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  The Ambrosian Chronicles.

  With a range of characters rivalling "War and Peace", "The Ambrosian Chronicles" is a unique fantasy saga of epic proportions. Set in the world of Ambros, the story follows the fortunes of one family of gifted individuals, caught up in the struggle to save their world from a force of evil, bent on revenge for events in the far past. Will Ambros survive the conflict? The answer may be found in the seven volumes of the "Ambrosian Chronicles", all written by Katy Winter and published by The Furhaven Press. Available as e-books from your favourite e-book on-line booksellers.

  The books making up the saga are:

  Book One: Warlord

  Book Two: Children of Ambros

  Book Three: Circling Birds of Prey

  Book Four: The Dawn of Balance

  Book Five: Light Dancing on Shadows

  Book Six: Quenching the Flames

  Book Seven: Metamorphosis

  THE AMBROSIAN CHRONICLES

  BOOK ONE

  WARLORD

  by

  KATY WINTER

  Published by The Furhaven Press.

  Copyright: Katy Winter 2013

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN 978-0-473-26239-6

  To my husband, without whom this book would not have been written.

  Some explanatory lists to aid the reader.

  The Churchik warrior hierarchy:

  Warlord - has overlordship of all ranks. Below him, in order of seniority are:

  Elite Haskars (some were on the Warlord's Council)

  Haskars

  Tempkars

  Acedars

  Beduars

  Warriors who are the lowest ranked.

  The Unseen Ones and their chosen species:

  Abus - Shadowlanders

  Benth - Mages of Yarilo

  Crue - Wildwind Desert tribesmen

  Huma - Rox

  Lais - Gnosti

  Marl - Dragons on Ice Isle

  Minac - Conclave of Reader/Seekers

  Misa - Sinhalien of the southern steppes

  Obli - Dryads and nymphs from the north of Ambros

  Sympho - Rox

  The Conclave of Reader/Seekers:

  Headed by the Mishtok (Aceke)

  Adepts - Setoni, Leon and Morsh (aka Morjar).

  The Family of Melas and Alfar of Ortok:

  Bethel (aka Beth)

  Brue - son of Melas and Bruno

  Myme Chlo (aka Chlorien) - daughter of Melas and Elbe

  Sarehl the eldest son

  Twins Daxel (aka Dase) and Luton (aka Lute)

  The Dahkilan Family:

  Ensore - Chamah (ruler) of the state of Dahkilah, Marshal of the United Forces of the North.

  Eli - younger brother of Ensore (sets up the Intelligence network of the northern forces.)

  Kasan - sister of Eli and Ensore.

  Characters known by more than one name or title:

  Autoc - aka Scholar/Schol - 'Father' to Chlorien, and Master Mage of Yarilo

  Bene - aka Benhloriel/Burelkin - Archmage of Yarilo

  Bethel - aka Beth

  Blach - aka Sorcerer of the Keep

  Choja - aka Sophysun

  Chojoh - aka the Sophy

  Daxel - answers to Dase

  Ensore - aka the Marshal, also the Chamah, ruler of Dahkilah

  Foresters - aka as Sache, Dalmin, Arth, Kalor, Ensore.

  Indariol - aka Aelkin of the Shadowlands

  Kalor - a Cyrenic aka as the Domon

  Luton - answers to Lute

  Malekim - aka Elbe - Master Mage of Yarilo

  Myme Chlo - answers to Chlorien

  Sarehl - aka Strategos

  Also see the Glossary at the end of the book.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was the end of a glorious summer. Autumn came quickly on the Shadowlands and crept with mellow tones, but chill winds, on the rest of Ambros. It was the end of the Second Age. On the fringe of a clearing stood a boy, gazing with the abstraction of childhood, his eyes drawn to the swift flowing river that until recently was warm. He walked until he was ready to stoop over the edge. He let himself slither down the bank over a series of bumps, then began to fill a leather gourd he held carelessly in one hand.

  He gave an exclamation when he saw the water he'd gathered was muddy. He realised if he wanted fresh water he'd have to wade further out, at least ankle deep, where he could see water ran clear. With a sigh, he moved out. He forgot about the gourd, his face suddenly grave and his expression preoccupied as he stood and watched the eddying current. A voice from beyond the river brought up his head.

  "Benhloriel! Benhloriel! Hurry."

  Benhloriel swung his head to the voice. The gravity of expression lifted and the boy responded in a lilting musical voice.

  "I'm just getting fresh water."

  Benhloriel stooped, filled the gourd, stoppered it, and turned to leave the river. He was an exceptionally tall boy for nearly eight cycles and was as slender as the Shadowfolk. Shadowlanders were universally tall, but Benhloriel outstripped those his age - they barely reached his shoulder. His eyes were different from the folk about him too. They were huge, startlingly violet, and fringed by long curling eyelashes that were as black as his eyebrows, while long auburn curls clustered thickly about his head. They fell disordered to his shoulders. Anyone sighting him for the first time would have been struck by the sensitivity of the face. Another voice arrested his progress.

  "Can you perhaps help me?" it said quietly.

  With a start Benhloriel swung round, overbalanced, lost the gourd and fell headlong into the river, completely losing his footing on the stony bed. He came up spluttering and muttering oaths. He fished about for the gourd that he spotted a short distance from him, grasped it, and then tried to see through a sodden mane to the further bank. He took a wary step back.

  What he saw gave him pause. It was a very old man, his white hair thick and softly blowing in the light breeze that ruffled the long grasses at the water's edge. The old man seemed uncertain on his feet and finally sank where he stood, so Benhloriel could only see his head. The boy was of two minds. Curiosity warred with caution. Being only a child and not anticipating any immediate threat from one so ancient, he cocked his head.

  "You could come across and assist me," invited the old man. Benhloriel shook his head.

  "How do I know who or what you are?"

  "A cautious lad," sighed the old man appreciatively. "That's very true. I could turn you into something I suppose, couldn't I?"

  "Nah!" returned Benhloriel.

  "Yet you don't run from me?

  "No," agreed Benhloriel.

  "Why's that?"

  Benhloriel gave a childish giggle and for the next few minutes occupied himself with tying the gourd firmly to the belt at his waist. It was only then he lifted his head to stare at the old man, a wisdom on his face that sat oddly on such young features.

  Benhloriel considered him for a long moment. "You mean me no harm," he pointed out. "You don't treat me like a child either."

  "No," concurred the old man. "To do so would be to insult you. Indeed your assistance would be appreciated. Can you come to me?"

  The boy thought. Then he began slowly to wade across the river, up to waist high in water at one point, before he reached the shallows where he scrambled to the edge of the bank. To pull himself up near the old man, he had to get secure purchase on a root. Panting, he took the outstretched hand, allowed the man to pull him closer, and then sank onto the grass to get his breath.

  "It's fast flowing," he said on a gasp. "Cold now too. I swam here not long ago."

  "Seasons and time wait for no one," commented the old man affably. "Soon the river will be unsafe to cross."

  "We'll be gone by then," replied Benhlor
iel, inexpertly wringing out the end of his light tunic. "My clanin move today. Madril tells me we head south to deeper forest, just as we usually do."

  "And your father? He goes too?" Benhloriel shrugged.

  "I know no estim," he answered frankly. "I'm a love child of a horse trader, so Madril tells me, someone from southern lands she says she cared for. She's not seen him since before I was born."

  The old man was silent for a few minutes, then he said, "Your name is Benhloriel."

  Caught by surprise that the old man should know his name, Benhloriel turned his head so he could study the lined, kindly face beside him. He nodded slowly, as if in a dream. He felt snared. The old man's eyes drew him inward in some way, so much so that he could neither blink nor break eye contact. He was drawn as if through water. He seemed to have become a disembodied thing, unable to think or see. Yet he felt no panic. He was strangely content to simply float.

  ~~~

  Not so the old man. The boy fell against him quite suddenly, his head slumped so that it rested, face up, on the old man's lap. The eyes, violet and glazed, stared upwards. Asqarn bent his head to keep eye contact as he entered the boy's deep consciousness. An ancient archmage, he had the ability to farsee, a talent and skill he rarely used - this day he knew he had no choice but to use it.

  Mystified, he watched the boy's creation. He didn't recognise the man who willed the slight Shadowlander woman to an erotic response, but a sense of deepest foreboding told him Benhloriel had a most unusual father indeed. Even the man's looks were an oddity on Ambros. He was a large man, of great height, with long curling black hair, sweaty now with passion, and his big violet-purple eyes were closed. Asqarn knew the exact moment Benhloriel was flung upwards with force and woven into a warm, dark, moist consciousness. Asqarn could feel the spark of life.

  ~~~

  An image shift took Asqarn cycles ahead. Benhloriel stood beside his mother who had protective arms about him.

  "Leave him with me," she implored. "He belongs here with us. It's the only home he's ever known."

  Benhloriel's sire stood uncompromisingly, his unusually coloured eyes snapping in a spurt of temper.

  "You should have told me of him, Shahdan. He's my son, damn it, my son. He'll be useful on the roads when I go back south and he'll be company. As he's only half-Shadowlander, he won't miss such a life. Abide by the rules, Shahdan. The Aelkin would order you to surrender him, or I can simply take him, because a father has the right to his son."

  Asqarn sensed the boy's confusion. He felt, too, Benhloriel's mother's arms tighten, the warmth of the woman's embrace washing over him. Shahdan let her arms fall, just as the man stepped forward. Benhloriel now knew who his father was. The man who surveyed Benhloriel was a musician, a drunkard, a man of magnetism, lust, and compelling eyes, who'd ensorcelled his mother time and again over the last weeks. Always she yielded, laughing.

  Another shift saw Asqarn have a blurring of focus before a picture clarified. Asqarn saw an older boy. He was twelve cycles at most, too tall for the frailty of a thin body that knew hunger and cold. The auburn hair was plaited, tied back with a hide strip, and the violet eyes that stared out from a pinched face were wistful. Beside Benhloriel rode his sire. He looked over his son broodingly before he went back to playing a small, but complex, set of pipes. Occasionally he pocketed them, or handed them to Benhloriel, after which the man burst into song, his bass stunningly powerful and rich. A glow came to Benhloriel's eyes at the sound of the music.

  ~~~

  Asqarn was next in a camp where folk milled about, many of them, drifting in aimless directions, then back again. Until the archmage's eyes settled on a small group beyond the firelight, Benhloriel was nowhere to be seen. He finally saw the boy trying half-heartedly to avoid blows, Benhloriel's sire filthy drunk. Regularly the big man took out his temper on his son. Benhloriel pleaded in a low voice. His sire only stopped when the woman with them tried to pull the man back and got a slap that sent her reeling. Benhloriel was released. He crawled away from the arguing pair as fast as he could. His father, distracted, leered down at the fallen, shrilly squalling woman, his hands pulling at her until she got to her feet and stamped her foot at him. The huge musician's temper eased. He burst out laughing.

  ~~~

  The scene that followed was vivid. It made Asqarn shake with its implications. He watched Benhloriel run, until the boy collapsed, out of breath, half-in and half-out of a long deep ditch, where he lay, very still. Fear enveloped him and his chest heaved. Then he moved again as he crawled down as far as he could for protection. There was cursing behind him and heavy panting. The bass voice was very angry.

  "You cursed half-bred son of a pedigree father! I'll find you, boy, and when I do, you'll be sorry you thought to make me search for you. I'll flay your hide!"

  Asqarn saw defiance mixed with the fear on the boy's face, but the child made no move. The blustering voice went on for a few minutes, then became half-laughing, the man directly above Benhloriel. He hesitated.

  "Benhloriel," came a wheedling voice instead of a threatening one. "It's no life for a boy alone, left to fend for himself. Come out and I won't beat you." Benhloriel hunched himself in silence for an answer.

  Asqarn watched the boy. He stayed motionless. Then Asqarn's gaze went to the swearing and stumbling musician who relapsed into angry grumbling. The man stood uncertainly. He blinked owlishly. Asqarn's attention went back to the boy. His eyes fixed in shocked disbelief on the simple but elegantly designed ring Benhloriel restlessly twisted on a finger of his left hand – the archmage went cold. He shuddered. He didn't dare blink, let alone make the mistake of shutting his eyes. His instinct about the child was right. His sire was more than unusual.

  "You still wear my ring, boy. If I choose, I can call you. Still, if you insist on your own way, so be it. Remember who gave you the ring and treasure the gift from your father, Benhloriel. Go your way."

  The man made a dismissive gesture and began to walk slowly away, every so often standing to look back to see if the boy was there. Benhloriel stayed crouched, his eyes on the ring. He stayed there until it was dark.

  ~~~

  What Asqarn now saw came in vague blurred snatches. He saw a boy with a healer who treated him with gentle kindness. The boy matured to an impatient, fiery youth who rejected what he was taught. Hands eloquently gestured in anger and frustration. The violet eyes snapped. Another image showed a more tempered young man, but he was restless.

  ~~~

  In turn, these images were succeeded by a cruelly vicious battle that swept Benhloriel along with it. The man was irresistibly caught up within it, in a way that left him marked and his eyes cold. Asqarn saw jagged flares. They crossed the Ambrosian sky to spear the ground like lightning, only these were pulses of myriad colours that rebounded with phenomenal force. He sensed powers beyond understanding stormed and raged in the inner aethyr of Ambros.

  Then, hurtling at tremendous speed, a dragon and his mage tore through a rift in the sky. They crash-landed in southern Ambros. Asqarn took a very deep breath because he knew who the mage would be. It was Benhloriel. At the same moment the glimpse of a lovely Ambrosian woman, possibly a nymph, briefly touched his consciousness and filled him with ominous premonition. He wanted to call out in warning. A shiver shook him.

  ~~~

  One image outlasted the others. It occurred well past Asqarn's own time in the Second Age. He instinctively knew it was in the Third or Fourth Age. He saw tumbled energy ribbons of light. They writhed in and out of each other, Benhloriel's blue energy merged with another that supported his. An attack from another combined energy irreparably weakened them. A third fragile energy, an indigo ribbon that was part of them, was flung away.

  Then, suddenly, Asqarn knew he moved forward in time. Two columns of light shone brightly. Coloured shapes swirled in and out of them. They coalesced, separated, then became one, all absorbed within a shaft of amber light that shone more brilliantly than the others. T
he weakened blue energy ribbon, that was Benhloriel, was drawn into the shaft. The blue winked out.

  "Ah, the gods spare us," moaned Asqarn. He stroked the hair of the boy lying so quietly in his lap. "Your future hangs about you like a shadow, child, yet your destiny isn't all dark." He sighed. "If only I could understand and make sense of things, but you're only a child." Asqarn continued to stare down at the limp figure, warmth in his eyes. He felt welling pity too. He traced a hand across the boy's forehead. "Find peace in the Shadowlands of your birth, Benhloriel. I've ensured it's there. I can at least do that for you. I wish I could do more."

  Asqarn broke eye contact. He watched the boy's eyes slowly clear of milkiness, and made no move when the boy abruptly sat.

  "I'm sorry I fell on you, Old One," Benhloriel stammered. He put up hands to eyes that he rubbed very hard. He shook his head.

  "It's nothing," replied Asqarn softly. "You came over dizzy, nothing more. The water was colder than I thought. Had I realized, I'd not have asked for your help." He pointed to his staff that he'd deliberately discarded beyond the grass and reeds. "I called so you could fetch my staff. So foolish of me to lose it when I need it."

  Benhloriel jumped to his feet. He brushed his hair impatiently from his cheeks, and obligingly trotted over where the old man pointed, retrieved the staff, and came back to courteously hold it out.

  "Thank you, lad," said the old man with a smile. "Your hand would be helpful too, Benhloriel."

  Benhloriel grinned down. It was a smile that radiated from so deeply within, it touched the old man both with delight and cold dread. Asqarn took the thin hand, rose, then stretched across the boy to the staff. Benhloriel immediately relinquished it.

  "Now I shan't trouble you again. Good hunting down in the southern Shadowlands."

  Benhloriel nodded. He turned and gracefully made his way to the river. He didn't look back. Asqarn briefly studied him, then was gone in a shimmering of light. In an old man's place was a spiraling segat, its wings blurred with the speed of its ascent.