And so it begins, Norbert thought as the doors into his bedroom opened and a servant stood beyond, head bowed and a tremor underlying her – new and untrained, he thought.

“Who is it?” he asked, having to move his head as his squires, Latimer and Anthony, worked to unclasp his breastplate. The knight shuddered as air gems on the underside of the armour were disturbed, calling forth a breeze that chilled an under-layer still moist from water and sweat.

“Sir Dorren, m’lord,” the woman said. “He wishes to see you.”

Two huntmasters served in the employ of the Mandaron family, the master of the overhunt and that of the underhunt. Dorren led the former, which meant he tracked and aided against the hunt of land animals, while Norbert dealt with mines and caves.

“Send him to my study and ensure he’s well-tended,” said Norbert. “Tell him I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Of course, m’lord,” the servant said and left.

Norbert’s squires continued their work, splitting his armour into different pieces which broke the greater diagram, becoming delicate in the process – the metal was thin, enchanted with earth gems to strengthen it and without the diagrams all that fortitude disappeared.

They were good boys, his squires, diligent in their duties, fierce warriors, and loyal to their master. He trusted them to fight at his back, holding their own and keeping danger away from him, but he had not forgotten of their other allegiances.

Anthony was the third son of Viscount Toby of Norston. His father was a man of failing mental faculties and once he died their family’s claim to power would be gone, gifted to another loyal figure who would look over the Eddington Barony. There was the possibility that the future ruler might be Dunstan Norston — the first son of the viscount — but in the current environment the future was not so certain.

Latimer was born of different circumstances but the same applied. The boy’s father was a vassal of Baron Barbour, and they had to their name only a stretch of farms; it was not out of the question that the boy wanted a greater standing for his family, and would do anything to get it.

As loyal as the boys were to their master and teacher, no doubt blood was thicker.

Norbert watched as they worked, taking in their expression. Since they had been but thin-armed children they had been his, and he could unravel the inner workings of their minds as well as scholars divined their books and scrolls. They were curious of the proceedings of the hunt, but more than anything they were curious of any news of the elusive, black-skinned Champion few had seen.

His squires knew him too well to ask, but it was a matter of time before curiosity got the better of them. Norbert would tell them the story of the hunt, but it would be a version of events that had the Champion as a much greater figure than he had turned out to be.

That was the way of things after all.

When they were done, the squires left the room and Norbert changed out of his wet clothes, first going under a torrent of hot water that eased the tension from the hunt, and then letting himself be dressed by his servants.

How far I have come, Norbert thought, because even after so many years there were aspects of his role which chafed.

At his youth he had known only dogs. For generations his father and forefathers had been kennelmasters for minor lords, but matters had changed when a young king Orpheus, his parents, brothers and sister had visited Norbert’s liege lord. A dire beast had gone on the rampage shortly through their stay and a hunt had been called into session, with Norbert lucky enough to be a part of the tracking party.

The hunt had not gone well. Raiders had been the reason for the dire beast’s rampage and they had attacked King Finneus and his oldest sons; the royal guard had fought well but had been outmatched by numbers, skill and a greater understanding of the terrain, only managing to stall the fighters enough that the then prince had been able to run where his father and brother could not.

Still hunted and their enemies close at behind, a young Norbert had grabbed the young prince by the hand and chosen instead to take them to a hiding spot he had discovered with friends. There the two had hidden for the next week, with Norbert hunting game and exploring the surrounding wood for information. Safety had eventually found them and as reward for his conduct, Norbert had been raised to the position of squire for Malnor castle’s master of the hunt, and thus entangling him in the goings-on of the nobility.

He found Sir Dorren Forstard seated in a large chair that faced a crackling fire, a goblet of wine held in hand. The man was on the shorter side, large and hairy, with a beard that dominated his face, making him look older than he was.

“Ho-ho,” he said, his voice louder than it needed to be. Norbert had length dawdled and Dorren had gotten more time to drink. “Your expression seems more tightly wound than it usually is, old friend. Is it to do with Lady Freda’s injuries?”

Norbert restrained his sigh. Dorren, however, knew him so well that he was laid bare. The man laughed which further soured Norbert after a particularly long day. He took the second seat and poured himself some wine.

“Lady Freda would not have been harmed if my squires had attended the hunt,” he said, his voice low.

The boys were of age that soon he would have to speak to either the king or a duke to give them the rites of a knight. A much smarter man would have used the time to foster other boys, so his older squires could teach their younger counterparts, but that would have earned resentment from those whose sons were not chosen. He gritted his teeth as he thought of the lords who would come to him when the position opened. As huntmaster he was close to the king, and many wanted to bask in that privilege.

A nuisance, all of it, when all Norbert wanted was to serve his king.

“Such is the way of those above us, dear friend,” said Dorren with a hearty nod. He took a gulp of his wine and put it down with too much force. “We know better when it comes to the hunt, but they speak in that subtle way of theirs and we have no choice but to follow along.”

Norbert hummed.

How long will it be before you ask? he thought.

“Lady Freda aside, how was the hunt?” Dorren asked.

“Wet,” Norbert replied. “Lady Ellora and her water gauntlets are nothing compared to an elemental water mage. Leonard the Mage was fearsome in his power, in one attack he felled a carrier mother.”

“Truly?”

“Truly,” said Norbert, taking another sip of wine. “He called forth a great maelstrom of water and made it as small as fist. Then he grew it once more, ravaging the poor creature and many of its young.”

“You speak as though we have not killed many a carrier mother.”

“In our way there is still preservation,” said Norbert. “We kill the mother, yes, but her young still survive in large enough numbers that their kind does not cease. I worry that may not be true when a mage is one of the hunters.”

“You show your upbringing, old friend,” said Dorren.

“An upbringing I’m proud to have,” Norbert returned, his tone shorter.

“Oh, there was no offence meant,” the man said, waving his hand. “Owain the Younger is said to be a fierce warrior. How was his showing?”

“There is often an expansive gap between what is said and what is true,” Norbert.

“Not impressed then?” said Dorren, chuckling heartily.

“He was attempting to court Princess Allycea through a show of skill, but he was unused to the environment and made a fool of himself in his eagerness. Were his mage companion not present, likely he would have been killed by the carrier mother’s brood.”

“Bad showing,” Dorren muttered. Norbert nodded, taking a drink of his wine. It was strong and sweet, a pleasure to the tongue, and it was starting to imbibe him with its spirits. He took care to pay attention to his tongue. “That will not endear him to our Allycea. She values a warrior’s spirits. Amongst other things.”

Norbert only hummed. He tried to imagine Princess Allycea with a king at her side and the sight did not form. Where others outgrew such dalliances, the princess revelled in them. She was of an age that she was to marry, however, and that was a consideration working through the minds of many a suitor.

“He is heir to the Elemental Line, though,” Dorren continued. “The most influential duchy in our lands, second only to our home of Fleetwood, that alone grants him more right than most to our Allycea’s hand in marriage.”

“Perhaps,” said Norbert.

Ask, he thought. Ask so we can be done with this and I might attend to more of my duties before I can retire for the day.

Before the man could ask there was a knock to the door, a servant with a letter from Lord Ambrose of Cartridge, inviting Norbert for breakfast tomorrow morning. The lord was cousin to Norbert’s wife, Talia, and to refuse him would be impolite; so he told the servant that he would graciously attend, his stomach churning because that would be his next week, engagement after engagement, all of them inquiry about the hunt, and especially—

“The Champion,” said Dorren, finally. “You are one of the few who saw him. What is he like? I had heard that his skin is as black as coal.”

As a young boy, Norbert had saved the life of the future king, and though he and King Orpheus were not friends by any means, the huntsman had long known that it was the workings of the Fates that had brought him to Malnor castle. They were the gods of paths and destinies, ensuring that man always did as he was supposed to; and his path, beyond being the master of the hunt, was protecting the king.

Rowan had won northern Washerton through promises of power and that had disrupted that entire kingdom. Now there were worries that the minor lords at the western borders might change allegiance, which was why the Champion was such an important figure. Rowan and Jordan were supposed to be of the same legacy, a powerful legacy, but since Jordan stood with King Orpheus — someone familiar when Rowan had foreign notions that often broke the natural order — they would be more likely to stay the course.

But where Rowan was a mystique growing into a legend, the man Norbert had seen was lacking. As old as he was he seemed to be a scared child, with none of the bravery a Champion was supposed to possess; but people knowing of this truth would not serve the king.

“His skin is dark and his hair is coarse as any I have ever seen. It does not even grow wet, water rolls off it as if controlled by a water mage.”

“Surely you jest,” said the man.

Norbert shook his head. “But…I see in him an image of Prince Matthaeus.”

“O-ho. High praise, then,” said Dorren.

Norbert frowned, choosing his words carefully. It would not do to lie and be caught in the future.

“I am remembering Prince Matthaeus’ first hunt,” Norbert continued. “The boy was not excited, some have said he was deathly terrified, but when danger was before him he fought fiercely and with passion. The same is true of the Champion.”

“Ah, but the Champion is said to have a pirate’s pistol where Prince Matthaeus held the Sonorous Hammer.”

“Both are loud, Dorren,” Norbert said.

“But one is a thief’s weapon,” said Dorren. “What does it say of our Champion that he has chosen such a thing?”

“As he explains it, it is so he can sooner join the men who fight at the borders. He is blessed with keen eyes and the good, but unrefined, instincts of a hunter. He would make a good archer—”

“He is too old to learn from nothing,” said Dorren. “He would be too stubborn to truly learn.”

Norbert nodded. “The pistol is much simpler. All one has to do is press it and it spits fire. From the little I have learnt, it has only been two months that he has been learning the art, and already he has enough talent that he was a great help when we lost Lady Freda.”

“Then we might not have to endure Rowan’s incursion for much longer,” said Dorren, hope in his voice. Three of the man’s sons were those in the front lines, protecting the border mines and villages.

“Yes, dear friend,” said Norbert. “That is a hope we all have.”

***

Norbert had faced all manner of dire beasts to hone his abilities. The hunts had been of grave danger, and a few times he had come close to seeing the great realm beyond, where gods and men intermingled. When he took on a new hunt, knowing there was the possibility he might not escape death, he was never afraid. Yet as he looked upon royalty, he found his legs weak and his heart hammering heavily against his chest.

King Orpheus Mandaron sat on the largest of the seven thrones, dressed in silks coloured blue and white, the royal standard sewn onto his breast; his crown was a dark band of metal and it sat heavily on his head, adorned with temporal and spatial gems. He had the build of a warrior: muscular without being overly so, broad shouldered and with a fluidity of movement that spoke of one who knew how to use a sword; his face was square and hard, his eyebrows were pale and yet heavy, together giving him a look of who accepted no nonsense.

Beside him sat his lady wife, Queen Eleanor Mandaron. She was a delicate woman, thin in a way many would think was frail, and yet with a hardness in her eyes that had made great warriors fall to their knees. She wore clothing that were of a style to her home of the Sunward Empire, which were of differently coloured silks layered one atop the other, with sleeves that were large and needed excess care in how one moved; the queen had done her dark brown hair in intricate braids, perfectly symmetrical, flowers set at either side, and at the centre a golden figurine of a lizard with its head held up, mouth open to spit out fire.

“Tell us of the Champion,” said King Orpheus Mandaron, his voice a rich timbre that boomed to fill the grand hall.

Norbert bowed, afraid that the motion was amateurish at best and would offend the sensibilities of the king and queen. When he looked up, both of their expressions were unreadable.

Norbert swallowed, nervous. He had known that every noble of low standing would come to him to learn of Althor’s Champion, but he had not expected that the king might do the very same. Had he known then he would have better prepared, but now he found it hard to pull apart the minor embellishments he had layered into stories for the last two days.

“He reminds me of Prince Matthaeus, Your Majesty,” Norbert started, something he knew often worked well to make many ignore that the Champion was a foreigner, especially one who used the weapon of a thief.

As he looked upon their expression he almost took a step back for both the king and queen now glared at him.

With a word he could have me killed and I would deserve it, Norbert thought, his eyes moving to the Royal Guard. Sir Alfred Barnaby, Holder of the Great Clank, and Sir Eleus of the Belfry Mandarons, a man who had relinquished a title which would have seen him become the Duke of Belfry, wanting instead to serve and protect his uncle, the king.

The two knights were not the only people in attendance: there was Grand Mage Cicero, who had become the leader of the Spatial Mages after the treason of his brothers; Lord Hollis Asher, the Grand Overseer of the City of Altheer; and Duke Aeleus Mandaron of Belfry, the sole remaining brother of the king. Each were powerful in their own ways, but if the king were to send an order to end Norbert’s life for an offence, Sirs Alfred and Eleus would be those to mete it out, and Norbert doubted if he would survive.

“You besmirch the name of a prince by comparing him to a savage?” Queen Eleanor asked, her voice low and cold.

Norbert shook. “Apologies, Your Majesty,” he said and bowed. The Prince was still a sore topic. He had been a prized gem, a specimen of the nobility, grace and strength of his family, but something had happened and the prince had disappeared. “Only…Prince Matthaeus and Princess Allycea have hunted in the old mines under my supervision, I would like to believe that I knew enough of them to make the comparison.”

“Then tell us what you mean,” said King Orpheus, tone short, his eyes bearing down on Norbert.

The knight swallowed, his heart heavy. The more he thought about what he was about to say, the more he knew that it would not be taken well.

“I remember that there was…an air around the prince,” said Norbert, the words slow and careful. “He no longer took pleasure in the hunt as he did when he was younger. He smiled when he spoke to Princess Allycea, however his smiles were…they were but a mask he wore, Your Majesty, at least that is the impression I had.”

“And this is something that is true for the Champion as well?” Grand Mage Cicero asked. The man, much like the other lords in attendance, stood where the king and queen sat, placed to one side so he wasn’t immediately before the king.

“He is not a warrior like Prince Matthaeus,” said Norbert and he was glad to see the queen’s expression ease. “He fought because he feared for his life and he took no pleasure in it.”

“I am given to understand he is something of a coward,” said Queen Eleanor.

“Not all of us are gifted with the strength of might dear sister,” said Duke Aeleus, his voice low. He was a short man, with similar features to his brother and yet with fat where the king was muscle.

As he spoke Norbert did not miss the narrowed glance the king directed at his younger brother. Unbidden, Norbert found himself remembering the past. Duke Aeleus had not attended the hunt, Norbert remembered, the boy had wanted to stay with his mother and sister.

Would that be going through the king’s mind? That Duke Aeleus’ cowardice had prolonged his life while bravery had taken that of Prince Pittheus?

“I think what Grand Mage Cicero recommended is worth some consideration,” Duke Aeleus continued. “The boy has a fascination with magic and that would do us well. Who knows what advancements he could bring as the Champions did for him?”

“Scholarly pursuits will not win us this war,” said King Orpheus.

“Nor will a coward gain us allies,” Duke Aeleus returned.

King Orpheus ignored him and turned back to Norbert. “Tell me of the hunt,” he said, “and tell me honestly, for I do know whose word to accept as truth. Mutterings from Baron Owain the Younger speak of the Champion being a blathering coward, while my daughter tells me he has the makings of a warrior.”

“Two sides of a greater whole, Your Majesty,” said Norbert. “The Champion did indeed run when we came upon an alabaster lizard. Princess Allycea’s ladies-in-waiting ensured that this fact was kept something of a secret, but Leonard the Mage was not fooled, especially when again the Champion hesitated before aiding us against the carrier mother.”

“And yet you say he reminds you of my son,” said Queen Eleanor, light affront in the words.

Norbert could not answer.

“Go on, sir knight,” said the king.

“After his moments of hesitance, the Champion was indeed an asset,” Norbert continued. “He has keen eyes and an unmatched instinct. Before we came onto an alabaster lizard he showed a hesitance that I thought of as fear, speaking in ways that I could not entirely understand but which reminded me of how Healers often speak. My senses told me that there were no threats, and yet there one was. Even in the darkness he saw that the lizard’s brood had already hatched, something I had not yet sensed.”

It was strange but Norbert thought he saw something of a smile quirk on the mage’s expression. It was gone before he could take a second glance.

Lord Hollis laughed lightly. The man was old with a bald patch at the fore of his head before long white hair grew out. Yet as old as he was he stood ramrod straight, not quivering in the slightest. Lord Hollis had known the king’s great-grandfather and he had ensured the function of a city as large as Altheer; where men of his age found themselves with ailing mental faculties, the same was not true for Lord Hollis.

There were often mutterings in Altheer that the man was a dark mage akin to those who had created the blights of the Blighted Lands, and that was how he could hold on to life with such vigour.

“It makes perfect sense,” he said. “He would be keen of eyes because his people no doubt live in the dirt and muck. Why else would his skin be so dirtied?”

“It is likely that it is not so, my lord,” Duke Aeleus said softly. “Creatures which live underground are often pale. Is it not so, huntmaster? You regularly plumb the depths of the island, have you not seen this?”

Norbert swallowed. “I have, Your Grace. Your words are indeed true.”

“It is likely,” the Duke continued, “that he comes from a servant people, ones who toiled under the harsh sun so long that their skin was marred by the experience.”

“Which is why our faith should not be put on one such as he,” said Queen Eleanor. “The children might be fascinated with him and think he might be of some worth, but that is their immaturity at work. We are their elders and betters, we should be focusing on what truly matters.”

“Alliances of marriage,” said Lord Hollis. At that silence fell and the features of the king and queen grew cold. “Duke Owain the Senior of Harrengrove has sent his son here to court the princess. He is…” the man stopped, his eyes turning towards Norbert.

“Sir Norbert is an ally,” King Orpheus said without thinking twice.

Norbert took a deep breath and stood straighter, his eyes burning at the edges. It was easy at times to think that the king had forgotten what Norbert had done for him, but that he remembered. That he still trusted Norbert was a sign of how King Orpheus was different from the lower ranks of the nobility. Norbert remembered being younger and how easy it had been for lords and ladies to overlook him, even when he had been a squire to Sir Langley of Mulligan.

“If Lord Owain were to turn to Rowan’s anarchy, then it would make it easier for those in the western borders of Althor to do the same. Though a Champion of worth has not been seen in a while, many still fear them and their legacy. It is through union that we may be able to overcome this, something Washerton was unable to maintain before old noble lines were extinguished and lands were taken by minor lords or peasants.”

“It is not our way to force our children to marry,” said King Orpheus. “My ancestor, King Zeus Mandon decreed it, and though I do not enforce it on the other lords, it is part of my heritage and something I am unwilling to break.”

“These are dire times, Your Majesty,” said Lord Hollis.

“My husband has the right of it, my lord,” said the queen, though her expression glimmered with a smile. “The Clashes of the Junipers began when two souls were kept from each other through marriage pacts, we cannot afford such an occurrence, especially now. The children should agree to their marriages, it will be better in the long term.”

“If the long term is something we can look forward to,” Lord Hollis said. “Rowan is a threat unlike any other. He has all but taken Washerton, destroyed its culture and given the peasantry military might; and yet he has claimed no land for his own, he holds no place where we might attack him, he flits from city to city, county to county, and we know nothing of his true plans.”

“We know he has a great interest in celestial gems,” said Duke Aeleus. “And we know he uses the peasants and upstart lords to obtain them. We know of the device he uses to find celestial rivers.”

“But what does he truly want?” Lord Hollis asked. “Why overthrow governing structures if not to take them for yourself?”

At this there was no answer.

“We cannot defeat a man who holds nothing dear,” said Lord Hollis, the words grave.

“Priests in the Sunward Empire teach that man’s greatest weakness is their attachment to the pleasures of the world,” said Queen Eleanor.

“If that is true, then Rowan might be greater than us,” said Grand Mage Cicero.

“Grave words when your brothers so recently committed treason,” said Duke Aeleus.

“As I have shared with His and Her Majesty,” said the mage, “none of my brothers knew of Grand Mage Clifton’s plans, though many of us trusted that he had some form of a plan.” He sighed. “I will admit, however, I am quite curious why he would have given his life for the Champion.”

“Perhaps he doubted our convictions,” said Queen Eleanor. “He thought himself so important that he could commit treason and be spared.”

“Perhaps, Your Majesty,” the Grand Mage agreed.

“We should increase the number of workers in the mines,” he said. “Brother, send out a decree. There shall be no executions, all criminals will be moved west to serve their sentences in the border mines. If Rowan wants them, then they are something we can keep from him.”

“What of the peasant upstarts?” Duke Aeleus asked. “They are a problem as much as Rowan, Your Majesty, but they are far more insidious.”

“They should be executed,” he said. “An example should be made. Rowan, no matter how lofty his promises, will not be able to protect them when they are truly of need.”

“As you say, Your Majesty,” Duke Aeleus said and bowed.

“And the Champion?” asked Grand Mage Cicero.

“He will be tested by Healers in a few days,” said King Orpheus. “Where he will meet a few important figures and I will see the work that my son has put into him. The Fates are fond of surprising us, perhaps there might be something of worth in this Champion.” His smile said otherwise.

The kings stood and everyone stood much straighter. He held out a hand and the queen took it, standing with the utmost grace, careful not to trip on her silks which trailed on the ground around her.

“Go about your duties,” he ordered before he and his lady wife left the room through a staircase behind the thrones.

“Sir knight, if I might have a word,” said Grand Mage Cicero. Norbert was a little surprised. The man slowly stepped down the stairs to the floor and smiled. “You were interrupted as you discussed our dear Champion. I wonder if you might tell me in detail of his participation during the hunt.”

And so it continues, Norbert thought.