CHAPTER 1
...Two years later.
Jonrell, like any other soldier, hated to wait. As a captain in the mercenary Hell Patrol, he filled the time between assignments by drilling his men and pitching in where needed. Even in an encampment of thousands, time seemed to slow as soldiers crept into their routines.
Messengers rode out days ago with terms to offer the other side. When the riders returned, Jonrell expected his next set of orders. He knew he should be thankful for the break since at any moment, everything could change, but the sitting around made him restless. He rose to his feet, stretching the stiffness from his limbs.
"You're leaving now? I'm just about to start up a game of dice."
"Then you should be happy I'm leaving. That's one less person to take your money."
Raker scowled and spat. He wiped the tobacco juices from his mouth with the back of his hand. "I was ready to give you some company but after that, I've changed my mind."
"When have you ever passed up a chance to cheat someone out of their pay?"
Raker shook his head. "Go on and get out of here. The last thing I need is your sour mood affecting my luck."
Jonrell left the army's encampment in the hot afternoon and within minutes headed into the ruins of an ancient city, its name long forgotten. Another victim of the great earthquake, he thought.
Battered walls crumbled as weeds pushed through the cracks and mortar. Gaping holes in the earth had split some buildings in two, while trees sprouted through the collapsed roofs of others. Coming across several dry wells Jonrell imagined the citizens of the land suffering through the aftermath of such a disaster, betrayed by the man sworn to protect them.
He shook his head thinking about what it must have been like during those dark times that still lingered even now. "The worst trials of our lives will be what define us. A man must not forget himself or his ideals, lest he become a husk of who he once was."
Another of High Mage Amcaro's words of wisdom Jonrell learned long ago. Why did Aurnon the Second turn his back on his people? He should have embraced them.
Jonrell brooded. He weaved between the broken buildings and cluttered alleys of a distant past, wondering if the lost souls of the ancient civilization questioned their decisions as he so often did.
Am I an empty husk of the man I once was?
Hours passed as the evening's red sky turned a leaden gray. A warm breeze danced across the windswept city, brushing aside his long auburn hair.
I better head back to camp before dinner is gone.
He rounded the corner of a building when a high-pitched squeal followed by a slur of deep-throated curses stopped him. His hand went to the sword at his waist. Drawing the blade, he ran around the half-standing walls on his right to the sounds of debris falling and coarse yelling. He darted into a narrow alley.
Limbs flailed in a cloud of dust and a heap of wood. A soldier from Effren's army, the Hell Patrol's employer, climbed to his feet, howling a string of curses. Blood and spit sprayed from him as he searched around his feet. He pushed aside a plank that fell apart in his hands and snatched up a dirk. Jonrell edged through the mouth of the alley. He took in his surroundings and searched for what could have let out the screech.
"Where are you? I know you're still here," said the man.
"Cord, what's going on?" whispered Jonrell when he was within a few feet of the man.
