"First, you must know that your grandfather lived a great life and was quite old, probably too old. Same thing for your grandmother. They started having children when they were thousands of years of age."

"Is that even possible?"

"Yes, some people find a way to live as long as the elves, even longer. Blessings of the gods they call it." The night shrugged and continued. "Anyway, I believe his decision had to do with the death of your grandmother. Godric lost the will to live and fell to grimness. He waited for a chance to die in battle, in order for him to retain his battle honor. I saw it in his eyes more than once. He couldn't get over the loss of his wife which eventually lead to his death. The realm was left in the hands of Godric's firstborn, Aiken."

"Uncle Aiken." Lindley uttered softly as he remembered his uncle who was killed a few months after he became the godking of Azmar.

"Yes, sorry for your loss." Byram stared into the depths of the cavern, seeing other times and places—and faces Lindley did not know. He was delving into the stored memories of the past. "The throne has turned to a deadly beacon. The pretenders to the throne would stop at nothing to become the king of Azmar."

"The pretenders? I thought the throne is based on bloodline."

"Yes, it is. Only your empyrean bloodline suppose to rule Azmar, but there was no one from your lineage to rule. Aiken is dead, and your father has already renounced his claim to the throne. So, the seven pretenders rose up from the seven major clans to claim the rights to the throne."

"Oh..."

"They were ruthless and cruel. One of them was Algernon. He was interested in treasures, anything that glitters above all else. He traveled far and wide in its pursuit of these things, to places around Azmar and beyond. Why he travelled, and what he was looking for, I do not know for certainty, but I believe it has to do with his artifacts. His base is still there."

"In Azmar?"

"No, the mountainous region of Myria." The knight scratched himself for a moment, eyes still far away, and added, "The frightening thing is that the depth of his power is unknown with the amount of artifacts at his disposal."

"And the others?" Lindley asked slowly.

Byram sighed, met Lindley's intent gaze, and went on. "The other pretenders immediately began to fight for control of the realm. People all over the land, call them 'the warring pretenders of Azmar.' There are tales even songs about them. So far, the one with the upper hand has been the oldest of the pretenders, Hargrim, the Bladesinger."

"A bladesinger?"

"You must listen to me on this, boy." The knight leaned forward suddenly and gripped Lindley's arms, and said urgently. "Hargrim is a deadly mortal, but he's an excellent weaponsmaster. Some even say he might have reached half-immortal stage. Right now, he has more or less defeated his competitors. But his victory has cost him, all of us and this realm greatly."

"How so?"

"He bought the services of powerful warlocks from all over the land to win him the throne. He's sitting on the throne today, but his mind is so clouded by the power of dark magic that he doesn't even know it. Or maybe he knows, and he just doesn't care. These magelords are the true rulers of Azmar, even the beggars know that."

"How many of these mages are there?" Lindley asked quietly and coldly. "Do you know their names?"

"I don't know their names. I doubt anybody in Azmar do if he's below the rank of a battle master for the palace, except perhaps the mansion servants of Azmar." Byram released his hold on Lindley and sat back, shaking his head in sadness. He cast a keen look at Lindley. "Kid, sworn to avenge your parents, huh?"

Lindley nodded. "As long as I live."

"Then, you must wait," the knight told him blankly. "Lay back until you're older and stronger. Strength and power is everything to one seeking revenge. Gather enough coins to buy your own magic wielders and weapon masters. You'll certainly need them, unless you're ready to face the god of death himself."

"If it comes to that, so be it."

"Know this, although it took the combination of all the warlocks and magelords to do it, they killed old Markham—as powerful a celestial warlock as you'll find in all the lands of the living—few summers back." The knight regarded Lindley before shaking his head and sighed. "And those they couldn't kill with spells, they slaughter with blades."

"I will avenge them all," Lindley said quietly. "Before I die, Azmar will be free of these magic lords —every last one. Even if I have to tear them apart with my bare hands. This oath I've already taken."

"You shouldn't have made such great oaths." Byram shook his head. "Men who swear oaths are doomed to die by them. Their oaths hunts and hounds them. In the end, they wasted their lives without seeing the promised rewards."

Lindley regarded him darkly. "A wizard took my mother and father—and all my friends, and the other folk I knew. It is my life, to live how I want."

"You're a fool, kid." Byram's face split in that solemn grin again. He shook his head. "A smart person will run out of Azmar and will never look back. He'll never tell a word of his past, his family, or the Harbinger Sword to a soul . That way, perhaps he'll live a long and fruitful life somewhere else."

"You can't talk me out of this. There's no going back."

"I know, you're already on oath." He leaned forward to clasp Lindley's forearm, shaking his head again. "I know you'll try to seek revenge as soon as you can, but let me tell you this, you'll simply die trying. At least listen to me, wait until you have a chance before letting anyone else in all Azmar know that you are alive . . . or else, it won't take the magic lords of Azmar, more than a few seconds to dish the worst cruelties on you."

"They know of me?"

The knight gave him a pitying look. "What do you reckon? The warlock you saw over Waterpond must have received his orders to destroy prince Arundel and all his bloodline. They wouldn't want the son he had to grow wings and have the desires to become a future king. Why do you think he threw you over the cliff?"

There was a little silence as the knight watched the youth grew pale. However, when the boy spoke again, the warrior got another surprise.

"Sir Knight," Lindley said calmly, "Please, tell me the names of the warlocks."

Byram guffawed. "In all truth, kid, I don't know them. But I will give you the names of the pretenders. You'll need to know them anyway."

Lindley's eyes flickered in delight. "I'm all hears, sir half-knight."

"The oldest—your chief enemy—is Hargrim, the bladesinger. A big, bellowing battle general of the Azmari warriors. He was cruel when hunting and vicious on the battlefield. He's the best trained to arms of all the pretenders. He's a master swordsman, an incredible talent, I'll give him that."

"If he's a bladesinger, and a battle general, then he must be extremely powerful on insight."

"Not only that. There's something about him, a form of power, even lord Hades is staying away from the bladesinger. Anyway, he proclaimed himself the godking many years ago." The knight stared at the young mage and knitted his brows together. "Now, listen very well..."

After listening to the knight about the pretenders and his potential enemies, Lindley reached for the urn and Byram handed it over to him. The boy drank carefully, coughed, and handed it back to the knight. He dabbled his lips with his sleeves and said, "You make it sound as if I'm going towards my death."

The knight looked at the young boy, and shrugged. "It is the path you have chosen to walk, young prince of Azmar."

Lindley looked down at the Harbinger Sword, which had somehow found its way into his hands again. "What should I do now, sir Byram?"

"Well, go south, to the Ivory Hills or any other hideouts, and stay with the renegades. Learn how to survive, anyhow you can. Learn how to wield the blade, and be good at it. Go on adventures and make enough gold to hire mages and weaponmasters of your own." Byram let out a deep breath and gazed at the mouth of the cave. "The path of revenge you chose is a tedious and deadly one. This isn't about catching one warlock and killing him. You're going against the self-proclaimed godking of Azmar and the other pretenders."

"I understand what you're saying, sir knight."

"There are far too many of them, backed by too many magic lords, sorceresses, guardians, weaponsmasters and other mercenaries. Even if they all presented their necks for you to cut, your arm would grow numb before you'll be able to finish the job. Most importantly, they have the support of their patron gods. Do you know what that means?"

"My certain death?"