Heirs of the Fallen: Book 04 - Wrath of the Fallen by James A. West Page A

dirt-stiffened blanket. “Who can name the reasons the Silent God of All favors some, and not others?”
    When Ba’Sel buried his friend in the lee of the same cliff that had sheltered them both, fear, his old acquaintance, turned to hate. And when, some years later, while wandering aimlessly over the northern edge of Eponta, he stumbled across what was the first of many slave mines, his hate became reckless. He attacked and killed the Alon’mahk’lar slavemasters standing guard.
    After the slaughter, his mindless fury fled at the sight of the slaves, their once pale skin roasted raw under the blistering sun.
    “We are Izutarians, stranger,” one slave said in answer to Ba’Sel’s question, and then introduced himself as Garsta.
    “I knew an Izutarian many years gone,” Ba’Sel mused. “We rode together before....” He trailed off, knowing how unbelievable it would sound to these chained men, none of them with years enough etched on their faces to have been born before the Upheaval. “His name was Kian Valara. A good man. A—” Be’Sel cut off at Garsta’s shocked expression.
    “You know the King of the North?” Garsta gasped.
    “What kings I knew have all been tumbled into crypts, or their bones left for buzzards and jackals. Those who rule now, have given their souls to the Faceless One and his minions.”
    “Not Kian,” Garsta insisted. “He fights still, and with him his wife, Sister Ellonlef, and the Lords Azuri and Hazad. Without them, Izutar would have fallen years ago.”
    “He must be very old,” Ba’Sel said slowly.
    “No older than you, friend.”
    “And you don’t think that strange?” Ba’Sel questioned, more hesitant than before.
    “It’s the gift of Pa’amadin,” Garsta said matter-of-factly. His fellows nodded fervent agreement.
    “The Silent God of All is not known for interfering with the lives of men,” Ba’Sel said.
    “Believe what you will,” Garsta answered. “But I tell you, Kian Valara lives, and he has joined the clans of Izutar together to make war against the Faceless One and his armies.”
    “And yet here you stand, half a world from home.”
    “The war does not go well for us,” Garsta admitted. “Be that as it may, we will never lay down our swords and spears. Lesser men willingly give themselves over to the Faceless One’s chains, but Izutar will never submit to that hell-spawned tyrant and his demon-born hordes. Until our last breath and last drop of blood, we will fight,” he finished, a wild savagery lighting his eyes.
    “A noble purpose,” Ba’Sel said soothingly. “But as I said, you’re far from home.
    Garsta looked around, eyes narrowed. “I know we sailed a goodly while, but where are we?”
    “Geldain, across the Sea of Drakarra.”
    If this shocked the Izutarian, it did not show. “I cannot repay the favor I ask, but if you could lead us to Kula-Tak, there are those who can get us home.”
    “Kula-Tak is the stronghold of the enemy in these lands,” Ba’Sel said.
    “All the world is the stronghold of the Faceless One,” Garsta said. “Yet every fortress has cracks and weaknesses that cunning vermin can sneak through.”
    Ba’Sel eventually agreed to the man’s request, and when he left him and his companions outside the city, he vowed to help any other slaves he happened across. An easy bargain to make, as he never expected to see another Izutarian. But over the intervening years, one slave mine became many, and then more, until you could scarcely miss finding one.
    Knowing he would need aid, Ba’Sel searched the wildest realms of Geldain for other fugitives. With the old ways dead and buried under the dust of a lost age, Ba’Sel abandoned the name Asra a’Shah, and created a new order. In time, the Brothers of the Crimson Shield became known as men who fought from the shadows, men who did not fear the Faceless One, or his demon-born terrors.
    Again and again over the years, Ba’Sel heard the name Kian Valara, the King