avwedhorn
New Member
Even though this is a prologue, it is not the beginning of this story. It is a continuation of prologue from my first book so if it is critiqued, please remember that
Prologue:
Dishonored
Pain wracked the knight champion’s body as he pulled himself out of the icy water onto the frozen shore.
Bloody water ran off him, forming a murky pool around his shivering body. He lay there on the cold earth gasping, coughing up more from his burning lungs. Bertravis Liolbane wasn’t sure how he was still alive, or even more so, why! He should have stayed! His King had died! He should have died when his Queen did!
He wished he still had his second sword, broken while cutting the ropes to the Queen’s barge that had carried away her and the now dead twin heirs. Or his silver proctor’s sword. Given it to King Dorian in his desperate attempt to buy them time to escape from his brother’s men.
If he had either, he could throw himself onto one and end his disgraceful life, dying in the mud, like he deserved.
As champion, he had sworn vows to protect the King and Queen, no matter what the cost. He should have died with them. He hadn’t and had allowed them to be killed.
Vivid images of their deaths filled his mind, flashing in lurid scenes, showing him every moment. Having survived was unacceptable.
Anguished tears filled his dark eyes as he glanced back up the river and saw a body floating face down in the swift current. For a moment he thought, is it the Queen’s, but then saw it was one of her maids.
The arrows sticking out of his back caused blood to drip onto the ground around his hands and feet as he struggled onto his knees. Jagged iron heads cut deeply into his flesh and hot flashes of pain sparkled in front of his eyes.
After being shot by his cousin’s hidden archers he had received a brutal beating from them and his cousin. Without having to be told, he knew Gunther had intentionally cracked his ribs with his iron shod boots.
Not the beating, nor the arrows hurt half as much as the pain filling his heart. That overwhelmed his injuries. Drove them deeply into the back of his mind. He had failed and had destroyed his and his ancestors honor.
Five generations of Liolbane’s had served as the personal protectors and champions to the royal bloodline. Never had any failed, until today. He would be remembered as the first.
Maybe, thought the knight champion bitterly, one child might be alive, but highly doubted it.
Gunther had also been trained and raised to be a protector. But out of revenge, his cousin had used that same training to have the royal family killed. Along with King Dorian’s brother, he staged a coup on the royal family. Done because King Dorian had denied Gunther his only wish and personally he had taken it away by accident.
Bertravis was certain that the royal family was dead. He had seen his Queen die when he had fallen on the stone docks. Gunther’s archers arrows had struck her in the chest and she dropped one of the newborns overboard before toppling backwards back into the boat with a dead thump.
The sickening sound of her body striking wood and the splash of the baby falling into the swirling current had echoed off the stone walls of the underground chamber, Bertravis could hear both still filling his ears.
In a crumpled ball he had watched the second boat carrying the other newborn become engulfed in bright flames.
He had heard the pain-filled screams of the second baby as the burning boat was swept out of the underground chamber.
Bertravis Liolbane wept openly, knowing he had failed utterly in his promise to King Dorian. His promise to keep his family safe. By allowing the Queen and her newborns to be killed, there was no way he could ever return to the palace.
Never could he return to the life he had lived a short while ago. Couldn’t be Proctor of the Krannion order or the champion to the king, because on his watch the royal family had died, killed by the King’s brother.
Being in the capitol city or staying in the order would not only be a disgrace to himself, but to the other Krannion knights who still upheld their vows.
His being alive with the King’s brother Vargas, his cousin Gunther, and their personal wizard, Cyadine, plotting against him posed a danger to his wife and lands. He would not do anything to allow harm to come to her. Lady Marissa was the only woman he had ever loved. He would not bring his shame or disgrace, or danger to her doorstep.
With the dying of King Dorian, Queen Ellanor and their children, so too had something died inside of him. He knew there was only one thing left and even that would not truly make things right.
Disgraced or dishonored knights who broke or betrayed their vows are only allowed three ways of killing themselves. He had no sword. Both of his had been broken, one by Gunther and one by himself.
He couldn’t be killed by a knight, there were none present to award him that honor. He didn’t deserve a noble death. That only left one option. The most disgraceful and it suited.
Slavery, and hope his end came quickly as a fighting slave in the pits.
Fighting through waves of pain, Bertravis Liolbane staggered at the edge of standing, his body reeling. Once the dancing stars stopped moving, he studied the dark sky and surrounding landmarks.
A billowing cloud of smoky black tendrils hung on the other side of the river and the knight protector felt his heart leap in his chest.
For an instant, he thought he saw something stumbling near the edge of the flames. The distance across was too far to be certain. Desperately brushing his long mud matted hair out of his eyes with a bloody hand, he blinked away the river water. With clearer vision, he looked out again across the wide river.
There, on the other shore were the burning remains of the boat from the dock under the palace.
He must have been mistaken. Now there was no movement near the blackened remains. Not in the flames, or in the tall reeds. With a heavy heart, Bertravis dismissed his surge of hope. It must have been water, hair, or dirt in his eyes, or the billowing smoke. For a moment, he thought someone had been staggering out of the flames.
He knew now where he was. Kallamar, the capitol city of the fourteen kingdoms, sat at the juncture of three rivers and he was on the Andulin, which flowed south until it reached the Eversea Ocean.
This was good, it was in this direction he had to go. Only one place in the realm could give him the death he so justly deserved, Cor.
The southernmost city lay in the marshlands where the Andulin River ended in a thousand branching streams and the Eversea Ocean began. It was far enough that Gunther’s men wouldn’t find him.
Cor was built upon the swampy marshlands splayed out across the end of the river over several thousand small island hummocks crowding the edge of the Eversea. The city was a den of thieves, slavers, and cutthroats where, despite having a Highlord Captain, only gold set the laws.
No one there would question why he wanted to sell himself into slavery. No one there would care if he died.
Most would be more than happy to clap him into chains, hoping to make a few gold pieces off him, unknowingly thinking he meant to fight.
Thinking he was the only survivor from the palace, Bertravis Liolbane started walking southward in slow ragged steps.
Teetering at the edge of the river, he limped off. The bloody arrows sticking out of his back left behind a trail of blood, following in its wake was a trail of tears.
Prologue:
Dishonored
Pain wracked the knight champion’s body as he pulled himself out of the icy water onto the frozen shore.
Bloody water ran off him, forming a murky pool around his shivering body. He lay there on the cold earth gasping, coughing up more from his burning lungs. Bertravis Liolbane wasn’t sure how he was still alive, or even more so, why! He should have stayed! His King had died! He should have died when his Queen did!
He wished he still had his second sword, broken while cutting the ropes to the Queen’s barge that had carried away her and the now dead twin heirs. Or his silver proctor’s sword. Given it to King Dorian in his desperate attempt to buy them time to escape from his brother’s men.
If he had either, he could throw himself onto one and end his disgraceful life, dying in the mud, like he deserved.
As champion, he had sworn vows to protect the King and Queen, no matter what the cost. He should have died with them. He hadn’t and had allowed them to be killed.
Vivid images of their deaths filled his mind, flashing in lurid scenes, showing him every moment. Having survived was unacceptable.
Anguished tears filled his dark eyes as he glanced back up the river and saw a body floating face down in the swift current. For a moment he thought, is it the Queen’s, but then saw it was one of her maids.
The arrows sticking out of his back caused blood to drip onto the ground around his hands and feet as he struggled onto his knees. Jagged iron heads cut deeply into his flesh and hot flashes of pain sparkled in front of his eyes.
After being shot by his cousin’s hidden archers he had received a brutal beating from them and his cousin. Without having to be told, he knew Gunther had intentionally cracked his ribs with his iron shod boots.
Not the beating, nor the arrows hurt half as much as the pain filling his heart. That overwhelmed his injuries. Drove them deeply into the back of his mind. He had failed and had destroyed his and his ancestors honor.
Five generations of Liolbane’s had served as the personal protectors and champions to the royal bloodline. Never had any failed, until today. He would be remembered as the first.
Maybe, thought the knight champion bitterly, one child might be alive, but highly doubted it.
Gunther had also been trained and raised to be a protector. But out of revenge, his cousin had used that same training to have the royal family killed. Along with King Dorian’s brother, he staged a coup on the royal family. Done because King Dorian had denied Gunther his only wish and personally he had taken it away by accident.
Bertravis was certain that the royal family was dead. He had seen his Queen die when he had fallen on the stone docks. Gunther’s archers arrows had struck her in the chest and she dropped one of the newborns overboard before toppling backwards back into the boat with a dead thump.
The sickening sound of her body striking wood and the splash of the baby falling into the swirling current had echoed off the stone walls of the underground chamber, Bertravis could hear both still filling his ears.
In a crumpled ball he had watched the second boat carrying the other newborn become engulfed in bright flames.
He had heard the pain-filled screams of the second baby as the burning boat was swept out of the underground chamber.
Bertravis Liolbane wept openly, knowing he had failed utterly in his promise to King Dorian. His promise to keep his family safe. By allowing the Queen and her newborns to be killed, there was no way he could ever return to the palace.
Never could he return to the life he had lived a short while ago. Couldn’t be Proctor of the Krannion order or the champion to the king, because on his watch the royal family had died, killed by the King’s brother.
Being in the capitol city or staying in the order would not only be a disgrace to himself, but to the other Krannion knights who still upheld their vows.
His being alive with the King’s brother Vargas, his cousin Gunther, and their personal wizard, Cyadine, plotting against him posed a danger to his wife and lands. He would not do anything to allow harm to come to her. Lady Marissa was the only woman he had ever loved. He would not bring his shame or disgrace, or danger to her doorstep.
With the dying of King Dorian, Queen Ellanor and their children, so too had something died inside of him. He knew there was only one thing left and even that would not truly make things right.
Disgraced or dishonored knights who broke or betrayed their vows are only allowed three ways of killing themselves. He had no sword. Both of his had been broken, one by Gunther and one by himself.
He couldn’t be killed by a knight, there were none present to award him that honor. He didn’t deserve a noble death. That only left one option. The most disgraceful and it suited.
Slavery, and hope his end came quickly as a fighting slave in the pits.
Fighting through waves of pain, Bertravis Liolbane staggered at the edge of standing, his body reeling. Once the dancing stars stopped moving, he studied the dark sky and surrounding landmarks.
A billowing cloud of smoky black tendrils hung on the other side of the river and the knight protector felt his heart leap in his chest.
For an instant, he thought he saw something stumbling near the edge of the flames. The distance across was too far to be certain. Desperately brushing his long mud matted hair out of his eyes with a bloody hand, he blinked away the river water. With clearer vision, he looked out again across the wide river.
There, on the other shore were the burning remains of the boat from the dock under the palace.
He must have been mistaken. Now there was no movement near the blackened remains. Not in the flames, or in the tall reeds. With a heavy heart, Bertravis dismissed his surge of hope. It must have been water, hair, or dirt in his eyes, or the billowing smoke. For a moment, he thought someone had been staggering out of the flames.
He knew now where he was. Kallamar, the capitol city of the fourteen kingdoms, sat at the juncture of three rivers and he was on the Andulin, which flowed south until it reached the Eversea Ocean.
This was good, it was in this direction he had to go. Only one place in the realm could give him the death he so justly deserved, Cor.
The southernmost city lay in the marshlands where the Andulin River ended in a thousand branching streams and the Eversea Ocean began. It was far enough that Gunther’s men wouldn’t find him.
Cor was built upon the swampy marshlands splayed out across the end of the river over several thousand small island hummocks crowding the edge of the Eversea. The city was a den of thieves, slavers, and cutthroats where, despite having a Highlord Captain, only gold set the laws.
No one there would question why he wanted to sell himself into slavery. No one there would care if he died.
Most would be more than happy to clap him into chains, hoping to make a few gold pieces off him, unknowingly thinking he meant to fight.
Thinking he was the only survivor from the palace, Bertravis Liolbane started walking southward in slow ragged steps.
Teetering at the edge of the river, he limped off. The bloody arrows sticking out of his back left behind a trail of blood, following in its wake was a trail of tears.