Description: Norsunder There are, at present, two records that the world believes lost. I know where they are. I''ve sat in the dusty chamber where they lie, my only company spiders spinning cobwebs into spectral lace over the years I was in and out reading both. One of those records is The Emras Defense, a deposition with a later-secret-addition, written by Emras, the mage who wrote on advanced ward magic. The first version, without the addition, was surrendered to the Sartoran mage guild, and buried so deeply in the archives that it requires several levels of inquisition to be permitted to see it. Only a heavily redacted version is studied by senior mage students at present. The other record predates Emras''s confession by four hundred years, written by the man who went down in history as Fox, captain of the ship named Death, who sailed under the Banner of the Damned. He did not sign his history, which delves into everyone''s thoughts but his, as his purpose was to record how Inda Algara-Vayir changed the world they both lived in. I am taking him as my model in writing the history of the disparate group later called the Young Allies. I, too, have a purpose beyond autobiography. This will be unsigned, which permits me the freedom of anonymity. At least, so is my intention in setting out. As I get farther in, everything might change, except the actual events: the consequences remain to be seen. Since the war that nearly destroyed Ancient Sartor more than 4700 years ago, Norsunder-the ancient, evil enemy-had, until recently, dwindled from admonitory parable to vulgar epithet. While assembling my facts for this writing, I was entertained by the various definitions of Norsunder by those who have never ventured to that retreat beyond the limits of the temporal. Most of them described Norsunder as a vast army with a single motivation, an oversimplification that borders on outright lie. This much is true: Those in command of Norsunder withdrew from the temporal after the Fall of Ancient Sartor nearly wiped out magic as well as humanity from the world. So much was lost, including magical abilities that had become innate. With the dwindling of magic, these abilities vanished forever-or so humans thought. But recently it''s become evident that these abilities were only dormant, as magic slowly manifested in the world again before Norsunder was aware or ready, this being the disadvantage of existing outside of time. Norsunder''s center is commanded by two individuals who seldom venture out of their citadel, aided by four others who call themselves the Host of Lords, implying they are part of the inner circle. The struggle for power among these four will be addressed in time; before that, all you need to know is that they assigned much of the grunt work in the temporal world to an Ancient Sartoran who had fought successfully against them until he was captured and turned. He has operated under a variety of names over the succeeding centuries. Currently he goes by Detlev. Under Detlev-and straining against that short chain of command-is his nephew Siamis, who had been twelve years old when he was seized and used as the bait to entrap Detlev, in those terrible days at the very end of the Fall. Bringing us to the year 4735. When a new voice was heard in the mental realm for the first time in over four thousand years, it meant that one of the skills thought lost forever, Dena Yeresbeth-"Unity of the Three," cohering body, mind, and spirit in ways impossible to humans after the Fall-was emerging again. For his first assignment Siamis was sent to track down the child and secure the source of that voice. Now on the threshold of manhood, Siamis used that opportunity to demonstrate his skills in magic and command by binding entire populations under an enchantment, to cover Norsunder''s attempt to create rifts between Norsunder''s timeless vantage and the temporal world in order to bring across the armies waiting there. Siamis was so intent on proving himself by building this web of enchantment that locating and snapping up a ten-year-old shopkeeper''s daughter named Liere became a secondary consideration, until she managed to elude capture. Aided by fifteen-year-old newly crowned king Senrid Montredaun-An and a growing host of allies, Liere brought down Siamis''s enchantment as rapidly as he had created it. That was the year previous to the beginning of this history. In spite of what ballads, speeches, and poems about the Girl Who Saved The World, and new Golden Ages, will tell you, neat, discrete endings to stories don''t happen in real life. Of all the subjects of this chronicle, most of whom were young rulers brought too early to thrones, probably the one most distrusting of the ephemera of Golden Ages and happy endings was Senrid Montredaun-An. It seems appropriate to begin with him. PART ONE The Alliance is Born Chapter One Early Rothdi (Sixthmonth), 4737 AF Marloven Hess Marloven Hess, a kingdom traditionally not given to taking any interest in its neighbors except as prospects for conquering, was still unsettled after the civil war that had removed their hated regent-who had been secretly supported by Norsunder. The Marlovens, never easy to rule even for a powerful and experienced king, found themselves with a fifteen-year-old boy trying to hold onto his throne. Senrid had first become aware of Norsundrian game plans and stirrings of old powers during the bad days when he and Liere had been on the run from Siamis. But right now? Norsunder was not his problem. All his focus was on a boy several years older, who faced him across the stone court in the infamous Marloven military training academy. At best, it would hurt. A lot. At worst, Senrid would be dead. No, that wouldn''t be the worst, Senrid was thinking, because then he''d be gone. Unless he became a ghost, but if ghosts actually existed, he''d never seen any. If dying by violence caused haunts, by rights Marloven Hess should be wall-to-wall revenants, and Senrid had never even seen his father''s- Ten years of habit shut away that thought. He flexed his hands once, resisting the impulse to wipe them down his trousers, and faced the tall, dark-haired, angry boy who towered over him. Boy? Jarend Ndarga, the leader of the seniors of the academy, had four years and two hands of height over Senrid. "Fight me," said Senrid. He knew he hadn''t a hope of winning, but since he was an underage king in a land where fighting has always decided everything, and all his future commanders were gathered in this one place staring at him like he was a squashed bug, what did he have to lose? "Of course I can''t fight you," Ndarga said bitterly. "I touch your precious kingly head and you''ll have me at the flogging post so fast there won''t be time to whistle up a crowd to scoff." "That," Senrid said, "was my uncle. This is me. When I said anything goes, I meant it. Do you see a uniform tunic?" He lifted his hands and spun around, as if Ndarga hadn''t been aware of his plain white shirt tucked into his black trousers. Senrid hoped no one noticed the tremble in his fingers. "No," Ndarga said slowly. "Then take off your coat. We''re two people, and we''re going to scrap." "Rules?" Ndarga said in a goading voice. Senrid exulted, in spite of his hammering heartbeat. I''ve got him. He didn''t pause to reflect on how. Who cared? He might not last until the next watch change, but at least he''d go out fighting, a fitting finish to the shortest reign in Marloven history . . . "Anything goes," Senrid said recklessly. The low whistles and whispered comments from the perimeter were testament not only to how many had gathered on the walls and at the windows, but to what they thought. "Oh, for certain," Ndarga sneered. "If I kill you, nothing happens to me?" "Something is certain to happen, but it won''t be by my command," Senrid retorted, and breathed out when he heard a ripple of laughter from the spectators. "Seeing as I''d be dead," he added, in case there were some a little short on logic. Senrid dared not look around to see the reactions. With an effort he kept his gaze steadily on Ndarga''s dark eyes. "Kill him," a senior called from a safe vantage behind. And as Senrid had hoped, Ndarga''s upper lip curled in disgust. From that same direction behind came a fast, whispered exchange from the crowd: "Swank!" "I didn''t see you walking out there when he called his challenge." "And have the guard land on me for my pains?" "He''s not here as king." "He''s always king," someone else said. "What''s the matter, afraid of an untrained scrub?" "We all know he''s had training." "But not with us." Senrid listened without shifting his gaze from Ndarga, who was also listening as he took off the coat that only a

Please Wait