This prologue is the beginning chapter of the Sequel to The Caramere Saga, Book 1: The War of Vengeance in which I am in the progress of writing. I hope you enjoy and I would love your feedback. If you would like to read the first book you can find The War of Vengeance available on Amazon.

(Note: Take heed dear readers as there are many spoilers below.)

~ SL Rutland

Mother Hana walked through the cold, wooded landscape along the quiet dirt road, gripping her white staff as she slowly made her way back to her cabin. She carried a small wooden basket filled with vegetables she had bought from the local market in town, and she was looking forward to adding them to the pork broth she had been cooking over the fire since early morning. She knew she was getting close as the rich, salty aroma from her cooking pot permeated the surrounding woods, and her stomach grumbled in anticipation.

Mother Hana, once an illustrious royal councillor of the High Kingdom of Caramere, had retired. She had to convince High King Uther and Arch Priest Reneth that her time had come. The events surrounding High Queen Valena’s death and the war that followed had taken a toll on the old woman, and she requested a small, out-of-the-way residence to live out the rest of her days in peace.

She was once known as High Queen Hanaron, the Pious. A Padar Queen herself, she was left alone with her distant descendants after her husband and son died of old age. Unable to watch more of her line perish around her, she soon abandoned her role as Queen Mother of Arathas Castle and sought peaceful reflection as a priestess of Tythor.

With her disappearance, Hanaron fell into legend, a mystery that persists to this day. No one knew where her story ended or what destiny had fallen upon her. However, it seemed fate had a sense of humour and found a way to bring her back to her home one last time, only for her to serve her great-great-grandson, who had no idea who she was. Although being with her family again soothed her old spirit, her anonymity was to her liking, and she didn’t need the fuss of it all.

To her dismay, even in this small town, her reputation as a priestess of Tythor was no secret and did not bestow upon her the privacy she desired. Her presence attracted residents of Frostwither who sought her out for any ailments they found themselves afflicted with. In her six months living on the outskirts of town, she had found herself taking the role of Frostwither’s unofficial healer.

It wasn’t all bad, though. Arthur, the local hunter, brought her fresh wild game and some choice cuts from the butcher, which allowed her to eat quite comfortably. Nevertheless, she would have preferred to be left alone. She had been on Aurelia for two hundred and seventy-two years. Although she remained healthy and fit due to the magic that ran through her blood and her skills in thaumaturgical spellcraft, which gave her the ability to heal herself, age had weathered her in ways that magic, even that given to her by the grace of the Ten, could not mend. Her time on this world was coming to an end.

As she approached her cabin, she peered around, ensuring no one had come to bother her. She only wished to prepare her meal and sit by the warmth of the fire in peace, and if time permitted, review her scrolls and excerpts from the Book of Order and Justice. She was still a Priestess of Tythor, and she would remain so until her death, even if she had retired from serving the council and tending to its temple within Arathas Castle. Her communion with her patron, Tythor, was a lifelong commitment.

Her cabin was crafted from Winteran pine, and the stone cobbled path to her front porch was lined with silver and purple lavender, her favourite flower. Smoke rose from the chimney, making her smile. She had found herself rushing back along the forest path, worried that the fire would whittle out before she returned, especially if some townsfolk had interrupted her quick outing. Fortunately, she had managed to avoid all who had fallen victim to wanton illness or injury.

She unlocked her door, and the smell of broth and the warmth from the fire greeted her. She rushed inside, not to let any cold air in. Then, she opened her basket and began gleefully cleaning and chopping the vegetables. She was halfway through when a knock came from the door. She froze for a moment and sighed to herself, turning toward the door, hoping it was just her imagination. If not, she thought, maybe they would go away if she simply ignored them. When the second knock echoed through her cabin, louder and more desperate than the first, she put her knife down in a huff.

“By all that is holy, can’t I have a moment’s peace in this confounded town?” she muttered as she unlatched the door and opened it to see who had interrupted her cooking.

A flushed man, struggling to catch his breath, stood holding a small boy, whom she estimated to be about three years old. She noted that the rather rotund man was Frostwither’s baker.

“Please, Mother, you must help us!” he cried, edging closer to come into the cabin and escape the cold.

“What is the matter with the boy, hmm?” she replied, looking over him but standing her ground, refusing to let the man pass.

“He was playing outside, and a Winteran viper must have bitten him! I saw the damn vile thing sliver away, and my boy just lay there, not waking up, no matter how much I shook him!” he explained, begging her to let him enter.

Mother Hana looked back at her half-cut potato and shook her head in defeat. “Oh, fine, bring him in out of the cold,” she replied, then directed the man to place the child on the small bench on the western side of the cabin while she collected her staff from beside the door.

Looking over the boy, she observed that he was unconscious, his breathing was laboured, and he had cold sweats. Two puncture wounds were discovered on his leg where the viper had struck, and a mixture of black poison and blood seeped from the two small wounds.

“Another hour and he would have been dead,” Hana observed, glancing up at the sobbing father. “What are you blabbering for? The boy will be fine. Clear the way!” She scolded him, shooing him from the bench as she cast her spell while placing her staff near the boy’s wound. “Traho Venenum!”

The staff began to glow with light, and the black venom appeared to be drawn from the boy through the wound and the pores of his skin. As the black liquid hovered above his body like mist, she took a glass flask from her robes, directed the poison into its opening, and sealed it.

Almost immediately, colour returned to the boy, and as the father hurried over, holding his son’s hand, his eyes flickered open.

“Daddy?” he whispered weakly.

“Yes son, it’s me, thank the gods! It’s a miracle!” he cried, grabbing hold and hugging him. “Thank you, mother, you are sent straight from Tythor himself!” he said, trying to grab hold of her to pull her close.

“None of that nonsense, thank you very much!” she replied, swiftly stepping back and out of the man’s reach.

“Oh, Priestess, you will receive a free loaf of bread every week for as long as I am the baker of Frostwither for saving my son!”

“Yes, yes, fine, the bread will do. Now leave me to my peace so I can get back to my dinner,” she replied, ushering them out of the cabin door in a rush.

“Make sure he rests for a couple of days and get Arthur to find that bloody viper!” she yelled after them.

He nodded, grinning and thanking her again as he went down the stairs and onto the cobbled path, kissing his son’s cheek as he did. Hana smiled and shook her head as she closed her door.

“Finally,” she muttered, about to return to the chopping when she sensed another presence in the room. “Hello?” she called out, turning around, and then she saw it. A tall, disfigured monstrosity stood at her bedroom doorway. It was standing upright, which seemed unnatural for its figure, and wore a ragged black cloak and what looked like the soiled remains of a noble’s attire. Its large claws curled, and its mouth slowly opened, revealing jagged, long teeth. It was a Barbari.

“Mother Hana…” it growled in a distorted, raspy voice.

“You can speak?” she asked as she held out her staff, pointing it at the monster.

“You all betrayed me!” it screeched in reply, causing her to shrink back, her attempt to cover her ears thwarted by her unwillingness to let go of her staff, her only protection. She was a healer, but she also had some offensive magics up her sleeve. She hadn’t ever thought she would have to use them as she began to say the words.

“Sanctus Lux!” she cried out as a holy, blinding light filled her cabin.

The screeching suddenly stopped, and as the light dimmed, she looked up, peering around the cabin. The monster was gone. She steadied herself, gathered her courage, and slowly approached her bedroom door, which was left ajar and creaky. Looking through the crack, she could see or hear nothing but the boiling of her pork broth and the afternoon birds calling to one another among the trees outside.

She hadn’t thought she would get rid of the monster so easily, and used her staff to push open the door cautiously. As the door groaned open, the monster yanked the staff from her and shattered it against the cabin wall. Mother Hana tried to flee, but it lunged at her and clawed her back as she turned to run, tearing through her robes and into her flesh.

She screamed as the surge of pain made her legs give way, and she fell to the ground. The force of the impact winded her, but she managed to turn herself to face the Barbari as it stood, leering at her, its wide mouth grinning in excitement and hunger.

“Naughty, naughty, Hana,” it remarked, shaking its head.

As it approached, her eyes widened. She had not realised from the tattered clothes who Barbari once was.

“Auric?” she whispered, horrified by her realisation.

“So you finally see,” Auric growled. “You finally recognised your old colleague.”

“But why come here, to me?” she asked, confused, thinking he would attempt to go after Uther or Varen.

“You all betrayed me!” he screeched, smashing through the chairs and table in the centre of the room, the furniture crashing against the wall.

Mother Hana shielded herself as she attempted to crawl backwards towards the door, while Auric lost control of himself, slashing and smashing whatever was nearby in his rage.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he moved his bony, elongated claw from side to side. “You’re not going anywhere, priestess!”

Auric rushed over, grasped hold of her, and dragged her out of the front of her cabin and down the stony path onto a grassy mound, allowing her to stand.

“What do you want, Auric?” she grunted, glaring at him with scorn. Her fear had subsided, replaced by tiredness of age and the annoyance of having to entertain this corpse. “I’m too old for this nonsense, I have no authority anymore, I’ve retired.”

“Oh, I want you, Hanaron, and all of those who were there that night.” He grinned, crouching like a predator about to pounce on its prey.

“Hanaron?” she replied, surprised he would know her true name.

“Yes, yes... The Pious legendary High Queen who vanished into legend. I was surprised when Magrath revealed who you truly were. But naturally, my destiny would lead me close to what I needed to fulfil my purpose.”

“By Tythor’s mercy, kill me or let me get back to my dinner; I tire of conversing with a dead, foolish man,” she retorted, standing up straight and ignoring the wound on her back as she scowled at him.

Auric roared as he clawed into her, savagely. He slashed across her chest and knocked her to the ground. Hana wailed as she looked up desperately, gripping her wound, staring at her attacker as he dripped her blood from his bloody claws into a small vial and placed it into his ragged pouch.

“Now you die, Mother Hana,” he said, returning his cold gaze to her and raising his clawed hand, ready to deliver the final blow. Before he could lower his hand to end her, a voice erupted from the forest.

“Get back, fiend!” the voice yelled as two arrows whistled towards Auric, striking him in the shoulder and chest. Auric reeled back, screeching as Arthur, the hunter, charged into view, drawing his sword and swinging his fiery torch about, standing between Hana and the monster.

Auric swung wildly, trying to land a blow on his attacker, but Arthur was swift, stepping back, ducking, and slicing into Auric’s leg before ramming the torch into his chest, igniting his tattered clothing. Auric screamed and flailed, fleeing as he was engulfed in flames, vanishing into the woods and quickly out of view.

Arthur paused, watching Auric for a moment in case he returned, then pulled his hood from his head, revealing a middle-aged man with long, wild brown hair, tanned, rugged skin, and an unshaven face. He looked down at Hana, who lay there, struggling to breathe as her wounds began to overcome her.

“Priestess!” Arthur cried, crouching down and looking over her.

“Arthur, better late than never… I was expecting you at least half an hour ago,” she replied, attempting to make light of the dire situation.

“My apologies, I was held up. I regret that I hadn’t arrived sooner,” he said as he began to pull some cotton bandages from his pouch. As he was about to attempt to stem the bleeding, she lifted her hand and waved his effort away.

“You and I both know that will not help,” she scolded him.

Arthur sighed. “I do. Then you know you are dying?” he asked.

“Of course I do. But before I meet my patron, you must do an old woman one last favour,” she replied.

“Anything.”

“Take this to Lady Merina Foxten in the city of Winteran,” she said, reaching into her robes and handing him a small scroll. “Tell her Hanaron has fallen and that she may be next. Tell her, the Black Star has returned and has taken the blood of the Pious Queen… She will know what to do.”

Arthur nodded. “Should I make you more comfortable?”

“No. Give me your damn dagger, boy.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t you do the same?”

Arthur nodded. She had not known the man for long, but somehow, in their many conversations, she had come to realise they were alike in many ways. If she were in his position, she would not let him suffer. As she looked at him now, she could see he understood the same. He handed her his blade, and she turned it towards herself, angling it upward toward her neck. Her death would be swift. She gripped it firmly and nodded at Arthur.

“May Tythor greet you at the gates of his realm, Old Mother. Rest well, my friend,” he whispered as he placed his hand gently on hers, and they both pushed the blade into her neck.