The Lost God

Chapter One

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Hundreds of silent men and women, all with blades at their hips or upon their backs, lined the wide road that lead to the southern border of the Reach. Nomads that had migrated from the mountains stood with the natives, their olive skin standing out from the tanned faces of the Northerners. Women held back their young with warning arms, and men stood with their backs straight, eyes on the fort of Newford. It guarded the pass into the mountains like a knight, its stone walls unbreakable. A line of men astride horses rode proudly down the slick road, their dark cloaks at odds with the snow that billowed around them and piled high between the wooden houses. The horses snorted, their smoky breath rising high and trailing away with the wind, their long manes whipping with the currents. They were short and stocky, bred to withstand the harsh conditions of the Reach, their hooves picking the way with confidence. Wild men and women rode through the crowd, wearing their armour with pride. The men had dark bushy beards that concealed their lower faces, and the women had scarves wrapped around their noses to protect against the weather. In the middle of the procession rode Prince Eric, the King's eldest son, unrecognisable from the rest of his entourage apart from his royal bearing. His beard and short-cropped hair were already streaked with grey, although his cold blue eyes remained as sharp as ever. He smiled and waved to the throng that awaited him, and a few lifted their hands in a morose farewell. Their heads turned as one as the procession rode away from the fort. They only dispersed when they could no longer see the horses amongst the white expanse before them.

The court of the Reach stood behind the windows inside the fort, watching the procession ride away. The King, venerable yet still standing tall, laid a reassuring hand on the broad shoulders of his second eldest, Bjorn. On his left stood his wife, Queen Nusaybah, a Nomad, and beside her were her two children; Princess Wilhelmina and Prince Adil. Perhaps a pace behind stood a man unlike any other native; he reached nearly six feet, solidly built, with blue eyes the colour of cobalt. Silver swirled in the relentless abyss of his eyes, and an almighty axe had been slung across his shoulders. He had both hands on the shoulders of the young boy in front of him, so alike in countenance that he could only be his son. The boy stood silently, his solemn eyes fixed upon the cloudy glass of the window. The silence in the hall was thick with sadness; the King had been left bereft of his eldest son at the gain of the King of Airen. Long after the riders had disappeared from view, the King finally turned away from the window to face the meagre court that had assembled before him.

'So, my son has left to marry Airen's princess.' His deep voice was powerful with loss, and his wife laid a hand on his arm, the other resting on her rounded belly. The King's eyes moved from one person to the next, finally stopping on the silver-eyed man.

'The time will come, Ivan, my old friend, when you shall have to make your choice.' At this, the king looked pointedly at the young boy, who switched his gaze from the window to the old man. His eyes mirrored his father's; a deep blue streaked through with silver. The intensity of his gaze seemed to unnerve the old king, who gave a wavering smile. Ivan patted the boy on the shoulder, and began to propel him from the hall.

'Conrad, leave with Mina and Adil. Practise your swordplay.' The boy frowned and opened his mouth to protest, but his father determinedly shooed all the children out and shut the door firmly in their furious faces. The remaining four adults looked at each other for a moment then moved to the long table that sat on the plinth at the top of the hall. Nusaybah collapsed into her chair, her dark cheeks flushed from the exertion. Bjorn waited until his father had taken his place next to his wife before sitting on the other side of him. Ivan lifted a heavy chair with one hand and placed it so that he would be facing the three royals. He sat in his seat with dignified silence and ran his fingers through his long, wild beard. The king eyed the hair with disgust.