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PROLOGUE

Rek the warrior drove his steed through the treacherous slopes of the Krikton Hills, fully aware his journey would bring him face to face with an infestation of evil that could devour his homeland of Maktear. But an awareness of the perils ahead did nothing to sway him from his course. Rek was a mercenary with perversions far more profound than the common sadist; he could slay a child or a feast-prepped swine with equal detachment. Under his helmet a wry grin lingered from his encounter with the last village he passed through. Men, women and children scattered from the very sight of him, uttering the titles he had so aptly acquired; Rek the Heathen and Rek the Remorseless.

But savagery such as this would be needed in the Krikton Hills; a passageway no sane man would follow. He would not travel through this land of miscreants if not for the full day’s ride he’d save eluding the winding roads below. The Kriks were a loathsome people who had propagated themselves through generations of incest. They were repulsive, savage, and imbecilic.

Yet Rek traveled with greater purpose these days. One of his harlots bore him a child, a son no less. He had never cared for the outcome of his seed before, but the thought of rearing a barbarian in his mold brought meaning to a life of mindless carnage that was beginning to bore him.

He moved on, fearlessly pushing his mount upwards through an unforgiving torrent whose drops fell through the gusty storm as if they were aimed straight at him. His steed, a beast as seemingly indifferent as he, carried on through the muddy trails with no sound to distract it other than the expansive drops that pelted off its master’s armor. Rek’s suit was a monstrosity that struck fear in his enemies a full battle field away. Shoulder spikes, horns and tilted facial slits made him look more demonic than human; suiting his lust for violence quite fittingly. It would take more than inclement weather for him to part with it.

By the time he arrived at the crest of The Krikton Hills the storm had subsided. He encountered a cluster of grass huts and mud-packed dwellings, smoke rose from the largest of the set. He dismounted quickly and drew his full length broadsword before his feet hit the ground. Seeking a meal to tide him on his way, he kicked open the door, ready to announce it was he that should be feared, and not the contrary.

But his grand entrance was wasted on an empty hovel. Grass and mud walls supported a shabby bamboo and bark roof that leaked at the edges. An assemblage of chairs and tables surrounded a fire in the middle of a dirt floor. Perched over the blaze was a boiling potbelly cauldron supported by an iron tri-pod; its contents likely responsible for the stench that stole his appetite. At the back of the dwelling was a door that lay fully open, teasing his curiosity, compelling him to ask why they would vacate their food and shelter with such haste. Rek crept through the hut towards the doorway, his sword tip well ahead of him. As he neared the exit he began to hear screams, faint at first then louder; they were that of a woman. He quickened his pace and shot out the back door where he found a gathering of Kriks standing in the woods at the edge of a small pond. In the middle of them, spread upon a stone slab, was a woman amidst the anguish of labor. She was a haggardly looking creature, surrounded by company equal to her unsightliness. Instantly, two of the men charged him, brandishing a club and a fire poker. The Krik’s may have been savage, blessed with brute strength, but they were poorly trained with skills that wouldn’t rival the youngest warriors from the blood clans of Maktear. Rek charged the man with the club, plunging his blade into bare throat, interrupting the Krik’s battle scream. The club bounced harmlessly off Rek’s helmet. The Krik fell to the ground with both hands at his throat, unable to contain the spillage.

Rek exchanged blows with the other man who swung the fire poker with admirable intent, until Rek ducked a thrust that sent the man off balance. With the Krik’s midsection fully exposed Rek sliced clean through to his middle. He dropped to his knees, clutching his abdomen to keep his innards from spilling out while looking up at Rek with a hollow gaze that implied his worthless life didn’t merit the anguish of a death scream. He fell to the ground without uttering a sound.    

Rek turned towards the woman, peering through the barrier they had formed to protect her, just in time to see the child emerge. He had seen the likes before with cattle and horses, but never a human. It seemed just as vulgar, in particular the after-birth. The mother’s screaming came to an end, replaced by that of the infant’s, and just like that, there was another life in the Krikton Hills. Rek thought he could do them, and the rest of the world a favor by killing it. Certainly, he didn’t come here to witness the miracle of birth, nor the impending moment of endearment that was destined to follow, a sight he had no stomach for. But instead of welcoming the infant they tore it from the mother’s reach, separating it from its cord before passing it around amongst themselves. They stared and poked at it, shaking their heads, submitting their disapproval. How hideous would this child have to be to not meet the standards of these degenerates, Rek thought.

They showed it to the mother and even she turned it away. Without discussion, one of the adults took the babe and flung it towards the fire; it landed just short of its mark on the fringe of the flames. Rek tore open his visor to confirm what he had trouble believing. Indeed these people were depraved; but if they wanted to kill one of their own, then so be it; the world was better off with one less Krik in it. What did it matter that the child would die without knowing the warmth of its mother’s touch or consideration from its own kind? A woman moved towards the child to further it into the flames when an epiphany struck Rek.

“Stop!” he commanded.

The woman held up as Rek burst through the barricade of men and scooped up the child. Convinced it should die, the haggardly female rushed the warrior, only to greet a foot of Rek’s blade in her belly. The others closed in on him, weaponless, but fearless just the same. Rek didn’t come here this day to slaughter an entire clan, but for the prize that he now hoped awaited him, he would kill them all. Two more attacked, but Rek cut them down; one a throat shot that spewed blood all over the child. Through the tumult, Rek managed to briefly eye the mother who lay on the stone slab, naked and bloody. Her arms were outstretched as if reaching for the child, which made no sense to him. Why would she want it back after rejecting it?

He found his way through the back door of the hut and grabbed a soiled rag off the ground while backing away, keeping the point of his sword between him and the Kriks, cursing them to keep their distance.

Time was precious and Rek had none of it to waste. This child may have no home with its own, but Rek had remembered a place where a discarded life was of great value. He barreled through the front door of the hut returning to his horse; close at his heel was a gathering of Kriks, desperate to stop him. Prior to mounting he stole a quick glance at the child’s face, pulling back when he did. It was diminutive and horrid to look upon. Its cheeks were hollow and the whites of its eyes bulged like they were ready to fall out. It looked back at Rek without a tear or a peep, even though coarse wool rubbed against its burnt skin.

He covered it back up, mounted his steed and headed back the way he came, abandoning his original quest through the hills.

He rode as hard as he could, knowing the child wouldn’t survive without food and proper care. For hours they beat down the main road on steel shod hooves, spit and snot spewing from the beast’s face. Then suddenly Rek yanked the reins and they sharply turned south onto an unworn path that was barely visible amidst the overgrown foliage. Rek ignored the overhanging trees that swatted his helmet as he begged more and more of the tiring steed that fought to abide its rider’s charge. On they went through the poorly traveled path and its myriad of turns, until finally their destination loomed.

Buried deep in the woods, surrounded by swamp, was a judiciously sized castle baring two towers; one with a peak and the other an observation turret. What brick was not covered in vines was black as night, as if it had been charred with fire. But just as the path came to an end at the edge of the castle property, Rek’s horse reared itself and violently kicked its feet over and over. If not for the firm grip on the reigns Rek and the child would have been thrown into the woods.

“Bloody Nag!” Rek belted. “What is your problem?” He scolded and spurred the beast, yanking on its reigns, but it would not move forward.

“In all our journeys, you have never once defied me.” Rek roared incredulously, but his steed would not settle until Rek dismounted and allowed it to back away. Rek secured the child in its blanket before moving on. He stopped where the path ended, looking at the ground before him, it was smooth and undisturbed. There were no wheel ruts or foot prints anywhere; no one had left or entered in quite sometime. He held ground for a brief moment, questioning the sanity of his mission; surmising the preceding events that led him to this point. Why did the Krik mother want the child back? It was not for love, they had already rejected it, damn near killed it, but why? It could not be because it was ugly; all the damn Kriks were ugly. Did they know something about this child he did not? And what the bloody blazes is wrong with his horse? A braver animal he has never seen, until now. But then Rek remembered why he had come here in the first place, so he slowly raised his foot and walked on. The land between him and the swamp surrounding the castle was desolate, cast with dried and dead weeds, a suiting environment for the castle’s inhabitant, a person who cared nothing for the preservation of plants, never mind life itself. He was known only as The Mage, and his stories were legendary. His preferred mode of transgression against his enemies was not to kill them, but to let them live in the agony of despair he would immerse them in. He would curse crops for a full generation, afflict women with barrenness and bring disease to a man’s mind. Years before, a magistrate of Maktear tried to oppose his presence over a land dispute. The Mage inflicted the man with insanity, causing him to slaughter his family and spend a lifetime wallowing in his sorrow.

But those were other men, who were weak; they were not Rek the warrior, and they had not come with a prize. He had heard the legend as a youth, but its words resonated so deeply with him that he would never forget it. The Mage had spoken to his clan about a search for a child, unwanted and unloved from the womb, discarded by its own kind. For such a being, The Mage promised a gift that would stand above any other, a gift of ‘Eternal Reward’. He didn’t explain further, but the elders of Rek’s clan imagined it as the ability to extend one’s life. Even back then The Mage’s age could not be guessed.

When Rek reached the castle, he removed his helmet and placed it on the ground. He looked back at the property’s edge looking for his horse, but it was nowhere to be seen. His eyes scanned the front wall of the black castle and the turrets above him. He felt his heart pounding through his armor as he approached the front door, a large two piece metal gate that looked more like the entrance to a dungeon than a home. He banged on them until they slowly opened inwards, seemingly on their own. A stench of damp mold, suiting the blackness inside, barged into his nostrils like an unwanted guest.

Rek stood there for a moment, his hand instinctively retreating to the hilt of his sword. Then the darkness within broke as a figure embracing a candle approached, stopping a foot from the entrance and the dim sunlight that breached the doorway. Rek could see nothing but an outline of a face; he spoke to break the unnerving silence.

“The Mage…I’ve come to see The Mage.” But there was no response. Rek stepped a little closer and opened the bundle. The figure leaned forward to see the child, exposing his features in the candlelight for a brief moment. Air hissed unbidden from Rek’s lips when he caught sight of the pale skinned man who seemed remarkably stout for a person of such severe age.

He said nothing as he turned and walked inward, gesturing for Rek to do the same. When they were inside the figure raised a hand to stop Rek, while he continued on into the darkness. Rek could see nothing more than the outlines of walls; there were no windows to permit the sight of anything else. He took a quick look at the babe, becoming further unnerved at its continued silence. Moments later, the candlelight reappeared down a distant hallway. Two sets of shuffling feet competed with the thud of Rek’s heart. The figure with the candle drifted off to the side to leave Rek face to face with The Mage who stood a few paces away. He was dressed in a black robe, tied with a black cord that draped his waist like a dead snake.

His age was hard to guess; his wrinkles were profound yet his hair was jet black, draping well past his ears. Candle light flickered off his facial rings; two in each ear and one in his chin that dangled a hand span below.

“Do I know you?” he asked, in a voice that was coarse as wool rope.

“I am uncertain, my lord. My name is Rek. I’ve brought something I trust is of great value to you.” Rek opened the bundle for The Mage to see.

“Of what purpose would an ugly child provide me?”

An unfamiliar tremble came to Rek’s hands, sensing The Mage’s impatience.

“He fulfills the conditions of your ultimate search; I have taken him from his family.”

“Then you have wasted your efforts, Rek. The child is supposed to be unwanted from its own kind, not stolen.”

“But it was unwanted, this I swear.”

The Mage took a step closer, the lines in his forehead deepening while a sneer sprouted across his lips. “You have already spoken one lie to me Rek; another such falsehood will incur my wrath.”

“Look again!” Rek snapped, holding the child out for The Mage to see him better.

“Whose blood is that upon the child’s face?” The Mage demanded.

“It is the blood of those who opposed me.”

“So you did steal him then?” The Mage bellowed.

“I did not!” Rek yelled. “I saved this child.”

The Mage’s look turned to one of intrigue.

“Look closer,” Rek said, “Look at the burn marks upon him. The Krik’s tore him from its mother and tossed it in the flames.”

The Mage’s eyes grew wide and his mouth fell slightly open. “And his mother, what of his mother, did she feed him, did she touch him, has he been contaminated by her suckle?”

“This child has known no love or touch of warmth from its mother, this I swear.”

The Mage slowly turned towards his servant, exchanging a wondrous look with him, before turning back again.

“You may have done well, Rek; I shall indeed keep this child and bestow upon you the treasure of ‘Eternal Reward.’

“Thank you, milord.”

The Mage took the child from him, careful not to touch its skin and handed it to the servant, before returning to Rek, who anxiously awaited his prize. “Rek, what do you believe the ‘Eternal Reward’ to be?”

“It is the gift of life extended; I will outlive my enemies and my enemies’ children, if I do not kill them all first.”

The Mage smiled at the anxious warrior standing before him. “No Rek, I would not insult you with a reward of such paltry means. For the service you have provided me, you deserve a prize that extends far beyond the reaches of this realm.”

Rek’s eyes widened in anticipation, his smile grew uncontrollably across his face.

“What I bestow upon you Rek… is eternal afterlife!”

Rek’s gaze went blank.

“Actions such as these can only find reward in the kingdom of Belth at the left hand of The Usurper, whose presence you have helped to fulfill this day.”

“I…I don’t understand.” Rek pleaded.

The Mage smiled at him again, “You see Rek, in order for the ritual to be fulfilled… you too must die.”

Then it came to Rek, the reason why no one had helped The Mage with his search all these years. Rek quickly drew his sword and backed out of the castle entrance. The Mage slowly followed him outside, smiling at Rek’s efforts to protect himself.

“Besides, Rek, your endeavors, although self-serving, could one day be construed as heroic.”

“By who?” he demanded.

“By the child,” The Mage answered. “I am sorry, Rek, but if this child is to fulfill the role for which you saved him for, then he cannot know the affable sentiment of a savior. Your intent was righteous, but to complete its discharge, you must die.”

Rek watched The Mage raise his hand. Gnarled fingers, poised like they were broken, were aimed straight at him. Rek raised his blade to strike, but it fell from his grip. He staggered sideways before dropping to his knees.  “My eyes!”  

Rek opened his mouth to coax a scream, but it never came. His hands wavered over his eyes and throat as if he wanted to clutch them, but they ached from a pain he knew he couldn’t relieve.

Then Rek went still, his mouth lay open and his hands fell at his side. An image of the son he would no longer be able to raise flashed briefly through his mind as the deep red blood that had gathered in his skull, burst from his eyes, spraying a horse-length away. Rek collapsed in a pool of his own blood, the only puddle in the castle’s courtyard.       

The Mage eased his way back inside, returning to his servant.

“The child is near death, get him some goat milk, treat his wounds but be sure to wear gloves. This child will never know the warmth of our touch. He shall sleep in the solitude of the castle’s depths in the room next to The Book.”

“The Book of Being, my Mage?”

“Its emanations will help enrich the child; he will need its strength for the path I propose for him.”

“Do you think this is the child?”

The Mage smiled, “I will treat him as such. He will learn the elements of dark magic, the merits of torture, and the means to prolong his life, as you and I have done. He will learn to ignore the gods that other men choose to worship. As an apostle of The Usurper he will need to be powerful. The Grand Spirit will surely bring forth a virtuous entity to oppose him.”

“What opposition do you foresee, milord?”

“I do not know, The Grand Spirit works in mysterious ways; a charmed artifact, a weapon, a being worthy of contestation, it could be anything.

If this child lives, I will teach him everything I know, and name him Maeldroth. He shall be an emissary of death, paving the way for The Usurper.

But if he dies,” The Mage took a shallow breath, “then he’s just one more ugly Krik that shan’t be missed.”