The Count of Castle Rock

Chapter I- The Court Magician

Cold eyes stare back from the smoke-stained silver mirror, cobalt blue and piercing. He forces a smile and watches as the reflection slowly follows suit. Handsome, hawkish features, long raven-black hair. Methuen, the Black Count of Nevergreen, the Court Magician of King Humphrey IV. The reflection winks, blue eyes becoming pools of inky black.

The true Methuen scowls, "This is not the time."

The flap of his spacious tent opens and a wizened man enters, draped in brown robes and hair in two grey ponytails. The count's personal bodyguard runs his hand along the hilt of his curved blade, but remains seated at a subtle signal from Methuen. The old man tosses his staff across a garment-covered trunk and joins the count at the strange mirror.

"Methuen, you can't do this."

"So The Assembly sends Greyhat the Earthtouched to rein me in. Again," Methuen scoffs. The reflection glares at the old man before walking away, leaving the silver mirror empty.

"No one is foolish enough to believe you can be reined in, old friend."

"Then why are you here?" Methuen goes to the nearby desk and scoops up his blue wide-brimmed hat. He extends his arm and his matching blue cape flies across the tent to clasp at the neck. "Why are you wasting your time and mine?"

"Because everyone else is afraid of you. They fear your temper, they fear The Black Count." Greyhat places himself in front of the tent flap, barring the exit.

Methuen tries to pass him, but it's impossible without physically moving the man. His bodyguard, a member of the sacred order of Ghostblades, waits expectantly for his instructions. Gritting his teeth, the count ignores him.

"Move, Greyhat."

"You can't do this." Greyhat puts his hand on Methuen's chest, easing him back from the triangle of light pouring in. "The Assembly mandates that no ranked mages interfere with the politics of The Three Nations."

"Don't recite the mandates to me. I helped write them."

"Then you know the mandates exist for a reason."

Methuen grabs Greyhat's wrist. "Remind our friends on high that I am the court magician of Quinlain, and I will do whatever it takes to protect it. Including accepting the challenge of an upstart mage."

Greyhat looks down at Methuen's hand. "And what if you lose?"

After a long pause, Methuen's laughter fills the tent, causing the ground to shake and the candle flames to gutter. He releases Greyhat and the old man's hand drops. With the warning given, there is nothing else he can do. Greyhat the Earthtouched reclaims his staff and leaves, Methuen's laughter following him out of the camp and across the countryside.

With a last glance at his peculiar mirror, Methuen walks out into the morning light, ghostblade at his back.

Scores of colored tents stretch out along the Quinlain southern border. The banners of noble houses and prolific knights wave in the morning winds. Knighted men and women in heavy armor inspect their reserves. Squires tend to their mounts and messengers hurry to and fro. Camp followers hard at work scramble out of the Black Count's way. The once tranquil hills of South Quinlain buzz with activity and the sounds of war.

The armies of the Southern Reaches stood defense against the hordes of Gramshandle, 30,000 revolutionaries fresh off their campaign of overthrowing the theocracy that ruled their nation for thousands of years. Quinlain could only muster a force half the size to stall the rolling tide of revolution, but her veteran knights and soldiers proved more than a match for the untrained militia. The skirmish had come to an impasse after four days of intense fighting. Most of King Humphrey's advisors pushed for a parley, but Methuen and a few others believed the only thing that would stay the Gramshandle army was a show of force.