Chapter 1

The Light Emerges

5 Janoban, 229 A.G.S.

In the valley of Northern Cheltabria, in the center of the steep-roofed village of Ragnaar, two men circled each other, slogging about in thick mud. A large crowd of fur and flax-clad Chelts surrounded them. They cheered for their chief, Worgoth, a huge Chelt with massive arms. Worgoth, stripped to his waist, wore buckskin breeches and boots. He bore a scowl on his ruddy face, curling back his lips, baring his teeth. His blonde hair hung in a thick braid beside each ear. He held a double-headed battle-axe before his body. He breathed deep and steady.

His opponent stood nearly a foot smaller. Clumps of mud plastered his black hair to his head. He too wore buckskin breeches and was stripped to his waist. Mud clung to his knees, elbows, and backside. Unlike Worgoth, his face showed exhaustion; his chest heaved with each breath. His tired arms trembled slightly as he held his axe before his body. Orius Candell feared he might not live to see sunset.

I could conjure fire and end this now, Orius thought. But I must prove to these people that I’m worthy enough to lead them.

Worgoth bellowed and rushed forward, swinging his axe above his head. Orius threw his up and countered the strike. The axe handles clashed with a crack, but Orius lost his balance and landed on his back. Worgoth’s blue eyes widened.

Orius watched the Chelt lumber toward him, the mud sucking at his feet. Worgoth’s wicked half-moon blade sliced through the air.

Move! Orius’s mind screamed, as he rolled to his left.

The axe whistled past his ear and sank into the soft ground. Mud splattered several of the Chelts nearby. Orius hopped to his feet and growled like an angry wolf. He caught Worgoth bent over, freeing his axe from the ground. For an instant, Orius could not see Worgoth’s eyes, which gave him a sudden burst of courage. Ghyo, forgive me. He brought his axe down across the back of Worgoth’s neck. Astonished cries came from the villagers as Worgoth’s head landed in the mud, with his eyes looking skyward. The chief’s body fell forward and a stream of blood stained the ground.

Orius fell to his knees beside Worgoth’s corpse. He turned his exhausted face toward six Chelts sitting on a log. They stared back with grim but approving faces. Worgoth’s wife wailed and two other weeping women took her away. Orius rose to his feet and turned toward the villagers. The shock of the violent scene showed on their faces. He fought to control the sickening feeling growing inside him. He had killed and killing was a sin.

He spoke to them. “By Right of Combat, I, Orius Candell, declare myself the Chief of Ragnaar and Chief of the Northern Valley.” He gestured at Worgoth’s body, lying at his feet. His stomach quivered as Worgoth’s lifeless eyes stared back at him. Revulsion rose to the back of his throat, but he forced the acidic taste back down. “Worgoth was a brave warrior. We will prepare a funeral for him, fitting of a chief.” The Ragnaardars nodded with hesitative approval. I didn’t wish this combat to happen. Please, believe me. “I tried to convince Worgoth to join us, like the other chiefs did, but his pride would have none of it. So his pride cost him his life.”