Excerpt

Prologue

A prophecy is a lot like faith, drawing its strength from whether or not there is enough belief to sustain it. Without belief, it fades like breath on a cold winters night. Some prophecies are delicate and easily shattered. They are disputed and forgotten, never to return. Sometimes they are shadowsrumors of what might come to pass. Sometimes.

What was about to unfold on Haleen was a prophecy. Like all prophecies, it was based on rumors and speculation. Of all the people who called Haleen homeand whose ancestors had done so for centuriesonly a handful even knew of the prophecy, and they chose not to think about it. It was easier that way. They held that its powers were purely psychologicalthat the prophecy could only shape the future of those foolish enough to believe. But they were wrong . . . and what they chose to ignore was about to reshape their entire world, whether or not they believed.

Far away, another race of people knew of the same prophecy, but unlike the people on Haleen, they spoke of it openly. For centuries, it had been their golden nugget of truththeir reason to look to the future. With reverent care, they passed its secrets on. From generation to generation, the tale was told.

It was the story of Rimousa warrior the likes of which their people had never seen before, nor would again. Leagues of enemies fell before him; combatants with fiercer weapons and entire legions of warriors were no match for Rimous' fury. It was only in the end, when the ancient Eclesian warrior was ultimately struck down, that the truth was told. Then, with his dying breath, he revealed the secret of his power.

As a young soldier, he'd found himself facing certain death. It was dark; the enemy was everywherehe could hear their footsteps surrounding him on all sides. With no weapon to be found and no means of escape, he'd pleaded with the god of war to spare him. To his horror, the enemy closed in. They captured Rimous and dragged him away. He was bound, hand and foot, and tossed into what his captors called the 'cave of death'. There, surrounded by the decaying bodies of those who'd preceded him, he struggled to catch his breath in the stench and waited for death to find him. It did not come.

Rimous could only guess at the passage of time. Days passed, without end, a seamless stretch of time marked by rodents coming to feast on his silent companions, then going on their way. Parched by thirst, his tongue thickened and he could not swallow. Rimous had given up struggling with the leather strips that bound him and held him fast. He no longer cared to be freehe only wanted it to be over.

It would seem his prayers had been heard. A shadowy figure appeared in the darkness, floating above the twisted corpses. Speaking without wordscontrolling the thoughts that raced in Rimous' mindthe figure offered the doomed warrior life. But, as in all deals, there was a price to be paid.

Rimous would live to fight again. . In choosing life, he forged a pact with a dark civilization. As a result of this pact, the warrior's strength and skill would surpass that of any enemy he encountered. He would annihilate whomever he chose to confrontentire races whose legions had been feared since the beginning of recorded time. He would be victorious in all battlesnot as a means of obtaining glory for himself and his people, but to pave the way for a final battle on a distant day.

So it was that Rimous had bartered with the apparition in the cave. The details of his covenant had been retold by his people, again and again, butlike a secret caressed by every tongue in a crowded roomthey had become embellished and tainted. The Eclesians no longer believed all the prophecy had to say, but there was one point no one could doubt. Romous' pact had secured more than a legacy of power for the Eclesians. There was something very real buried under the grasslands on the far side of Haleen. It was more than a prophecymuch moreand on the day of the awakening, the Destroyer would rise.

* * *

There was nothing about the topography of the far side of Haleen that spoke of ancient civilizations, much less a day of awakening. There were no toppled ruins of bygone citiesno abandoned roads overrun by brush and tangled vines. In truth, there was nothing to indicate that the area was anything but what it appeared to bevirgin and unspoiled. It was a simple landscape of small forests separated by rolling grasslands, which beckoned to be tilled and planted. In the midst of this serenity, a massive canyon cut through the landwandering and out of place, like a raw, jagged scar from some ancient battle. The canyons edges were rocky and its sides were steep. Nestled in its belly, some two hundred meters below, a lazy river wound its way like a ribbon shining in the midday sun.

In the early morning hours, with the dew still heavy on the land, gentle breezes brushed through the canyon, stirring the plants that clung to the rocky ledges. In unison, the foliage dancedsoft, delicate wisps of green that dipped and swayed against granite walls. From there, the light winds spread out to caress the grasslands, forming flowing waves of motion that disappeared in the distance.

As the sun followed its familiar arc, it bathed Haleen in alternating patterns of sun and shadow. On some days, rain clouds covered its face. Lightening would split the sky, followed by thunder that rumbled along the canyon walls. Rainstorms were simply part of life on Haleen, as were the changing seasons. They came and went, and were hardly noticed, but each day at sundown, Haleen was transformed. Evening did not slide in gently here. It arrived with a vengeance.