Author’s note: You may recognize this story as a rewritten version of this post. This is an excerpt from the fantasy book I’ve been planning (working title Tower of the Consumed, although that will probably change). Now that I’m done with Hectorium Infinium, I’m going to begin work on this book in earnest. Don’t expect it to be quick. I’m pacing myself much better with this one, or at least, that’s my plan. We’ll see how it turns out. For now, enjoy the prologue! Hopefully it gets you intrigued for what comes next.

The sun sank slowly behind shadowed mountaintops. The lady Twilight spread her star-sprinkled cloth over the sky. The horned moon was long gone, deserting the darkening land of Eldon to night’s inevitable victory.

Scores of stars shone unblinkingly upon Eldon – a wild, untamed ocean. Not an ocean of water, but one of rock – massive stone waves towered, frozen mid-crash. Its peaks climbed higher than the clouds. Its expanse stretched wider than the horizon itself. Once, it was said that the mountains of Eldon reached to the end of the world.

The night wind rushed through the majestic land, swift and tireless.

The wind knew many things.

The wind knew the end of Eldon, the endless.

Almost imperceptibly, the peaks bowed their proud heads. The rocky sea calmed, its waves smoothing and shrinking as the land stretched farther and farther south.

The wind descended, passing through forested peaks into rolling hills. Pinprick lights dotted the nighted meadows—the dwellings of men. At first, they lay few and far between, but the villages grew more frequent as the wind swept onward.

At last, it reached a massive city—the crown of the plains. The city, and the kingdom in which it lie, men named Vaste.

It sat there like a king enthroned, the Greatness of the Annedor; bound-stone walls rising in fierce battlements and haughty towers. Little fear had Vaste for the evils of the night; in its power it slept secure.

On this night, however, something greater than battlements and towers peered through the darkness. A mind older than the plains, more powerful than Vaste itself.

The mind searched the city with a sight beyond mere eyes.

The mind searched. And the mind found its mark.

High above the city, the night wind soared around a single tower, taller than any other.

The wind had seen kingdoms fall before.

It would again, tonight.

***

Thick purple curtains fluttered as shadow-cooled air drifted through the windows of the High-Chamber of Vaste.

Outside, the night was still. The city slept beneath the long shadow of the King’s Tower.

Within, among leaning lecterns and tables piled with parchment, a solitary figure stood—his brown hair tousled, his head tilted just so to catch the light on the page before him. He did not sit. He rarely did. Rulers ought to stand ready at all times – especially he. Little opportunity had a King to rest.

Piercing green eyes ran along lines of curling, ink-blotched script, but his mind had wandered from the words long ago. A page turned beneath his fingers, slow and silent. Name after written name stretched to the extent of the parchment.

Alaric the Third, High King of Vaste, snorted in derision.

“Mindless, this census. That tradition should compel a king to perform such a task…”

He let the parchment settle, and with a sigh turned away. Candlelight gleamed upon the golden circlet he wore, and its engraving – names, names fit for only the greatest among men.

He was called the Ruthless, the Exalted, the Opulent, the Fearless.

“But no man shall call me Alaric the Weary,” he said with a laugh like a lion’s purr. “Though weary I may be.”

Suddenly, the candles around Alaric flickered- and died. The cluttered room was thrown from warm light into near-blackness. A weight seemed to settle in the air itself. The very wind seemed afraid.

The dread that pressed upon Alaric was not merely a fear of the dark. Lesser men might claim the feeling of awful breath close behind them, and the sensation of being watched, of being known by a presence without a name.

But Alaric was not such a man.

His mind was honed—sharper than any blade. Though the trials of youth lay far behind him, and though his strength had long been cloaked in secrecy, Alaric remained a man without weakness. He was a man of Authority. And what was more, Alaric knew the name of the darkness that surrounded him.

“Zhan-azh.”

In a darkness which muffled all, the spoken word rang true, like the summons of one not to be resisted. Moments later, a graceful sword, glinting gold and silver, flew into Alaric’s hand. Upon its hilt a ruby glowed like fire, the Oath-rune inlaid in gold upon its crystal surface.

Alaric turned in place, eyes struggling against the room’s shadow. There were nine windows. All lie open to the moonless night beyond.

“Reveal yourself, demon.” Man and blade were together tense, expectant, but not afraid. Fear was an emotion that Alaric had long learned to suppress.

A figure stepped from the gloom in front of Alaric.

It was tall, swathed in robes of black and purple, and wore a mask of gold—the face of a man, stretched and distorted, elongated beyond any natural form. Its eyes were hollow pits, and even to the King’s sight, what lay behind them remained hidden. In its hand, it bore a long golden stake.

“Prima Vonex,” Alaric said. “I hoped I would never have to kill you again.”

“Your time has long since come, Alaric,” the figure intoned. “Doom has been set, and doom has been earned, and doom shall be done.”

Alaric laughed loud, a clear sound that echoed proudly in the silent room. “You speak of doom, demon. Doom shall come, indeed – but not to me. Face me like a man, if you dare to step out of those shadow-wrappings of yours.”

“The Consumed One wishes you dead, human. Do not speak to the First Mind as you command your petty lords. You are beyond saving.”

“We shall see!” cried Alaric, and rushed upon his foe, ruby-hilted sword flashing like a flame. The creature leapt to the side, striking out with its stake. Graven steel crashed against charmed gold with a noise like thunder. The blow jarred Alaric’s arm to the shoulder, but he held firm, muscles unyielding. He pivoted, driving his blade upward in a savage arc meant to cleave through mask and skull alike. But his enemy flowed backward—unnaturally smooth, unnaturally fast. Alaric’s sword carved through empty air.

The masked creature moved as though gravity had forgotten it. The stake reversed in its hand, hilt over point, and flashed like judgment. Alaric met the strike with his blade. The stone floor beneath them shuddered as sparks flashed in the darkness.

Alaric pressed forward, striking faster than a serpent. He was not a young man – forty years in the throne had worn hard on the King – but for the well-trained, youth was trivial. Blows fell like lightning from the royal arm. The kingly blade shimmered with a fierce light, and darkness fled before the wrath of Alaric.

But Prima Vonex did not tire.

The golden mask gleamed in the gloom, twisting the rune-light into a pallid glow. Each strike from Alaric’s blade was twisted aside, and the golden stake came closer to its mark with each stab.

“Your power has grown,” said the figure in a voice devoid of emotion, of weariness. “I am impressed.”

Alaric smiled slightly as he struck again, blade singing through the air. “Your skill has rather dropped off, I think. But it is time to finish this.”

Prima Vonex leapt away from his sword, impossibly fast. It moves like a falling shadow, Alaric thought.

“Indeed, the Consumed One grows impatient. The time for ending is here.”

Suddenly, the masked creature flung its weapon hilt over point. The High King’s sword soared upward to deflect, but it was too late. The stake struck true. Runic gold pierced silk, skin, and flesh, and its force threw Alaric backwards. Tables toppled, pages flew, and the King fell to his knees, a golden needle through his sword-arm. The royal blade lay just out of reach.

“You bleed,” intoned the First Mind. “Foolish of one so… capable… not to ascend into lichdom.”

Alaric spat onto the floor. Blood ran down his side.

“Am I a necromancer, to stoop to such abominations? Such vile magic is the craft of cowards.” He laughed, green eyes meeting black pits in a glare of defiance and hatred. “No, but before this night is through, you will be wishing your own immortality, demon.”

Prima Vonex studied the fallen King in silence for a long moment.

“I am more than any lich, human. I am immortal. I cannot die. But you… you are a mere man.”

The dark figure reached out suddenly, tore the stake from the King’s shoulder, and raised it high.

“Your doom is sealed.”

But the final blow never came.

Alaric spoke a word older than crowns, more ancient than stone. A word no living tongue could shape without shattering. The walls trembled. The wind screamed. The King cried aloud a secret rune, one given only to kings. None now live who know what he said. The words died with Alaric, and were never heard again.

At the shout, Prima Vonex erupted. Hissing fountains and arcs of flame exploded across its robes. When the flames faded, there was only ash.

“So ends an evil among evils,” breathed the High King. Exhaustion from the effort smote him harder than any graven stake, and he collapsed to the bloodstained floor.

A soft sound, like a cloak shifting, fluttered above him.

“You have killed me for a second time. A battle to sing of, if there were any to see it.”

Alaric lifted his head. There, standing above him, loomed the First Mind.

“Then I have failed,” he cried.

“We both know that I cannot die,” whispered Prima Vonex.

For the first time in decades, Alaric the Fearless felt fear – black, hopeless, heart-stopping terror, like death itself had emerged from the shadows.

Because it had.