Path of Glory.

Bret M. Funk.

I dedicate this, my first book, to my grandparents, John and Frances Reiken, in thanks for the many things they have done for me over the years. All that I have, and everything I am or will become, is a testament to their love, kindness, and compa.s.sion.

No words, written or spoken, can fully express my grat.i.tude.

All of my works, and all of my accomplishments, will be dedicated in part or in whole to the two of them. But this book is for them alone.

Thank you both so very much. I love you.

Acknowledgements:

I can never thank everyone who helped with this project, but the following people contributed greatly. Thank you. I could never have completed Path of Glory without your help.

Roxanne Reiken, for, among other things, reading and re-reading this book.

Scott McKinley, though I lost track of you, your insight and advice was invaluable at the start of this project.

Rocky Russo, for his excellent work on the cover design.

Jeremy Morris, for his valuable insight, sarcastic wit, and patient editing.

Jeff and Stephanie Frederic, for their constant support.

And most of all, my wife, Maree Jeanne, for her near-infinite understanding and patience.

"We name this path 'Glory,' for with truth and honor as our allies, and our Races united in harmony, we have no choice but to lead Madryn into a glorious future."

King Samihn of Alrendria

Remembrance

Even from here I can hear the mountains.

Looking down from his vantage point high on a distant hill, the Mage stared north across the plains of Alrendria, silent but for his thoughts. His gaze swept over the army encampment below him.

Three encampments, he amended with a frown, his eyes focusing on the nearest. The tight cl.u.s.ter of tents belonged to the Elves. Few remained, so few that the Mage doubted the remainder could still be considered an encampment. The Elves had all but disbanded their army, and the majority of the Aelvin forces had marched back to their secluded forests.

The remaining Aelvin tents lay huddled together in a small, tight circle. The coloring of the material varied, from the deep green of the forest to a muted brown to a more vibrant blue, but the tents all shared a common, natural hue. They did not clash with the landscape around them. On the contrary, they accentuated the land, highlighting its beauty. Yet for some reason the ring of tents stood out to the Mage, appearing out of place, like an isolated copse of trees in an inhospitable landscape. The Mage scratched his brown beard, now streaked with grey, as he pondered his observation.

The remaining Aelvin tents belonged exclusively to Ael Maulle. The Gifted. The greatest and most powerful Aelvin Magi. Yet the Mage knew with absolute certainty that even Ael Maulle would have withdrawn with their countrymen, fleeing for the protection of the Great Forest, if not for their promises to High Wizard Aemon.

The Mage took a deep breath and allowed his perceptions to flow through the Aelvin camp. The Elves showed little motion within their tents, few signs of merriment. No figures ran from tent to tent; no musicians trumpeted victory; no soldiers sang songs of glory.

Despite the lack of festivities, the Mage believed the Elves were celebrating. They had yearned for an end to this war as much as any.

The Elves can be so very reserved, mused the Mage, so annoyingly controlled. They have such trouble letting go of their self-discipline and arrogance. He wondered briefly if their sense of propriety was what made relating to the other Races so difficult for Elves.

The Mage directed his gaze north, to the next encampment. The stillness of the Aelvin camp contrasted nicely with that of the Garun'ah. Even without extending his perceptions, the Mage could see the large warriors running among their tents arm in arm, sometimes accompanied by Human soldiers, though more often than not among only their own race. Other Tribesmen lounged around huge bonfires, sharing tales of personal triumphs and trying to outdrink their companions.

Even without the aid of his Gift, the Mage heard the wild songs of the Garun'ah on the winds. Birds of prey circled above the camp, while bears and wolves walked carefree through the tents, their bodies silhouetted in the bright afternoon light. The Garun'ah certainly know how to celebrate a victory! he said to himself. We could all learn a lesson or two from them.

The tents of the Garun'ah, like those of the Elves, had a range of shades, from earthy browns and greens to vibrant reds and warm yellows. Though the Aelvin tents had a similar size and shape, the Garun'ah tents varied as much in form as in color, and while the Elves' tents lay clumped together, the Garun'ah arranged theirs in a seemingly haphazard way.

The Mage extended his perceptions through the maze of tents. Five tents cl.u.s.tered in one place. Another sitting alone. Six arranged in a cross surrounded by a circle of tents. Using his perceptions to travel the camp, the pattern seemed to make little sense. Only when he pulled his perceptions back and viewed the encampment from a distance did the reason for the randomness become apparent.

Taken as a whole, the encampment all but disappeared into the surrounding landscape, the tents arranged in perfect harmony with the land around them. To one unaware of its presence, the Garun'ah camp would be virtually invisible.

A third encampment lay north of the Garun'ah's, closer to the mountains than the others. The Human tents were uniform in size, shape, and color; constructed from a drab, cream-colored canvas, heavy but durable; and arranged in perfect lines, every squad of Guardsmen separated by a uniform distance.

Though the camp was neat and orderly, the Mage found the Human camp unsightly, a blemish in an otherwise beautiful landscape.

He muttered a curse, scolding himself for the inappropriateness of his thoughts. These are men of war, not men of art. Their profession is battle, not aesthetics.

He could not hate them for being what they were; for he, as much as any, was responsible for their necessity.

The Mage pulled back his perceptions. He looked at all three camps together, comparing and contrasting them. So much can be learned from a people by the way they organize themselves, he observed. The way the Races think is obvious even in the layout of these camps. They show our differences, and yet ironically, they show how alike we are.

Though to the naked eye these camps appeared quite different from one another, under the surface they all served the same purpose. They were camps of war, dedicated to preserving the peace and protecting Madryn from the Darklord. So too, did the Races themselves appear different on the surface, but, despite their differences, the Mage believed the four Races were very much alike. Perhaps more alike than they were willing to admit. He wished fervently that their camaraderie would continue throughout the winters to come.

We have been at war so long. Please let this peace be a lasting one! The Mage made this request of no one in particular. It was a plea to man as much as a prayer to G.o.ds.

The camps below were celebrating their great victory over the Darklord Lorthas, though one would not have thought so if watching the silent encampment of the Elves. The festivities had been continuous, in varying degree, for the last ten days.

Things had not yet returned to normal, though the revelry had lessened since those first, frantic days immediately following the victory.

Despite the work remaining to be done, the Mage was reluctant to stop the celebration.

These men deserve some happiness, some respite from the last few seasons. From the last few centuries.

The Mage watched the Guardsmen carousing through the camps. He listened to the snippets of song that drifted to him on the winds. Though the Humans and Garun'ah often congregated in separate groups, and the Elves remained all but invisible, the Mage knew more than one friendship had been forged among the Four Races during the long winters of war. If only those friendships last!

Some movements below did not belong to the celebration. Though they had won a great victory, these were still camps of war, and certain duties must be performed. The Mage saw the slow, graceful movements of soldiers; the faster, sporadic dashes of messengers; the frantic parries and slashes of trainees. More than everything else, the steady, weary plodding of refugees caught the Mage's eye. And rent his heart.

Refugees had streamed into the camp from all directions, except north, since the Boundary was raised two score days past. Though Aemon and the Magi counseled them to leave, these bedraggled people insisted they had nowhere else to go. They believed this collection of tents was the safest place in all of Madryn. The Mage was not so sure he agreed with them.

So many people. Where do they come from? How did they get here so fast? North of the encampments stood a small collection of tents, which served as the command post for the allied armies.

Eventually, those tents would become the mighty fortress of Portal. For now, broken piles of rock covered the plains, rock with which they would construct a great citadel. Piles of timber arrived daily, cut from the nearby forests.

Engineers worked tirelessly to design the ma.s.sive stronghold and its battlements.

Even now they prepared to start full scale construction, nearly half a season ahead of schedule. The Mage watched as masons, carpenters, and laborers began to lay the foundation for the greatest fortification in Alrendria - in all of Madryn. The Mage turned his eyes to the Boundary.

In the distance, the mountains trembled.

After forty days - forty long days - the mountains still move.

The Mage spared a glance east, toward the tiny dust cloud of the departing Aelvin army. No one expected the alliance to hold forever, but many - especially the Mage - had hoped a greater peace would emerge. In his heart, the Mage had hoped for a better understanding between the Races. Is that so much to ask? he wondered, casting his eyes to the heavens.

Please let this alliance lead to a unity among the Races, he prayed to the Five G.o.ds, the first true unity. Yet it seemed his prayers would again go unanswered. Already the factions were reforming, already the Races were dividing, and already the Elves beat a hasty retreat back to their precious forest.

When he questioned the Elves, they placed their faith in the Boundary. Trust in the Boundary. The Boundary will hold. Because of the Boundary, we have nothing to fear. More to the point, the Mage knew they feared the Boundary. They feared what the Boundary was and what it symbolized.

The Mage smiled sadly, finding it difficult to be angry with the Elves. For creatures as intertwined with magic as they, the Boundary must be a terrifying thing. A barrier against magic. A wall no creature of magic could pa.s.s.