Chapter one
A wild dark streak haunted the reputation of the Vorner family down through the generations and many times in their turbulent history dishonor stained their family name. Young Tralgan, son of Lord Nalgre Vorner, radiated a sunny disposition that charmed all who came into contact with him, so that folk said perhaps the black blood had at last all been drained away.
Here, under the battlements of the gate leading up to the castle, Tralgan stared sickly upon the dozen crossbows aimed for his heart.
“Do not move, Tralgan! The Judge will have no compunction in ordering the crossbowmen to loose.”
The saturnine features of the Judge confirmed with chilling authority what Ornol Lodermair said was true. He and the Judge stood side by side under the shadows of the arched gateway. The glee and raw triumph in Lodermair’s voice struck through Tralgan like a hurled javelin.
His full lips trembled with a despair he tried to mask with rage. This fellow, this Ornol Lodermair, a cousin detested all Tralgan’s life, now arrogantly laid claim to the castle and lands of Culvensax. Lord Nalgre Vorner, Elten of Culvensax, had died as all men die in Opaz’s good time. His son, grieving at the news, hurried home to be met by this debacle.
“I am the true Lord of Culvensax!” Tralgan spoke stoutly; but he could hear the quaver in his voice. “You usurp my rights at your peril, Ornol!”
Lodermair sneered at this, dismissing Tralgan’s words out of hand. The Judge said sharply: “The papers are all in order. The late Elten Nalgre’s will is testified and witnessed. Kyr Ornol Lodermair is now legally the Elten of Culvensax.”
The twin Suns of Scorpio struck ruby and emerald fires from the steel heads of the crossbow bolts. The suns shine glinted off the silver pakmort at Tralgan’s throat. Until the death of his father had brought him home to claim his inheritance his sole ambition in life was to take the next step up the mercenary hierarchy and to wear the golden pakzhan at his throat, to be a zhanpaktun.
The tableau at the gate appeared to him to be divorced from reality. Many of the citizens of the town gazed with wide eyes upon the scene, held back by the spears of the town’s militia. A dry smell of dust hung on the air; the crowd made little noise. The dark color mounted in Tralgan’s cheeks. His heavy face with the full lips and curled nostrils of the Vorner family gave a sudden shocking reminder that Elten Nalgre was indeed Tralgan’s father, the stain of the black blood unmistakable.
His right hand curled into a fist around the hilt of the sword hanging on his right side. Those who understood these things noticed this, and that Tralgan did not grasp the rapier scabbarded to his left. He wore light armor, suitable for travel. His groom with the animals, detained by spearmen a little way off, looked on with an expression compounded of horror, alarm and pity.
Tralgan stared up past the arched gate, up and up to
