Prologue
The Pyromancer

When killing kings and sparking wars, Archivous preferred to wait till nightfall—but late afternoon could work in a pinch.

The archdemon stalked down the cobblestone street, invisible to the riffraff around him. Yes—he had caused the death of at least a dozen kings in his long and nefarious career. And the wars? He had stopped counting: they were so pathetically easy to spark. Aggressive leaders, resource scarcity, what have you: it usually didn’t take much to bathe swords in blood.

Today’s war, however, was proving stubborn.

Archivous prowled around the edge of a crowded marketplace, keeping to the long shadows cast by the setting Sun. He passed straight through carts in his way. They posed no obstacle to him—they existed only on the physical plane, not the unseen plane that he inhabited.

Up ahead, a tall figure in a sable cloak reached the end of the market. Confound it, that human was fast. Archivous opened his wings and launched into the air, flapping heavily, like an enormous vulture bat with horns. A screech of pain escaped through his fangs as his full wingspan was scorched by the sunlight. The sun’s rays, unlike carts and buildings, fully inhabited both the physical and the unseen plane. The moment Archivous caught up to the human, he snapped his wings closed and retreated back to the shadows.

“You’d think I could get a little cloud cover,” Archivous grumbled to himself, taking a shortcut through the corner of a shop. “It’s not like I’m at the climax of a seven-decade masterpiece of geopolitical calamity or anything.”

Archivous’s protégé left the busy streets behind and began threading his way between large stone manors—the homes of the city’s upper class. Once away from the crowds, the human moved low to the ground at a near run, never hesitating as he followed his painstakingly planned route.

“Slow down, imbecile,” Archivous growled, bending his will upon the human’s thoughts. “There’s nothing to lose by striking after nightfall.”

He knew an echo of his suggestion reached the man’s mind. But the human only glanced at the position of the Sun in the sky and redoubled his pace.

Archivous rolled his eyes. Curse these mortals and their inconvenient superstitions.

Presently they passed from the shadows of stone houses into a deeper shade—that of the palace acropolis. At last.

The human let out a burst of speed, accelerating toward the last house in his way. Fifteen feet into the air he leapt, clearing the wall easily. Traces of fire flashed in his wake.

The manor’s roof directly abutted the rocky hill that the palace was built upon. Up this slope the man climbed, springing from ledge to ledge, moving with speed beyond any normal ability. His scabbard rapped against the rocks as he ascended.

Behind him, Archivous took to the air again, keeping to the safety of the hill’s shadow as his smirk broadened.

A voice interrupted his sadistic glee. “You have no place here, demon.”

Archivous pivoted in midair, glaring at the luminous being hovering a short distance away. An angel. Just his luck.

“Don’t you have anything less irritating to do?” Archivous griped.

The angel kept a wary distance, her shimmering wings beating the air rhythmically. Archivous glanced at the implement tucked into her sash. A scroll—not a sword. Well, that was fortunate, at least. He had neither the time nor the patience today for a scuffle.

“The Sun has not yet set,” the angel said. “You have no right to claim until then!”

“But I have every right to tempt,” Archivous said. “Don’t I?”

The angel ignored his question, pointing instead at the man ascending the cliff. “Where is he going?”

Archivous gestured to the palace towering above them. “Where do you think, quill brain?”

The man reached the top of the cliff and placed his back to the thirty-foot walls of the palace. From his belt he withdrew a collapsible grappling spike, extending its curved claws with practiced ease.

The angel had not given up. “What mischief is he about?”

“Why don’t you tag along and see?” Archivous goaded. As annoying as that would be, it would be much preferable to the angel going to get help. The last thing he needed today was to fight off a patrol of angels in daylight.

The human was twirling the grappling spike now, his other hand holding coils of rope ready for quick deployment. With a flick of his wrist, he launched the grappling spike upward. It arced through the air, the tension on the rope pulling it back in toward the battlements, where it slipped into a crenelation at the top of the wall and stuck fast.

“Masterful, isn’t he?” Archivous said, never one to pass up an opportunity to gloat. “I’ve been grooming him for years. He’s served me well as a spy, thief, saboteur. And now, finally, an assassin.”

“Assassin!?” the angel cried. “Who is his target?”

Archivous smiled. “Hmm . . . give it a guess.”

The angel gazed at the man, straining to pick up an echo of his thoughts as he ascended the rope. Her eyes widened. “No!”

“Who else?” Archivous said.

The angel glanced at the reddening sky. “If the King dies before sunset, his soul is ours to claim!”

“Take him,” Archivous spat. “I couldn’t care less for that self-righteous sprig of a soul.” It was a lie—Archivous would love to drag that stubborn monarch to the Void, maybe find a particularly agonizing dungeon in return for all the trouble the king had caused him. But the archdemon had other priorities today.

“Regardless,” Archivous said, gesturing to the man already twenty feet up the rope. “After today, Durrin’s soul is mine forever.”

For a moment the angel wavered, and Archivous worried she’d bolt to find help. But instead, she flew up to whisper into Durrin’s mind.

“Think!” she pleaded. “What are you doing? Think about what you are doing!”

Archivous laughed. “Do you think he can hear you? He has ignored your comrades for years now. He hears only me.”

Archivous flew close until his horns would have impaled the human’s head, had they not been immaterial. “The battlement is clear. Now is your chance.”

Durrin reached the top of the wall and vaulted over the crenellated balustrade, landing in a crouch. Silently his eyes roved over the palace complex: a landscape of towers, roofs, and courtyards. Then he ran, doubled over, down the walkway. His sword hissed from its sheath. Fire flickered along its edge.

“I could appear, and stop this folly,” the angel warned.

“You know the ancient law,” said Archivous. “Step through the curtain of sight, and I won’t be far behind.”

“The Sun still reigns in the sky,” the angel said.

“So?” said Archivous. “Even were it high noon, do you think you could stop me?” His voice grew. “Are you an archangel? Are you a high mage of old? You carry not even a sword!”

“I am Yavenya, a keeper of scrolls,” said the angel.

“Humph,” snorted Archivous. “A common bookkeeper. I already guessed as much. Do you know who I am?”

“You are an outcast,” said Yavenya.

Archivous roared, spreading his wings to their full thirty feet of webbed expanse. “I am Archivous! I have scattered armies and conquered kingdoms! I have crushed souls and scattered stars! None are mightier than I!”

The angel stood her ground. “There is the Eldest.”

Archivous laughed. “The Eldest will never come.”

Yavenya glanced at the human, now several rods away. “Think what you will,” she said. “But if I can’t appear, at least I can warn the king.” She dove straight through the rock of the wall below her, disappearing from sight.

Archivous chuckled. “Go ahead. It won’t help.”

* * * * *

Yavenya twisted and turned, darting through the palace as fast as her wings could propel her. Tapestries whizzed by, scarcely more than blurs. No mortal door impeded her; she passed through each with ease.

The assassin. Durrin. She had never crossed paths with him before, but just now she had glimpsed his soul. It was a shard hard as steel, bent upon evil purpose, fueled by unremitting ambition, and armed with terrible pyromantic power. His soul terrified her.

She came to a pair of guards. Both were korriks: a short, stocky race, with reptilian features and scaly hide instead of skin. Their clawed hands and martial spirit made them a natural choice for militaries across the world. Both korriks carried bronze-tipped spears.

“Danger!” Yavenya cried, projecting the idea toward their minds. “An assassin! The king is in peril!”

The korriks came alert, turning their helmed heads as if they had heard something. But no more. Like most mortals, these could only hear the faintest echo of her voice. She flew on.

As she flew, her supernatural hearing picked up a chilling sound, echoing through the stones above her: a cry of surprise, followed by a clash of metal and roar of fire. The assassin was not far behind.

She burst into the throne room, a vast, perfectly circular chamber. Massive pillars stretched fifty feet high, supporting a magnificent dome. Late afternoon light streamed through clerestory windows set into the dome’s base.

The king sat on his throne, in counsel with officials of various species. He was an avir—an elegant race, slightly shorter and more delicately built than humans. His hair, shoulder-length and rich brown, framed the crisp, angular features of his face.

To his side was a young avir girl, scarcely ten or eleven. She sat awkwardly in a chair much too big for her, her fingers tracing the embroidery of her dress as she watched the conversation intently.

“. . . will be angry,” one of the king’s counselors was saying, as Yavenya flew across the spacious room.

“They probably will,” the king replied, his tone grim. “But I would rather face riots at home than war on our borders.”

“And if this leads to famine?” another counselor asked.

“A war will lead to famine, too, and faster,” the king said. “But if—”

“Your highness!” Yavenya cried. “Danger! Beware!”

The king stopped mid-sentence. He looked up in alarm, eyes sweeping the room.

Yavenya’s heart leapt. “Fire! Sword!” she warned, pressing the mental images upon him.

The king rose from his throne. “Something’s amiss.”

His counselors murmured questions, but the king held up a hand, bidding silence. Listening.

“An assassin comes!” Yavenya said. “A pyromancer. He’s breeched the walls!”

The king’s face drained of color, becoming ashen white. It was a trait unique to avirs: the pigment of their skin responded dramatically to their emotions.

“We’re in danger here,” the king said. He looked to the girl beside him, then to one of his guards, a korrik with a decorated crest on his helm. “Captain Volthorn! Escort my daughter and my counselors to the front gates.”

The korrik saluted. “Yes, Your Highness.”

 The young avir girl stood in alarm. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her face also growing pale.

“Flee!” Yavenya cried.

“I don’t know,” said the king. He wrapped her hands in his as he met her frightened gaze. “But whatever happens, Adara, remember: You are stronger than your fears. Now go!”

The king pushed his daughter toward the main doors of the throne room. Adara paused for a moment, looking back one last time. Then the guard captain ushered her out the door with the king’s counselors.

The king remained with four guards. Moving swiftly, he strode over to a table where two vellum documents lay. He grabbed the first and ripped it in half.

“Your Highness?” said one of the guards.

“You are all witnesses,” the king said. He removed the top of his scepter, revealing an intricate design with raised metal edges set into the scepter’s head. This he pressed firmly into the second document, leaving a clear indentation.

Flee! Yavenya urged. Escape!

“It’s too late,” a voice snarled.

Yavenya spun in midair. The archdemon materialized, stepping out of the wall like a fiendish mural come to life. “My triumph is at hand.”

The roof exploded.

Glass showered down from the ceiling. A moment later came a fireball, engulfing a side door in flames. Last came the pyromancer. Fifty feet he dropped, scarlet and sable cloak billowing in his wake. Midway through his plummet he twisted in midair, fire erupting from his outstretched hands to slow his fall. He landed in a crouch before the throne room doors.

Straightening, he drew his sword and pointed it at the king’s heart. “Today you taste the sword of Calamar, King Everborn.”

For a moment, all was silent, save for the crackle of flames.

Then the guards shouted to each other and charged, spearpoints leveled.

The pyromancer showed no sign of alarm as the semicircle of spears closed in. With a practiced motion, he twisted his sword in an intricate pattern above his head, then leveled it at his opponents. Lightning crackled into existence along the blade’s length, popping and jumping before shooting outward. It coursed through all four of them, leaping from point to point on their bronze armor as their bodies convulsed. A thunderous crack split the air.

Two of the guards dropped to the ground, the clatter of their weapons inaudible amid the echoes of the thunderclap. The other two staggered, muscles spasming, then recovered and advanced. But the pyromancer was already upon them. Side-stepping a spear thrust, he closed quarters with the first guard, smashing his elbow into the guard’s chin, then bringing the pommel of his sword crashing into the guard’s helm.

Even as the guard dropped, the pyromancer spun to face the last. He swept his sword in an arc and fire blossomed into existence, raking across the guard’s face, causing him to recoil and abandon his spear thrust. Durrin drove a kick into the guard’s stomach. The guard stumbled, losing hold of his spear, then charged forward, aiming a gauntleted punch. Durrin deflected the blow, swinging the guard around by the arm and hurling him into a pillar. He crumpled, stunned.

“ELANDRIAAA!!”

Through the open doors of the throne room barreled the korrik captain, a battle cry roaring from his throat. As he charged, the tip of his spear came alight with a hard red glow.

The pyromancer drew back, issuing fire from his free hand to keep the captain at bay. For a moment they danced in counterpointing thrusts of spear and fire. Then the pyromancer snatched the shaft of the spear as it drove toward him, then twisted and unleashed a spinning mid-air kick into the korrik’s face.

The korrick captain staggered backward. The pyromancer wrenched the spear from his grip, then whirled it around and rammed the tip into the captain’s breastplate. A flash of blue light shunted the spear aside, leaving the breastplate unharmed. The captain reached for his short sword, but the pyromancer used the spear to knock the captain’s feet out from under him. Stepping over him, the pyromancer drove the spear downward. The first blow again was shunted aside by a flash of light as it met the captain’s enchanted armor. The second blow sliced across the side of the korrik’s face, deflected away from a mortal blow but leaving a deep gash. The third blow punched through the captain’s chainmail beneath his armpit, missing his skin but burying itself a foot into the stone floor, leaving him pinned where he lay.

The pyromancer strode forward.

The king stood in the middle of the room, alone, unarmed. He stood tall. The fearful pallor of earlier had disappeared. Now his expression showed neither hate nor panic—only resolve.

The assassin approached. “Walls and guards cannot save you, Your Highness.”

The king raised a hand, the palm outward. “In neither walls nor guards do I trust. I trust in the hosts of the Sun.”

The assassin closed the final feet between them. With one smooth, lightning-fast thrust, he drove the point of his sword into the king’s chest.

The king fell to his knees, his eyes growing wide as his breath escaped him.

“Then where are your angels now?” the pyromancer whispered as he pulled the sword free.

* * * * *

On the other side of the curtain of sight, Yavenya shook, unable to look away from the regicide unfolding before her.

Archivous stood beside her, triumphant.

“This will spark war,” Yavenya said.

“Yes,” said Archivous, gleeful. “This death is but the first of thousands, maybe millions.” He gestured at Durrin. “And this man the next to be stained forever with innocent blood.” The archdemon laughed. “Try as you might, with all the wisdom of the Hosts of the Sun, you can never control the choices of mortals!”

Yavenya pulled a scroll from her robe and rolled it open, pausing to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

“We cannot, because we will not,” she said. She put a glowing quill to the parchment, but turned to look at the demon. Determination glowed in her eyes. “But neither will you.”

Tears mingled with blood-red ink on Yavenya’s parchment. “You think you have won this day. You think this day a fateful day. An evil day. A day of fire, blood, and tears. But today is not the end of Durrin’s story. I am the one who keeps his scroll. And his scroll is not yet sealed.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

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