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Description
Chapter 1

It was a beautiful sunny day and in the high mountains Lazarus, the true son of King Othrin ran for his life.  The looming shadow and the guttural roar above gave his feet an extra burst of speed along the steep paths.  He glanced over his shoulder just in time to dive on his stomach; the harsh rock scraping his skin.  When he looked up he could see a tuff of his red hair clinging to the large talons of the wyvern as it swooped past him.  He waited only for a second as the creature circled back; he scurried to his feet and ran once more, fear pushed him.
Lazarus yelped as rocks gave way beneath him and he fell.  He desperately clawed at the rocks trying to find a hand hold, Paeldin help me please! Several of his fingernails peeled away on the stone until he shoved his hand into a small crevice.  The jolt of the sudden stop added to the weight of his muscular body dislocated his shoulder.  He gritted his teeth against the pain and pulled himself up to ensure a better grip with his other hand.
He looked down briefly at the sharp rocks below and breathed another short prayer to Paeldin.  However, the roar of the wyvern reminded him of the real peril.  He could see the creature coming in for the kill as he cried out, "Any time now Nathane!"
The beast drew closer.
"NATHANE!"
The wyvern landed on a ledge above and it began snapping at its dangling meal.  Lazarus dodged the best he could and even managed to punch the creature once but his fist had little effect against its leathery hide.  Saliva oozed onto his face as the jagged teeth inched closer and Lazarus could see his death in its gaping maw.  Finally within reach, the wyvern lunged for the killing strike, but it never hit.  Instead, its head fell free from its body, severed cleanly at the base of its neck.  Lazarus watched the beast crash into the rocks below; very dead.
"Worried little brother," Nathane called out, grinning broadly as he leered from above.
"A little," Lazarus replied, "Next time you're going to be the bait!"
"That's not how the game is played," Nathane lowered a rope to his brother's reaching hand, "Younger brothers are always bait."
Lazarus struggled with his injured shoulder but managed to scramble over the top.  He laid for several moments face-down in the dirt.
"You don't look so good," Nathane stared with sincere concern at Lazarus' bloodied hands and swelling shoulder
"Ya think?" Lazarus said, rolling onto his back but still not rising from the ground.
"Hold still," said Nathane, bracing his knees against his brother's side.  With a quick jerk he popped the shoulder back into place.  Lazarus gritted his teeth and grunted at the sudden pain but it quickly subsided leaving a dull ache and the taste of bile in the back of his throat.  Nathane then tended his brother's bloody hands.  After a few minutes the two brothers looked over the edge at their prize, it was a big one.
"Come on let's find your bow then we can worry about getting that thing home," said Nathane wiping the blood from his axe.

* * *
The next morning the two brothers finally made it back home dragging their kill behind two giant rams.  Nathane took in an encouraging breath as the aromas of fresh bread and steel being worked in the weapon smith's forge reached him just outside the walls of the fortress city of Hanlord, their home.  Lazarus smiled despite his pain because he was just happy to be alive watching the sun rise over the mountain peaks illuminating the valley below.
The moment they passed through the reinforced gates a silver haired girl, not even ten years old approached them.  She said nothing to them but only held out a small ivory jar toward Lazarus.
"For me," he asked taking the jar.
She pointed to her shoulder, made a rubbing motion and walked back to a modest hut built into the wall.  Lazarus could smell the pungent ointment without even opening the jar, curling his nose.  Nathane smirked trying his best not to laugh, "Now I remember why little brothers are always bait."
"Laugh it up," replied Lazarus placing the jar in a pouch on his belt.
"Hey I'm not the one who told you to fall off a cliff."
"You FELL off a cliff," asked a startled voice.
The brothers looked ahead and saw their mother, Queen Ursula.  Even with distress in her eyes she remained the perfect example of grace and poise.  Her ankle-length black hair swayed in the cool air as she walked over to her youngest, examining him thoroughly.  She inquired with a mother's concern looking at the missing fingernails on Lazarus' hand, "How badly are you hurt?"
"Scrapes and cuts mostly but I did pull my shoulder out when I fell.  Don't worry I'll be fine in a few days."
"You are just as stubborn as your father," she said kissing her son on the cheek, though she had to stand on her toes to do it.  She then motioned with her hand summoning several servants who took the wyvern to their kitchen.
"While the beast is being prepared for dinner I want you two to get cleaned up and rest.  I know from my days of adventure that sleeping on rocks is not comfortable or restful."
"Yes mother," said the two in unison.

* * *

That night at the feast no one sat near Lazarus because of the ointment's stench.  The little, silver haired girl giggled.

* * *

The next morning when the city was just starting to come to life, Lazarus found his way back to the hut.  He thought by looks alone that the crude wooden door would come off its hinges with ease, but somehow it felt stronger than steel when he knocked.  The door creaked open and the small girl stepped out staring at Lazarus with deep green eyes.  He felt uneasy in her glare as the sounds of animals from within the hut poured out.
"I wanted to thank you for the ointment.  I woke up with no pain or swelling and I can use my arm with no problem—and the cuts on my hands are gone too," said Lazarus holding out the jar.
"Keep it," replied the girl holding up her hand, "You'll need it again, soon."
"What do you mean?"
"Rho leave the dear prince alone and get back to your studies," said the girl's silver haired mother.  Her simple blue robe that barely covered her body made him uncomfortable, as she stood just inside the door.  Though she looked no more than thirty years of age Lazarus couldn't remember a time when her face was any more youthful.  Rho voiced no complaint and returned inside closing the door.
"Good morning Ezrel," said Lazarus bowing to the city's oracle.
"There's no need to be so formal my prince you are always welcome here," she said with a smile, tightening her robe.
Lazarus pulled out a small pouch, "I understand your usual payment is in gems.  I hope it's enough."
"Do not worry about that my young prince," she said folding his fingers back over the pouch, "Consider it an early gift for your birthday."
"But that's months away."
"I know but you'll find that simple jar of ointment will be far more valuable than any gift of gold or steel I could give," she said just as a raven dropped from the sky to perch on the roof of her hut and cawed three times, "You should go, your father is looking for you."
"Okay," said Lazarus fearfully, knowing that the words she just spoke about the ointment were important but he was unable to grasp their true meaning.  He turned away and focused on finding his father.

* * *

Lazarus walked into his father's throne room, a large room with a vaulted ceiling.  The skulls of various trophy kills adorned the walls, furs lined the floor and a single exotic, blue and gold silk tapestry hung behind the throne.  King Othrin sat on his throne with Queen Ursula seated to his right, Nathane seated to his left and the four royal concubines standing behind him.
Before his father stood a shaken and bloodied soldier, able to stand only by leaning heavily against Tolbain, one of Othrin's bodyguards and an older half-brother of Lazarus.  Lazarus took his seat beside his mother.  She looked at him with a half smile, placing her hand on top of his.  Othrin stroked his graying beard in thought before speaking, "Now that you're calm please tell us what happened."
"It was horrible," began the harried soldier, tears streaming down his cheeks, "They attacked before dawn two days ago—it was a slaughter.  They killed any man brandishing arms and they carried off the rest with our women, children and livestock.  We had no warning.  HELP US GREAT KING!"
"Who attacked you," asked the King.
"G—giants," cried out the man, his strength failing.  Tolbain eased him to the floor where he began to weep.
"It could only be the Shadow Peak tribe," replied Nathane, "They are the only ones that are still openly aggressive toward us."
"I agree," said Othrin motioning for one of his concubines, a stout, dark haired woman, "Take care of this man.  Make sure he is cleaned, fed and given rest."
"Yes my king," she said helping the man to his feet and leading him from the room.
"Nathane gather our forces for battle.  Instruct them to pack light.  The giants have a two day head start and we'll need to ride hard and fast through the mountain passes," King Othrin stood up, "Tolbain go to the barracks and send our best scouting party ahead.  We will need to be sure if it is the Shadow Peak tribe and pray no other villages have been attacked."
"What about me," asked Lazarus.
"What of your shoulder son?"
"There is no pain or swelling thanks to Ezrel's ointment.  I am ready."
"Then gather your armor and weapons my son, battle awaits us," King Othrin smiled proudly at his son.
"I do hope you plan to consult Ezrel before you go," said Ursula, "Without Selger or Paeldin's blessings there will be no victory."
"I wouldn't dream of it my beloved," said Othrin, just before he kissed her, "and knowing you will be praying for us will give our men strength and courage."

* * *

   Ezrel held the crude wooden door open for King Othrin beckoning him to enter the modest stone hut.  Incense and the calls from caged animals assaulted him as he crossed the threshold.  Movement to his right instantly drew his attention to the forsaken daughter the oracle, Ezrel bore him 9 years ago; her price for wisdom and help in a time of distress.
He only looked at Rho for a moment but neither had time to talk.  He knew she was preparing small totems of protection for the warriors waiting outside and did not want to distract her.  His gaze returned to Ezrel, some said she was over a hundred years old but her face still shone with the beauty of youth.  He patiently awaited her guidance as an eerie silence gripped the hut despite the cawing of birds and the mewing of other small animals.  She cast the sacred bones across the floor and gazed intently at them.
The seer's grey eyes turned to her king, "Are you ready to hear the verdict my dear King Othrin?"
"What do you see Ezrel?  Will we be victorious?  Will we reclaim what was taken?"
"You will," she answered as her eyes dropped to the floor, "but at a price."
"I have brought your payment," spoke Othrin dropping a bag of gems on the table.
"Not that price, something far more valuable is required."
"How much more do I have to give?  What is your price this time Ezrel?"
"Not my price Othrin…not mine for it is a price I would never ask of you."
Fear gripped him, "What do you see?"
"You will achieve a crushing victory but the battle will cost you, your true sons."
Othrin's muscles froze.  His true sons; the ones his beloved Queen Ursula bore after years of barrenness.  Looking uneasily at Ezrel, "That's madness!  Are you sure?  Could the bones be wrong?  Could YOU be wrong?"
           She ignored his blasphemy with a wave of her hand, "The bones do not lie and neither do I, but there is hope, my king."
           "Hope?"
"One of your sons will be gathered to our ancestors and carried into the halls of our honored dead but your other son will be gathered to his destiny," replied Ezrel with a half smile gathering the sacred bones, "Make no mistake my great king this cannot be altered or denied."
"Do…do you know which one will die," asked Othrin looking over at his silver haired daughter.
"No—I do not, but Selger will show you."
He eyed the intricately carved statue of the great hawk dominating the mantle over the fireplace; Selger, the avatar spirit of Paeldin, the true God.  The king walked out the door without another word.  Sitting stoically on their giant rams the king's warriors awaited the prophetess's vision while Rho began to hand out her small totems.
Othrin glanced at Nathane and Lazarus before mounting his ram, "We will be VICTORIOUS!!"

Description
Chapter 1

It was a beautiful sunny day and in the high mountains Lazarus, the true son of King Othrin ran for his life.  The looming shadow and the guttural roar above gave his feet an extra burst of speed along the steep paths.  He glanced over his shoulder just in time to dive on his stomach; the harsh rock scraping his skin.  When he looked up he could see a tuff of his red hair clinging to the large talons of the wyvern as it swooped past him.  He waited only for a second as the creature circled back; he scurried to his feet and ran once more, fear pushed him.
Lazarus yelped as rocks gave way beneath him and he fell.  He desperately clawed at the rocks trying to find a hand hold, Paeldin help me please! Several of his fingernails peeled away on the stone until he shoved his hand into a small crevice.  The jolt of the sudden stop added to the weight of his muscular body dislocated his shoulder.  He gritted his teeth against the pain and pulled himself up to ensure a better grip with his other hand.
He looked down briefly at the sharp rocks below and breathed another short prayer to Paeldin.  However, the roar of the wyvern reminded him of the real peril.  He could see the creature coming in for the kill as he cried out, "Any time now Nathane!"
The beast drew closer.
"NATHANE!"
The wyvern landed on a ledge above and it began snapping at its dangling meal.  Lazarus dodged the best he could and even managed to punch the creature once but his fist had little effect against its leathery hide.  Saliva oozed onto his face as the jagged teeth inched closer and Lazarus could see his death in its gaping maw.  Finally within reach, the wyvern lunged for the killing strike, but it never hit.  Instead, its head fell free from its body, severed cleanly at the base of its neck.  Lazarus watched the beast crash into the rocks below; very dead.
"Worried little brother," Nathane called out, grinning broadly as he leered from above.
"A little," Lazarus replied, "Next time you're going to be the bait!"
"That's not how the game is played," Nathane lowered a rope to his brother's reaching hand, "Younger brothers are always bait."
Lazarus struggled with his injured shoulder but managed to scramble over the top.  He laid for several moments face-down in the dirt.
"You don't look so good," Nathane stared with sincere concern at Lazarus' bloodied hands and swelling shoulder
"Ya think?" Lazarus said, rolling onto his back but still not rising from the ground.
"Hold still," said Nathane, bracing his knees against his brother's side.  With a quick jerk he popped the shoulder back into place.  Lazarus gritted his teeth and grunted at the sudden pain but it quickly subsided leaving a dull ache and the taste of bile in the back of his throat.  Nathane then tended his brother's bloody hands.  After a few minutes the two brothers looked over the edge at their prize, it was a big one.
"Come on let's find your bow then we can worry about getting that thing home," said Nathane wiping the blood from his axe.

* * *
The next morning the two brothers finally made it back home dragging their kill behind two giant rams.  Nathane took in an encouraging breath as the aromas of fresh bread and steel being worked in the weapon smith's forge reached him just outside the walls of the fortress city of Hanlord, their home.  Lazarus smiled despite his pain because he was just happy to be alive watching the sun rise over the mountain peaks illuminating the valley below.
The moment they passed through the reinforced gates a silver haired girl, not even ten years old approached them.  She said nothing to them but only held out a small ivory jar toward Lazarus.
"For me," he asked taking the jar.
She pointed to her shoulder, made a rubbing motion and walked back to a modest hut built into the wall.  Lazarus could smell the pungent ointment without even opening the jar, curling his nose.  Nathane smirked trying his best not to laugh, "Now I remember why little brothers are always bait."
"Laugh it up," replied Lazarus placing the jar in a pouch on his belt.
"Hey I'm not the one who told you to fall off a cliff."
"You FELL off a cliff," asked a startled voice.
The brothers looked ahead and saw their mother, Queen Ursula.  Even with distress in her eyes she remained the perfect example of grace and poise.  Her ankle-length black hair swayed in the cool air as she walked over to her youngest, examining him thoroughly.  She inquired with a mother's concern looking at the missing fingernails on Lazarus' hand, "How badly are you hurt?"
"Scrapes and cuts mostly but I did pull my shoulder out when I fell.  Don't worry I'll be fine in a few days."
"You are just as stubborn as your father," she said kissing her son on the cheek, though she had to stand on her toes to do it.  She then motioned with her hand summoning several servants who took the wyvern to their kitchen.
"While the beast is being prepared for dinner I want you two to get cleaned up and rest.  I know from my days of adventure that sleeping on rocks is not comfortable or restful."
"Yes mother," said the two in unison.

* * *

That night at the feast no one sat near Lazarus because of the ointment's stench.  The little, silver haired girl giggled.

* * *

The next morning when the city was just starting to come to life, Lazarus found his way back to the hut.  He thought by looks alone that the crude wooden door would come off its hinges with ease, but somehow it felt stronger than steel when he knocked.  The door creaked open and the small girl stepped out staring at Lazarus with deep green eyes.  He felt uneasy in her glare as the sounds of animals from within the hut poured out.
"I wanted to thank you for the ointment.  I woke up with no pain or swelling and I can use my arm with no problem—and the cuts on my hands are gone too," said Lazarus holding out the jar.
"Keep it," replied the girl holding up her hand, "You'll need it again, soon."
"What do you mean?"
"Rho leave the dear prince alone and get back to your studies," said the girl's silver haired mother.  Her simple blue robe that barely covered her body made him uncomfortable, as she stood just inside the door.  Though she looked no more than thirty years of age Lazarus couldn't remember a time when her face was any more youthful.  Rho voiced no complaint and returned inside closing the door.
"Good morning Ezrel," said Lazarus bowing to the city's oracle.
"There's no need to be so formal my prince you are always welcome here," she said with a smile, tightening her robe.
Lazarus pulled out a small pouch, "I understand your usual payment is in gems.  I hope it's enough."
"Do not worry about that my young prince," she said folding his fingers back over the pouch, "Consider it an early gift for your birthday."
"But that's months away."
"I know but you'll find that simple jar of ointment will be far more valuable than any gift of gold or steel I could give," she said just as a raven dropped from the sky to perch on the roof of her hut and cawed three times, "You should go, your father is looking for you."
"Okay," said Lazarus fearfully, knowing that the words she just spoke about the ointment were important but he was unable to grasp their true meaning.  He turned away and focused on finding his father.

* * *

Lazarus walked into his father's throne room, a large room with a vaulted ceiling.  The skulls of various trophy kills adorned the walls, furs lined the floor and a single exotic, blue and gold silk tapestry hung behind the throne.  King Othrin sat on his throne with Queen Ursula seated to his right, Nathane seated to his left and the four royal concubines standing behind him.
Before his father stood a shaken and bloodied soldier, able to stand only by leaning heavily against Tolbain, one of Othrin's bodyguards and an older half-brother of Lazarus.  Lazarus took his seat beside his mother.  She looked at him with a half smile, placing her hand on top of his.  Othrin stroked his graying beard in thought before speaking, "Now that you're calm please tell us what happened."
"It was horrible," began the harried soldier, tears streaming down his cheeks, "They attacked before dawn two days ago—it was a slaughter.  They killed any man brandishing arms and they carried off the rest with our women, children and livestock.  We had no warning.  HELP US GREAT KING!"
"Who attacked you," asked the King.
"G—giants," cried out the man, his strength failing.  Tolbain eased him to the floor where he began to weep.
"It could only be the Shadow Peak tribe," replied Nathane, "They are the only ones that are still openly aggressive toward us."
"I agree," said Othrin motioning for one of his concubines, a stout, dark haired woman, "Take care of this man.  Make sure he is cleaned, fed and given rest."
"Yes my king," she said helping the man to his feet and leading him from the room.
"Nathane gather our forces for battle.  Instruct them to pack light.  The giants have a two day head start and we'll need to ride hard and fast through the mountain passes," King Othrin stood up, "Tolbain go to the barracks and send our best scouting party ahead.  We will need to be sure if it is the Shadow Peak tribe and pray no other villages have been attacked."
"What about me," asked Lazarus.
"What of your shoulder son?"
"There is no pain or swelling thanks to Ezrel's ointment.  I am ready."
"Then gather your armor and weapons my son, battle awaits us," King Othrin smiled proudly at his son.
"I do hope you plan to consult Ezrel before you go," said Ursula, "Without Selger or Paeldin's blessings there will be no victory."
"I wouldn't dream of it my beloved," said Othrin, just before he kissed her, "and knowing you will be praying for us will give our men strength and courage."

* * *

   Ezrel held the crude wooden door open for King Othrin beckoning him to enter the modest stone hut.  Incense and the calls from caged animals assaulted him as he crossed the threshold.  Movement to his right instantly drew his attention to the forsaken daughter the oracle, Ezrel bore him 9 years ago; her price for wisdom and help in a time of distress.
He only looked at Rho for a moment but neither had time to talk.  He knew she was preparing small totems of protection for the warriors waiting outside and did not want to distract her.  His gaze returned to Ezrel, some said she was over a hundred years old but her face still shone with the beauty of youth.  He patiently awaited her guidance as an eerie silence gripped the hut despite the cawing of birds and the mewing of other small animals.  She cast the sacred bones across the floor and gazed intently at them.
The seer's grey eyes turned to her king, "Are you ready to hear the verdict my dear King Othrin?"
"What do you see Ezrel?  Will we be victorious?  Will we reclaim what was taken?"
"You will," she answered as her eyes dropped to the floor, "but at a price."
"I have brought your payment," spoke Othrin dropping a bag of gems on the table.
"Not that price, something far more valuable is required."
"How much more do I have to give?  What is your price this time Ezrel?"
"Not my price Othrin…not mine for it is a price I would never ask of you."
Fear gripped him, "What do you see?"
"You will achieve a crushing victory but the battle will cost you, your true sons."
Othrin's muscles froze.  His true sons; the ones his beloved Queen Ursula bore after years of barrenness.  Looking uneasily at Ezrel, "That's madness!  Are you sure?  Could the bones be wrong?  Could YOU be wrong?"
           She ignored his blasphemy with a wave of her hand, "The bones do not lie and neither do I, but there is hope, my king."
           "Hope?"
"One of your sons will be gathered to our ancestors and carried into the halls of our honored dead but your other son will be gathered to his destiny," replied Ezrel with a half smile gathering the sacred bones, "Make no mistake my great king this cannot be altered or denied."
"Do…do you know which one will die," asked Othrin looking over at his silver haired daughter.
"No—I do not, but Selger will show you."
He eyed the intricately carved statue of the great hawk dominating the mantle over the fireplace; Selger, the avatar spirit of Paeldin, the true God.  The king walked out the door without another word.  Sitting stoically on their giant rams the king's warriors awaited the prophetess's vision while Rho began to hand out her small totems.
Othrin glanced at Nathane and Lazarus before mounting his ram, "We will be VICTORIOUS!!"