• Prologue

    Terrius, the year 674



    The dark-haired boy's stick flashed around him in a blur as he fought off his continuous stream of attackers. His black hair whirled around his small face, his hazelnut brown eyes shining like fire.
    Whack! A blow to the head.
    Thwack! A swing to the shoulder.
    Crunch! A thrust to the ribs.
    Parry, parry, thrust!
    They were fierce. and there were many, but none of them were a match for--
    "Sweetie! Lunch is ready!" The boy looked back to the little cottage surrounded by trees on three sides, with a clearing on the east side that served as the yard. "Come and eat, honey!" The woman's voice called again.
    The enemy warriors winked out of existance one by one, leaving the little boy alone in the yard.
    He abandoned his stick on the grass and raced into the house to sit at the small wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. A small black wood stove crouched in the corner, the fire within crackling and popping like an angry beast trapped inside.
    His mother placed the steaming bowl of porridge in front of him. He grabbed the spoon and dug in.
    The woman chuckled, using a thin, graceful finger to gently move the thick hair out of his eyes and tuck it behind his ear. "Looks like you were having fun out there."
    The boy nodded, his shaggy hair sweeping into his face again. "Mhm," he swallowed his mouthful of food. "I'm going to be big and strong, and be a great warrior, just like dad!"
    She smiled, hiding a wave of sadness at the memory of her late husband.
    "Well, you eat up, big strong man, then you can go back outside." She bent over and planted a kiss on her son's forehead. "Young warriors need good eating to become big and strong."
    The boy dipped his spoon and shoveled the porridge into his mouth.
    The woman left the kitchen.
    Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream rent the air. The boy looked up and leapt out of his chair, the spoon clattering onto the floor, spattering the gooey mixture all over the wood. "Mama?" He yelled, bolting into the next room.
    He stopped in the doorway, stunned. In the middle of the room, on top of the old oval rug, lay his mother, a deep slash across the whole side and front of her neck, her life seeping into the carpet, her clouded eyes staring sightlessly at the cieling.
    The glass window was open; the curtains fluttered quietly in the breeze.