So, my brothers, I say to you that we must change the way we wage this war. Retreat to the shadows, dwell in the dark places and gather your strength. Bide your time, for our triumph is coming. The day when we unite again, when we set our Lord Asroth free, when we take back what is rightfully ours.

Only do this: answer the call when it is given.

They think this is the final chapter of our long defeat.

But they are wrong.

So written by Gulla, High Captain of the Kadoshim until the restoration of our king, Asroth the Great.

CHAPTER ONE: BLEDA

CHAPTER ONE

BLEDA

The Year 132 of the Age of Lore, Reaper’s Moon

‘I should be down there,’ Bleda said, knuckles whitening on the grip of his bow. He was crouched upon the steep slope of a hill, looking down upon a scene of wonder.

A war.

Horses and their riders swirled upon the plain in constant motion, from this height seeming like two great flocks of birds looping ever closer, the distant rumble of hooves setting the ground trembling beneath Bleda’s feet. As he stared in envy and fascination, the faint echo of hurled challenges and insults, the harbingers of violence, drifted up to him.

‘No, you should not be down there,’ a voice said behind him, Old Ellac absently rubbing the stump where his right hand used to be. The skin around his eyes creased and cracked like old leather as he squinted at the battle about to begin on the plain below.

‘Of course I should,’ Bleda muttered. ‘My mother is down there, leading our Clan. My brother rides one side of her, my sister the other.’

But not my father.

‘Aye, but they are all more than ten summers old,’ Ellac pointed out.

‘So?’ Bleda snapped. ‘I can fight, am more skilled with a bow than most. Than you.’

‘That’s not hard these days.’ Ellac snorted and cuffed Bleda across the head with his one hand.

Bleda immediately felt shame at his remark, more painful than the slap. He knew that neither of them wanted to be sitting on this hill while their kin fought and bled on the field below.

Your tongue is sharper than your sword, his father used to say to him.

‘Look,’ Ellac said, pointing with his stump. ‘Altan.’

On the plain below a lone rider separated from their Clan, instantly recognizable to Bleda as his older brother, Altan.

Seventeen summers is not so much older than me. Yet he is old enough to fight, and I am not. Bleda scowled at the injustice of it, though none of his ire was directed at Altan. He loved his brother fiercely.

Altan was galloping hard, curling close to the enemy warband. As he did so a rider emerged to meet him, galloping just as fast. Both warriors dipped in their saddles, arms extended as they drew their bows.