who are you? Tell me, or by the Mountain, I’ll—” but he wasn’t able to finish, as the man reached behind his cloak with his good arm, producing a dagger. For a moment, Cormac thought he was going to charge a third—and surely final—time, but instead the man thrust the steel into his own throat. Hot blood spurted from the wound as he fell back to Cormac’s astonishment. He stood and watched in horror as the man twitched for a few more moments, the red liquid pouring from his throat and foaming at the corner of his mouth until finally, he gave one last gurgle and lay still.

Cormac stood there for a few moments, his sword still in his hand. It had been easier to take a life than he had thought it would be. Watching as the man that would just as quickly have killed him had he not been the slightest bit faster fade away felt to him like something out of a dream. Something unreal.

“Prince Cormac!” a voice from outside pulled him back to reality. A moment later, Sir Caedric burst into the tent, a splatter of blood on his chest plate. Cormac caught a glimpse of his two guards from earlier, lying on the floor with their throats cut. ''I never heard him kill them. Never heard him come in. If I hadn’t turned around in that moment…''

Caedric sighed with relief at the sight of Cormac alive. “Thank the gods. I saw the guards and worried that…nevermind that, my Prince, the camp is under attack.”

“Yes, Sir Caedric,” he said, gathering his sword’s sheath and fastening it to his belt. “I figured that out. Are there horses or unicorns ready?” Caedric nodded breathlessly, barely noticing the body on the ground next to the table. ''I cannot look weak. Or scared. I cannot even allow myself to be so.'' “How many are attacking?” The knight looked back at him.

“Hard to tell, sir,” he said, turning and poking his head out of the tent flap. “At least two dozen, probably more.” Cormac cursed under his breath as Caedric went ahead, his shining steel sword reflecting an orange glow. He even began to notice the smell of smoke in the air. Fire. Sure enough, when he followed him outside, flames had begun to dominate the landscape. A large black tent barely a two-minute walk from them on their right was ablaze. Inside, Cormac heard the screams of some of lord Van Cavernite’s men. Only one of them managed to find the exit, running by Cormac with flames licking his face and leaving the scent of burning flesh in his wake. All around them, chaos ensued. Horses ran past with no riders to control them, almost trampling the camp’s attackers and defenders alike. The sounds of steel against steel rang in the air amongst the screams of the dying. As Caedric led him through it all, Cormac fought back the urge to help the men around him. As they passed a wagon filled with food and barrels of ale, a cloaked attacker was winning against the scrawny boy to whom he had ordered to tell the caravan to make camp. ''Is this my fault? Had I decided to press into the forest, would we be safe now, or would the Tree-Demons have taken us instead?'' Hot anger bubbled in his stomach, and he grabbed Caedric’s arm, ordering him to stop.

“We must keep going, my Prince!” the knight said. “Your safety is too important!”

“I won’t be able to call myself king if I don’t fight for my people,” Cormac told him, rushing to the wagon and hailing the attacker. “Coward! You people attack a camp at night and kill innocent men during peacetime! If you want a fight, come here and get it, I’ll send you all to Shinda’s Domain!” the man, all cloaked in black like his previous attacker, turned from the scrawny boy, who breathed a heavy sigh of relief and ran away.

“Die,” he whispered, now grinning just as the man from before had; he was quicker than his previous attacker, though, and he quickly closed the gap between them, sweeping his sword across. Cormac brought Forrin’s Gift up just in time. The swords clanged loudly. He pushed away and thrust the sword forward. The tip almost made contact with the man’s neck, but he ducked to the side in the blink of an eye. His grin widened and Cormac felt a searing pain on the thigh of his left leg. Something warm began to soak his trousers and leak onto the soil at his feet. His stance weakened and he dropped to one knee, the pain only partially numbed by the adrenaline coursing through his body. The man raised his sword, ready to deliver a killing strike. Shit.

“Over here, you damned coward.” When the voice came from behind the man, he tried to turn. This time, he was too slow and Sir Caedric smashed into him. The sword ran straight through the man’s chest and out his back, blood splattering onto Cormac’s face. As the man crumpled to the ground and slid from Caedric’s sword with a wet squelch, Cormac breathlessly tried to get to his feet. Hot pain climbed up his left leg and he almost fell flat on his face—if Caedric hadn’t caught him, he would have.

“Shit,” he said, looking down at the cut.

“Don’t look at it, Your Highness,” he wrapped Cormac’s arm over his shoulder and the two hobbled along for a short distance. It wasn’t long before the two of them were breathless and out of energy. The pain in his leg only grew worse and no matter how hard he grit his teeth, it would not subside.

“Stop,” he said finally. “Stop…Stop, dammit…”

“We shouldn’t…stop…my Prince,” Caedric said, sweat running down the side of his face. “Look…there’s a…horse there…” But it was too late. Cormac slid from the knight’s grasp and he fell to the ground, his sword clattering as it fell limply from his hand. Black mud caked his face and splashed into his mouth. “My Prince!” Slowly, he managed to prop himself up, turning to look back from where they came. His tent, not even that far away, was now aflame. Marching up the path were six men, four with swords in their hands, one with a spear, and one with a bow, an arrow already nocked. ''Ah. I hadn’t expected death to come this early in life.''

“Sir Caedric,” he said. Not taking his eyes from the men, he grabbed Forrin’s Gift, slid it back into its sheath, and pulled it from his belt. “Please…please bring this sword back to my father, the king.”—he reached into his pocket, producing his letter to Orsella—“And give this letter to my sister. In the meantime, I require the use of your sword.” His hands shook, no matter how hard he tried to fight it. ''Let us face facts. I don’t want this.'' Finally, he looked up at the knight, who didn’t seem to understand.

“My Prince—”

“That is an order, sir Caedric!” he yelled, trying his best to hide the shaking in his voice. “I’ll not have you or anyone else die for my sake.” Once more, he pushed himself to his feet and shoved the sword and letter into Caedric’s hands. Hobbling on one foot, he reached down slowly and picked up the knight’s sword. “Go,” he told Caedric, who seemed unable to form a word. “You’re a good man. Wish my sister a happy birthday for me.”

Cormac turned around, leaning on the handle of Caedric’s sword. ''I’m supposed to be king someday. I’m supposed to be on my way to Orsella’s birthday.'' The six men stopped just a few steps from them. He took a step towards them, his leg screamed as he put his weight on it.

“So,” he said after a moment. “Are we going to fight, or will you just stand there while I bleed to death?” None of the men spoke, but Cormac breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the sound of hooves fading away behind him. That’s that, then. He lifted the sword, his head slick with sweat, and charged at the closest man, the one with the spear.

Something struck him in the shoulder and he realised he’d been shot with an arrow. Compared to the cut on his leg, it felt like nothing, but it took the wind out of his lungs and sent him crashing to the ground once more. The arrow snapped as he fell forward, driving itself deeper into his shoulder and making him cry out in pain. Slowly, he rolled over. The metallic taste of blood was in his mouth as he looked up at the stars. The man with the spear appeared in his view, that same smile on his face.

“Who the hell are you?” his voice was shaky, the pain in his leg and shoulder taking over his whole body. Slowly, steadily, the man lowered the spear into Cormac’s chest.

“Thus, the flames of Amatera grow,” he whispered, slowly pulling the spear back out. As Cormac Din Trellis lay there, convulsing as he tried to draw breath, he turned his head south. There, Amatera Mountain loomed magnificent and terrifying.

Trivia

 * First (and last) appearance of Cormac Din Trellis
 * First appearance of Caedric Kinkaid
 * First mention of Orsella Din Trellis
 * First mention of Rellan Din Trellis