Prologue

A New Beginning, as narrated in the diary of Tristian Lazarus.

 

     I find it ironic that my hand shakes as I write, ironic that the fingers of this stolen flesh resist my plan to tell how I came to wield them.  Do these fine yet powerful digits not want the fate of their former master to be known?  Or are they merely jealous that I will speak of others as well... of The Sender, of Eric Descado, of Kali Tur, and of the only heir I will ever call my own, Andreu.

     Selfish little fingers!  Shall I damn them for their stubbornness?  No, I will endure their trembling opposition and dismiss it as unfamiliarity.  This is but my second day of returned life, and therefore, maybe my soul merely needs time to adapt and adjust.  Whatever the case, Eric imparted this empty manuscript to me yesterday, and in light of his other gift, (the gift of flesh), I will do as he wishes and fill its pages with a story of which only I know the whole, perhaps taking the first step towards redemption.

    I owe him that.  I owe his brother that.  I owe...

    I was once called Tristian, and I've existed in one form or another for two thousand, one hundred eighty seven years, thirteen days and four hours as of right now.  In the well-known diaries of The Sender, I was called Peter, but I see no reason to further call myself such.  To explain, such was the name of my swordmaster in mortal adolescence, and while I will forever honor him, forever love him, I think two millennia of tribute is quite enough... 

     No.  That's wrong.  It's wrong and it's disrespectful.  Granted, the purpose of this is to further immortalize The Sender, but do I not also have a history?  Was it not I who ostensibly fathered The Children of Ascendance? 

     The once regretted, now accepted answer is, "Yes", so let us begin with me, with the origins of The Warmaker.

     I was born Tristian Beaumain Lazarus in what has since come to be counted as the year 39 B.C., (that's Bellis Capra, which means Before Conquest in the dragon tongue; referring to the time preceding my ascension to power as The Warmaker).  While my birthplace was a primitive little village on the southern edge of the continent, I pushed my way into the world as a citizen of Mason Don, and thus bared the burden of its defense.  For centuries, my ancestors had battled goblin invaders from the west, and centaur invaders from the north; never allowing themselves to be conquered, but never really gaining sovereignty either.

     My father and older brother (neither of whom I remember) died fighting the goblin Soulhammers of Duotan Woundweaver, my mother falling victim to the Great Plague of 32 B.C. short years later.  As such, I was discovered and spirited away at the tender age of seven by one of the roving Mason recruitment caravans, eventually to be schooled/reared in a military orphanage outside the beginnings of a city that is now called Philian.

     For five years, I survived a life of brutal training, perpetual starvation, and occasional rape.  Such were the forging fires of a soldier-to-be in that long ago age, for with enemies constantly threatening the boarders of Mason Don, our taskmasters felt it was their duty (right?) to abuse us into warriors.

     Despite the fact that I excelled in my lessons, and that I was innately gifted with respect to both physical and intellectual might, I was short for my age, which yoked me with the additional burden of being a target for bullies.  Ah, but I prevailed time and time again, thus besting my tormentors in fencing or wrestling or boxing until I came to be hated among those that sought to victimize me.  At the age of twelve, I killed my first man, stabbing one of my taskmasters through the throat after he'd decreed that I should "duel" him with a live blade.

     The aftermath of that soldier's murder was terrible, as I was beaten and whipped until I begged to die.  But my fellow countrymen thought that death would be too merciful, and they threw me down amongst the imprisoned slaves the Mason armies had captured over the years.

     Being little more than an unarmed child, I hadn't the ability to defend myself in the dungeons of Philian, and I weathered those horrors beneath the certainty that I would one day grow to be a man, and that- if I continued to fight, if I continued to learn- I would inevitably earn the power to strike back.

     I suffered and battled and starved for eight months in that stone-encased purgatory, until a newly relocated mercenary, known only by the name Peter, came to the dungeons and bought me as his squire.

     Though grateful to be free of the constant beatings and the constant sodomy, I was weary of Peter at first.  I was afraid that this tall, plain-faced man with short brown hair and a close-cropped beard would abuse me as every other person since my mother's death had abused me.

     Twas not to be so...

     That first day, Peter carried me to his marble villa in the Eastern Quarter and ordered his entourage to bathe me and clothe me and feed me.  He was a rich man, obviously, but he treated the supplicants of his house with respect and compassion, referring to them as "family", even though I quickly discovered that he had no blood ties to any of them.

     As the days passed, I came to understand that these underlings served Peter not because they feared him, but because they loved him.  It had nothing to do with the generous amounts of gold they received; no, it had to do with genuine loyalty.

     I saw nothing of Peter at first, my days otherwise spent in a physical recovery I had no idea I needed.  After five years as an orphan trainee, and an additional eight months as a prisoner, I didn't realize that I was not only malnourished, but also sick to the point of death.

     The advent of simple things like food and warmth and sanitation brought unto me a vitality I'd never known before, and I was a child reborn when Peter finally reappeared on the morning of my seventh day in his house.

     He opened the door to my allotted and lavish room, then to pause at the threshold to look me over.

     "Tristian Lazarus," he said, then crossing the marble floor and taking a seat next to me on the bed, "That's your name, yes?"

     When I sat up with my back against the headboard and nodded to the affirmative, Peter went on.

     "I understand you were imprisoned for killing your section commander.  Tell me, Tristian Lazarus, was his death deserved?"

     "He'd... taken advantage of me," I stammered, "And fencing with live blades was his idea.  He hurt me, and I wanted to hurt him back." Then swallowing hard to bolster my courage, I looked up and feebly warned, "I'll do the same to you, if I have to..."

     For a moment, Peter simply stared back, his dark brown eyes unreadable.

     "You will never have cause," he said at last, "for cruelty to children is not among my appetites..."

     Peter went on to tell me that he was a mercenary by trade, and that his current allegiance was to Mason Don.  When I asked him why he'd saved me from the dungeons of Philian, he confessed that it was nothing more than a whim.

     "I'd heard of your crime," he said, "and I wanted to see what manner of child could kill a lifetime soldier in single combat.  Such skill at your age is rare, such defiance even more so.   You- intrigue me..."

     And so began a conversation that lasted for many hours, Peter talking to me as if we were equals.  I'd studied language and philosophy with the same resolve with which I'd studied swordplay, and Peter seemed perpetually amazed by my articulate vocabulary.  I told him how my family had died, and how I'd come to live and learn and suffer in the orphanage, the history of my twelve years spilling out as a broken dam.

     No one had ever talked to me before, no one had ever asked me questions, no one had ever taken an interest.  My previous relationships consisted of barked orders and snarled threats, and to be given the opportunity to share- actually share, was a miracle I would've never believed possible.

     I loved Peter instantly, and that first day, I silently vowed to be whatever he wanted me to be.  Peter would eventually come to love me back, though even now, more than two millennia after his mortal death, I have no idea why.

     I suppose I can guess, for Peter was forty in human years at the time, and since he had no heirs, no true family, perhaps he wanted someone to carry on his legacy.  His servants and handmaidens were certainly loving and loyal enough, but they were not warriors, and I had already killed a man.

     I would later learn that Peter's seed was barren, so he'd never been able to sire children, and while he'd taken no less than three wives, none had stayed with him.  Perhaps, in the end, he was an orphan too; and in me, he saw the end of our shared loneliness.

     My recovery from malnutrition lasted another month, and then I began my tutelage.  Without ever asking for anything in return, Peter taught me the secrets of combat: how to cut and parry and stab with a sword, how to hit a man in such a way that the conflict is over before it begins, how to lead a cavalry charge into an overwhelming force of footmen, how to finance a fortress siege so that the soldiers under your command do not starve or weaken or need.

     He taught me war in both theory and execution, often taking me along when his mercenary duties pulled him to both far off lands across the sea, and the much closer boarders of Mason Don.  By the time I was sixteen, I was taking part in these assaults; by the time I was eighteen, I was leading them.

     While continually amazed by his wisdom, I had surpassed Peter by the time I was twenty-two, and filled with new and inexplicable patriotism for the land of my birth, I decided to sign on with the proper armies of Mason Don.  Peter tried to get me to change my mind, assuring me that the mercenary life he'd chosen was far better.  After all, a soldier-for-hire had no loyalties beyond those of his employer's ability to pay, and said ability included the option to retreat should things turn sour, (i.e., should the money run out).

     As is true of most brazen young men, I thought my mentor's philosophy was flawed in that it overlooked dedication to king and country.  I was wrong.

     Ignoring Peter's forbiddance, I snuck away in the dead of night, having learned that morning that the goblin armies of Duotan Woundweaver had crossed our western boarders and crushed one of the outlying garrisons in a pitched battle on the Plain of Nolands.  My true father and older brother had fallen to the same invaders twenty years before, and I justified my defiance with revenge.  In truth though, I'd never known my father or brother, and the real reason I was going, was to prove to Peter that I was worthy to be his "son".

     Finding me gone when the sun rose the next day, Peter gathered his household and made to follow, the encumbering entourage slowing his pursuit and lengthening my head start.  I reached the western borderlands of Mason Don three days ahead of him, and there signed on with a two thousand man cavalry unit bound for the Plain of Nolands.

     We broke camp the following afternoon and charged out to meet the enemy, only to discover- much to our horror- that Woundweaver's forces were far larger than our reconnaissance had indicated.

     We were slaughtered, more than nineteen hundred Mason riders struck down in mass.  I was one of thirty-six captured survivors, and for two days, I was mercilessly tortured by the greenskins.  Since I was a new recruit in every sense of the word, I had no strategic information to impart, and the goblins tortured me all the more because they thought I was being brave or defiant or both.  For the second time in my life, I begged for death.

     Death did not come...  But my father did. 

     On the second eve of suffering, Peter suddenly appeared at the tent threshold cloaked from head to toe in black linen.  Without a sound, his twin short swords flashed and whirled, thus cutting down no less then eight goblin tormentors before they had time to even acknowledge the attack.

     Though delirious and mad from anguish, I still remember the way he moved, the way he flowed like a dancer- the same lethal grace I was to witness centuries later in The Sender.  Ah, but it is not yet time to write of him, so let me go on...

     I wept as Peter cut the leather straps that held my broken wrists and broken ankles to the torture throne, all the while telling him how much I loved him, and how I regretted going against his wishes, and how I now understood.  Peter wept too, pleading for me to be quiet, and soothing me with promises of forgiveness.

     There were three other prisoners in the tent with me, but Peter knew he could not save us all, and his short swords swept out to end their suffering.  The last one cried out just before his throat was cut, thus alerting the goblin garrison of our presence.

     Since I couldn't walk, Peter hoisted me over his shoulder and carried me out into the night, eventually to mount a goblin steppe pony and lash the reins furiously.  Slung across the saddle as I was, I caught mere glimpses of our escape from Woundweaver's camp, but I remember little goblin silhouettes running this way and that, some of them drawing back on pregnant bowstrings.

     I heard the hiss of loosed arrows flying past us, I heard Peter grunt and gnash his teeth, and then I passed out.

     I awoke the next morning to a maelstrom of pain, my hands and ankles bandaged but nonetheless broken, my chest riddled with whip marks, my legs and arms and face bearing the terrible aftermath of numerous beatings.  These agonies I accepted as worthy payment for my arrogance, but I was not prepared for the final consequence of my actions.

     I was to find that I'd been taken to a makeshift camp deep within the Tensi Forest, there to be tended by Peter's accompanying servants.  When I asked about my father, I was greeted with grim yet compassionate silence, and I flew into a demanding rage.  Unable to quiet me, the servants put me onto a stretcher and carried me to another tent, where I was to behold Peter as I'd never seen him before.  His face was ashen and pale, his lips cracked, the full burden of his fifty-one years apparent for the first time.

     He'd been struck by numerous goblin arrows during our escape, three of which were too embedded to be removed.  Though Peter smiled when the servants brought me alongside his bed, I knew my father was dying.

     "You are strong, Tristian," he said, reaching out to clasp my hand, "you will mend.  I feared something worse, but now that I see you, I know-"

     He stopped and grimaced, a wet, raspy cough pitching him into convulsions.

     "Father!" I cried, other servants coming to Peter's aid.

     But Peter forced composure and waved them away, his weak smile returning.

     "Do you love me?" he asked, almost whimsically.

     "You know I do, father!"

     "Am I your father?  Truly?"

     "Yes!  With all my heart, yes!"

     "That pleases me, Tristian, for you've always been my son.  From the first time I saw you, I knew you'd grow to be the one.  But what's to come will be hard on you, for I will not be there the next time."

     "NO!" I cried, rolling off of the stretcher and collapsing by his bed.  My broken ankles flared, but I could still hold myself up on my knees, and when the horrified servants tried to help me, I pushed them away.  "Don't talk like you're dying, father!  It's not your time!  Do you hear me?!?  It's not your time!"

     "Shhh..." he coaxed me, squeezing my hand once more, "It is my time, Tristian, but I welcome it.  I never knew life until you came into mine, and I can think of no better way to end it.  I'm fifty-one, and senility would've broken me.  Can you understand that, my son?"

     I crumbled then and wept anew, the pain of my flesh insignificant to the pain of my soul.  

     "Don't leave me," I whimpered, "I'll take it back, I'll take it all back!  I'll be a good son, I'll do whatever you want!  Just stay!  Stay with me!  I can't be alone again!"

     It was then that Peter's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, his hand wrenching free of my grasp to reach up under my chin and gently lift it.

     "Did they break you?" he asked, our gazes locking, "Did the goblins break you?"

     Shamed but defiant, I pulled my shoulders back and clinched my teeth.

     "I told them nothing."

     "That's not what I asked."

     A long silence passed between us, and then I confessed.

     "Yes!  They broke me, father.  I begged for death.  I would've told them anything...  But you saved me.  And I... will... mend!!!" I snarled.

     Peter smiled for the last time, his dark brown eyes sparkling with tears.

     "You are my son," he wheezed, and then his smile froze, his chest contracting, his comforting hand falling from my cheek.

     Those were his final words.

     The only father I had ever known was dead, and so desperate was I to follow him, that I grabbed a serving knife from the nearby nightstand and tried to drive it into my chest.  My last memory was of the servants binding my limbs with cruel and clinching fingers...

 

Despite my thwarted suicide attempt, my injuries were nonetheless grave, and I drifted in and out of consciousness for the next two weeks.  Peter's faithful entourage carried us back to his villa in Philian, where my father's body was laid to rest in the city's only cemetery.  Peter's last will and testament, (which he'd written in secret two years before), was executed by the town magistrate, and aside from generous monetary provisions for the other members of his household, I was the main beneficiary.  My inheritance included horse herds, trade investments, six villas in as many countries, a small fleet of merchant ships, and enough privately secured gold to finance my own army.

     I had no idea Peter's mercenary exploits had afforded him such riches, nor would I know until the morning of the fifteenth day after his death.  Fearing I'd succumbed to some kind of infection, Peter's chief underling, (a man named Tirus), used most of his own inheritance to purchase the services of the only known sorceress in the region.  Through magic, my shattered hands and ankles were mended, the lacerations on my chest healed without scar, my bruised limbs and battered face returned to their former and youthful flawlessness.

     Just so it is known, I'd like to state right here and now that I later compensated Tirus with more than double what he paid that sorceress to bring me back from the edge of death.  With my blessing, Tirus eventually took his newfound fortune and left my service to marry a tavern maid and spawn a healthy son and three beautiful daughters.  I was told he died in the year 48 A.D.... as a grandfather.

     As would become the theme of my short mortal life, those that severed me well, were repaid well.  But let's not get ahead of the game

     So I awoke on the fifteenth day after Peter's death as a whole man with respect to body; a half a man with respect to soul.  I went to his grave and wept at its inept inscription, which read only, "Peter of the sword.  Father to Tristian".

     No one knew his family name, (not even me), nor the names of his three former wives.  No one had bothered to chronicle how he'd saved a doomed orphan and raised him as his own.  No one had mentioned his warrior victories.  No one cared.

     I immediately commissioned a group of stonemasons to erect a mausoleum around his tomb, along with an engraved gold plaque that told of Peter's history in words I pinned myself.  You cannot find that grave in Philian's oldest cemetery today, for the solid gold plaque was ripped away centuries ago by greedy thieves that are no more than dust and bones now.

     Such is the nature of man...

     It would take me another month to fully recover, and another month after that to secure Peter's financial legacy as my own.  But once those provisions were put into place, I left the home I'd known for eleven years in the hands of my loyal supplicants, and sought vengeance among the ever-besieged defenders of Mason Don.

     Due to the tribal infighting that did- and still does- plague the goblin clans, the armies of Duotan Woundweaver had retreated by this time, Duotan himself being assassinated by a rival war chief.  The western boarders of Mason Don were safe for the moment, but I wanted revenge for my father's death, and I would come to reap that revenge against the centaurs that were mounting a new offense from the north.  Financed by Peter's inheritance, I hired every able-bodied mercenary I could find, then journeying north to offer my services (and those of my sixteen-hundred-man battalion) to the Mason armies already stationed there.

     Together, a force of thirty thousand humans repelled the centaur invasion, my own exploits earning me a formal officership among the Mason elite.  I refused the title at first, adhering instead to my father's mercenary ideals.  But my battalion and I continued to grow, continued to play an intricate role in campaign after campaign, and soon, the promise of glory lured me back to the cause of patriotism. 

     The reigning king at the time, Barbos Iscariot, took notice of my leadership skills, and his royal appointments ascended me up through the ranks until my men called me "General".

     But, as John Ruger once said to me, Power corrupts; and absolute power, corrupts absolutely.

     (A saying from his world, I'd imagine.)

     With the king's blessing, I took my private war north into the centaur lands proper, Mason soldiers flocking to my banner.  We razed town after town, city after city, offering a life of servitude to those that would swear their allegiance, and death by the sword to those that would not.  The centaurs were and are a proud people, and I all but wiped them out. 

     The last bastion of centaur might fell three days before my twenty-eighth birthday, and with their once beautiful lands ground to dust, I turned my sights west.  I had come to be known as "The Warmaker" by this time, and since the only heir of Barbos Iscariot was an effeminate fop, the king had entrusted full military command to me.

     Though the goblins were too busy fighting each other to pose a present threat to Mason Don, I crossed the Gremevan Mountains and annihilated their squabbling clans one by one.  The word "surrender" is unknown in the goblin tongue, and I would've exterminated every last one of them had they not enjoyed the freedom of the steppes.  The arid, barren lands west of the Gremevan Mountains are vast beyond the comprehension of most men, and though decimated by my human armies, pockets of green-skinned survivors endured here and there.

     The goblins have always been a nomadic people, and since the wastelands they claimed as their own had no strategic value, (and there were no true "cities" to occupy), I pulled my armies back once I felt I'd sufficiently avenged the deaths of both my fathers- one known, one unknown- with oceans of goblin blood.

     Now thirty-two in human years, I returned to Mason Don to find the king dying from lung blight, his only son having run off with a stable boy who shared his homosexual predisposition.  Said son did have a son of his own though, (and by a Casteelian prostitute, no less), which is why the royal line of Iscariot persevered and later returned to power after my eventual demise.  But such is neither hear nor there.

     On his deathbed, Barbos Iscariot appointed me Steward of Mason Don, thus giving me provisionary control of the entire kingdom, and allowing me to continue my conquests as I saw fit.  The king died the very next day, and as soon as his body was in the ground, I mounted a new campaign.  With the goblins destroyed and the centaurs long since under Mason occupation, I pushed even further north to invade the Dwarven lands, and then the Orcish lands, and then the Elven lands- stopping only when I'd subdued the then-peaceful Menthranki.

     These races held no ill will towards the human peoples of Mason Don, yet I butchered them anyway, forever driven by a quest for power I could neither understand nor enjoy.  I think, perhaps, that Peter's death had stolen all that was good and loving and innocent in me, (if indeed I ever possessed such qualities), and the only thing left was a raging lust to impose my will on every living thing.   

     As for my fellow countrymen... well, no one ever uttered so much as a single protest.  The soldiers under my command- which came to number in the hundreds of thousands- were fanatically loyal, and my training protocols were designed to inspire in them a kind of bloodlust.  The wives and children and fathers and brothers my men left behind were every bit as supportive, for wartime bounty and wartime tribute made Mason Don the richest country the world had ever known, and even a dog knows not to bite the hand that feeds it.

     Alas, in the spring of my thirty-eighth year, my armies reached the frigid northern boarders of the continent, and like the "Alexander" of John Ruger's native antiquity, I wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer.

     Previously concerned with only land warfare, I considered building a navy and sailing west into the fabled Dragon Isles.  Or, if not there, east across the Great Ocean to plunder the lands of Vadria and Casteel. 

     Neither option appealed to me, and for the most unexpected of reasons...  I was getting old.

     Now, Peter was fifty-one when he single-handedly infiltrated the goblin camp of Duotan Woundweaver to save me from being tortured to death, and while I was only thirty-eight when the last Menthranki fortress succumbed to my armies, I'd already begun to share the same fears as my father.  During more than two decades of conquest, I'd been stabbed, cut, burned, trampled, and even tortured when my foolish courage landed me in the hands of my enemies- yet I'd never again been "broken", and I loathed the senility of old age which would eventually steal that boast.

     I wanted to live forever.  I needed to live forever.  And so I abandoned the last of my honor and waged war on my own homeland. 

     Those of you that have read the diaries of The Sender (in which, again, I'm referred to as "Peter") know exactly what I'm talking about.  But for those of you that are new to this millennia-spanning saga, I'm going to briefly recount the tale here.

     Did I actually wage war on Mason Don?  Did I actually direct my armies to raze its cities and towns and hamlets?  Of course not, for my countrymen soldiers would have mutinied long before they cut down their own wives and children, not to mention that I would've had no reason to attempt such an abomination.

     No.  When I say I, "waged war on my own homeland", I'm referring to my assault on the Sanctuary of Ascendance. 

     The technical boarders of Mason Don, (which are pretty much the same today as they were two thousand years ago), are immense, and ostensibly isolated from the north and west by the Gremevan Mountain range, and from the east and south by formidable oceans.  Ah, but in the heart of this kingdom lies a freakishly placed wasteland of sand called the Desert of Lost Souls.

    Despite its geographic peculiarity within an otherwise green and fertile collection of rolling hills, temperate seasons, and dark soil, the Desert of Lost Souls was worshipped as a sacred region, one that wise men and peasants alike avoided for fear that the dunes would consume any who dared to enter.  Having heard these vague warnings all my life, I was likewise hesitant, yet I deemed the objective worthy of risk.  For you see, the Desert itself was merely a barrier, a saga-bolstered obstacle that kept would-be questors away from the true prize.

     Somewhere, hidden at the very center of the Desert, was the Sanctuary of Ascendance an ethereal temple where the secrets of The Ancients were said to reside.  In my mind, it was the only place I could attain immortality, for the spirit protectors within were reputed to enjoy everlasting life via a magical Pool.

     Given my arrogance, my emptiness, my refusal to accept death- I committed blasphemy.

     Publicly petitioning for a strike force of six hundred of the finest soldiers my armies had to offer, I set about planning my final campaign.  Given the implications of what I intended to do, this particular call-to-arms was voluntary, for I wanted only those whose loyalty to me superceded any religious convictions they might have.  The Sanctuary of Ascendance was a holy place, after all, and I couldn't risk a superstition-inspired mutiny.

     Once my handpicked strike force was assembled, I gathered all the sorcerers and seers and magic users Mason Don could muster, having to force only a few into my service.  The chosen crafts and innate supernatural abilities of such individuals made them outcasts for the most part, and the gold I promised was usually enough to buy their strange and varying powers.  Plus, practitioners of the forbidden arts wanted the secrets of the Sanctuary as much as I did, and the air of invincibility I'd earned over the years made allegiance to my banner a safe wager.

     Why did I need witches and warlocks?  Well, to be honest, I didn't truly know that I did.  It was more of a precaution than anything else, for the Sanctuary of Ascendance was reputed to exist within the twilight between the realms of flesh and spirit, and I had no wish to achieve my objective only to find out that mortal courage and mortal blades were of no use.

     And so, in the summer of the year that has since been counted 1 A.D., I led a force of six hundred soldiers, thirty seven magic users, and a thousand cooks, artisans, blacksmiths and servants into the Desert of Lost Souls. 

     Now, any student of organized warfare would immediately wonder why the latter force was so large, why I needed a thousand-man civilian entourage to support an army of only six hundred.  Well, that was also a precaution.  The scouts I'd sent into the Desert during the months before my journey always returned with tales of the most hostile environment imaginable: blistering heat during the day, abominable cold at night, and endless dunes so deep and vast and encumbering that the entire Mason Legion could become lost and starve to death were they to lose their bearings.

     This reconnaissance- coupled with the fact that no one actually knew the location of the Sanctuary of Ascendance- prompted me to augment my little strike force with enough supporting provisions, livestock, and personnel to survive half a year without aid of any kind.  The cost was astronomical, but I was the Steward of Mason Don, and given the wealth my country enjoyed because of my previous endeavors, no one took offense to me raiding the royal coffers.  This general acceptance was doubled by the fact that I allowed non-commissioned offers, (over three hundred thousand of them), to return to their families, leaving instructions that the garrisons that occupied our outlying territories were to be rotated out every six weeks.

     No one cared that I meant to commit sacrilege, chiefly because no one really believed.  The Sanctuary of Ascendance had existed in legend for so long, that most considered it a myth, and my private little quest was dismissed by the wealthy commoners as nothing more than the indulged whim of their liege.

     They were wrong.  I was wrong.  Everything about that venture was wrong

     Despite my overzealous preparations, the Desert of Lost Souls was a logistical hell beyond even the most paranoid of fears.  By the third day, we'd lost sixteen men, nine horses, and half a dozen beasts of burden to the sands, freakish accidents plaguing our company even before we'd gone beyond the reach of my previously deployed scouts. 

     By the seventh day, the human death toll had climbed to forty-three, indiscriminate riders pitched from the saddle as their mounts broke limbs for inexplicable reasons that went far beyond the terrain itself, civilians and soldiers and livestock alike, dying from mishaps that would've normally required only the basest medical attention to rectify.

     Water barrels toppled (seemingly by their own volition) from wagon beds to shatter against the sod, fresh perishables went sour at an astonishing rate, and the small animal herd that carried us, continually fell to a host of rapidly manifested afflictions.  Strapping young men collapsed from heat stroke during the day, their older veteran counterparts freezing to death in the dead of night.  It was almost as if the Desert itself was fighting us; and even when various members of my thirty-seven-strong troop of sorcerers/sorceresses (none of whom befell such fates) spoke up to confirm my fears, I nonetheless drove my company on.

     The Desert of Lost Souls was indeed an opponent, yet I'd vowed never to be broken again, and against an ever-growing chorus of pleas and warnings from my men, I found the Sanctuary of Ascendance on the sixty-third day after we left Philian. 

     What I found was no more than a shimmering arch of gray stone- a monolith, if you will.  Yet I knew instinctively that it was the gateway, the portal, the threshold to the Sanctuary of Ascendance.

     After setting up camp and assembling my warriors, I tried to cross the barrier; only to find that there was nothing to cross.  My strike force charged through the arch without incident, immerging on the other side beneath an emotional mixture of relief and confusion and regret. 

     We'd made the journey for nothing; we'd wasted three hundred and seven human lives for nothing; and I verbally cursed every deity I could name. 

     It was then that I noticed that my mixed-gender band of magic users was huddled together in discussion, and I demanded to know what they saw when they looked upon the arch.  I was told that the gateway was indeed that: a gateway.  And that it separated the worlds of sprit and flesh, which is why my men and I could not simply walk into it.  We were solely physical, and thus, powerless to impose our will.

     This imparted knowledge rightly led me to believe that my incantation-wielding accessories already knew not only the problem, but also its solution, and I ordered my four hundred and eighty eight surviving soldiers to surround them with drawn blades.

     My decree was simple: find a way to enter the Sanctuary, or die...

     There's no greater motivator than the fear of death, and for nine days, the priests and wizards and seers conjured with little rest, collectively exhausting their armada of spells until they agreed upon a single course of action- a Void Portal.

     Previously employed to instantaneously transport sorcerers over great distances, it was the only spell that had a chance of working, and chiefly because- while relatively simple- it did indeed align the ethereal plain with that of the corporeal.

     Success!!!

     After what came to be two weeks of vigorous assault, (during which my soldiers grumbled and milled and secretly debated the merits of my leadership), the door to the Sanctuary of Ascendance was laid bare; and with the mindless fury of a criminal rapist, I led my soldiers through the newly joined Void Portal.

     What we beheld on the other side is truly beyond the ineptitude of written words, and since I spent two thousand years in that place, I'll wager my opinion is somewhat valid.  My men and I found ourselves in a marble floored courtyard, a host of equally constructed buildings flanking us from all sides.  To say it was beautiful would be in an insult, and I far prefer The Sender's description of it being a "flawless Roman metropolis, splendid in both architecture and simplicity".

     (The Romans were a race of human warriors from his world, so perhaps my comparison is wasted on those who will read this diary.)

     Two things struck me immediately, one being the large circular pool at the center of the courtyard, and the other being that the city was seemingly empty.  Aside from the lush and grassy meadows that surrounded it, the Sanctuary of Ascendance was completely void of life, its buildings pristine but unused, its cobbled streets unwalked, its magnificence unheralded except for us.

     We scoured the avenues and alleyways only to find more of the same, and it wasn't until I decided to immerse myself in the Pool that I learned different.  As soon as I stepped down into the waist-deep waters, I was transformed.  Age and injury and weariness left me completely, battle scars disappearing from my flesh, eyesight focusing back to the sharpness of childhood, achy joints becoming smooth and fluid once more.

     My hair, which had begun to gray at the temples, reverted to pure blond; my slightly crooked nose, which was a birth defect, straightening to perfection.  Indeed, that's what I felt- perfection, and so miraculous was this transformation, that my watching entourage fell all over themselves trying to partake of the same miracle.  

     They pushed and shoved and forced their way into the relatively small pool, arguments breaking out amidst the quest for what we all thought was immortality.  I tried to restore order, but another did it for me.

     "Greedy, arrogant, mortals!" a booming voice rolled out over the courtyard, "The Power of Ascendance cannot be taken by might!"

     We froze, all of us, and I looked up to see a single human in thick linen robes standing at the northern edge of the Pool.  He was old, perhaps seventy, with a shock of full white hair crowning his head.

     "FORM RANKS!!!" I cried, and despite the momentary lapse of discipline, all four hundred and eighty eight rankers assembled in a shield-to-shield phalanx at the southern edge of the Pool.  The coordination of the movement was flattering to behold, for while the newcomer was only one, my men reacted as if we were facing an army.

     In some ways, we were.

     For my part, I came to stand out in front of them, the Pool itself separating us from the old man at the other side.

     "I am Tristian Lazarus," I began, "Steward of Mason Don and-"

     "I know who you are," the other cut me off, "We've watched you for quite some time, Warmaker.  Your ambition is as great as your ability, but there's no victory to be had here."

     Though still booming, his tone was soft, indifferent, almost whimsical.

     "And who are you to stop me?" I demanded.

     "My name is Artimus, I speak for The Brotherhood."

     "You're the leader then?"

     "You can't imagine how irrelevant that question is, Warmaker.  But if there were a leader, yes, I would be the one."

     "Then hear my terms, voice of The Brotherhood.  I claim this bastion as my own, and any who wish to pledge their loyalty will be spared.  All others will be put to the sword."

     "Your terms mean nothing to us.  Your threats even less.  And what you've claimed is of no use to you."

     I remember being unsettled by his quiet confidence, and my mind went to work on the semantics.  I believed I'd already been made immortal, but it would do me no good if eternal life existed only within the Sanctuary itself.  After all, there were other continents across the sea, and I had no wish to remain within this beautiful but barren city.

     "Immortality is not yours," Artimus warned, as if he'd read my thoughts, "Nor will it ever be.  The vitality you've gleaned from the Pool is one of healing, but it goes no further than that.  You will still age, Tristian Lazarus.  You will still die."

     I didn't believe him, and when I told him so, Artimus merely smiled sadly and vanished before my very eyes.  Again, it was unsettling, but- in the hours that followed- I continued to experiment with the Pool, thus having the whole of my soldiers baptized one by one, and later bringing my magic users in to enjoy the same rejuvenation.  The survivors of my civilian entourage soon followed suit, our livestock as well, and what I witnessed time and time again certainly appeared to be the gift of immortality. 

     Men with mangled limbs became whole again, men with poor eyesight saw perfectly, men with injuries or disease were cured.  Yet I couldn't free myself from Artimus's warning, and when I ordered my magic users to employ their powers to ascertain the truth, my fears were confirmed.

     The Pool healed us, yes, it ascended us to the pinnacle of health; yet we were still subject to the taloned hand of time.  We'd gained a few years, decades in some cases, but no more.  My magic users also discovered that The Brotherhood Artimus had mentioned was composed of forty-seven spirits; literal ghosts that dwelled beyond the reach of steel or skill.  As such, I could no more threaten them than I could command them to relinquish the immortality I still thought was a possibility.

     It enraged me, and when I called for Artimus to again show himself, only to be ignored, I ordered my forces to tear the Sanctuary apart, dismantle it brick by marble brick.  Ah, but we had no power in that respect either, for once a building was shattered, we had only to turn our backs before it rebuilt itself instantly.  The meadows beyond I doused with lantern oil and set afire, and they too reformed as soon as the flames petered out.

     As John used to say, I was getting nowhere fast, and bereft of options, I decided to see what affect the Pool of Ascendance had on inanimate objects.  Swords and armor of simple steel were unchanged, the same was true of iron and bronze, coins of gold or silver likewise unable to draw resonance from the crystalline waters. 

     These experiments went on for days, and just when I'd decided to concede defeat, one of the civilian blacksmiths- a man named Kyle Brighthand- offered a family heirloom up to me in hopes that any success I managed would be shared.  Kyle's offering was a large circular shield lined with Drovivium; a metal that, at the time, was mined only by the Elven tribes.  Kyle had been raised by Elves after his missionary father died during a pilgrimage to Sellet, and said shield was the only keepsake he possessed from his childhood.

     The Drovivium in the shield glowed when it met the water, and I knew then that I'd stumbled upon something important; my triumph confirmed when Artimus finally returned to warn me not to proceed with whatever I planned to do.

     I cursed him, I mocked him, sneering that his silence was the driving force behind my actions.  Briefly showing fear for the fist time, Artimus disappeared again, and I ordered my civilian blacksmiths to set up a forge right there in the marble courtyard.

     "Make me a sword," I told them, "one of pure Drovivium, and modeled after those of the far eastern warmasters."

     They obeyed, repeatedly melting the shield down and separating Drovivium from its kindred yet baser metals.  Each formless glob was cooled in the Pool of Ascendance, and the purer it became, the more it glowed.  For more than a month, my blacksmiths toiled with their hammers, my magic users casting incantations on the immerging weapon according to my own specifications.  Slowly, methodically, my new sword was crafted; a curved, single-edged blade with a diamond set in the center.  Its hilt was long, and eventually covered with the finest cloth we'd brought with us; the circular hand guard, Drovivium plated with solid gold.

     I don't know if it was the interaction with the water, or the spells of my magic users, or the ethereal nature of Drovivium itself, but there came a time when the sword could no longer be heated, could no longer be sharpened, could no longer be changed by any method at our disposal.  It was finished, it was indestructible, and when it was reverently presented to me, I named it "Asikris".

     As soon as I'd given it a name, Asikris became aligned to me, and it shared its power.  Suddenly, I could see The Brotherhood; all forty seven of them standing around with looks of panicked resignation, their leader Artimus no longer confident. 

     "Do you see them?" I asked my soldiers, simultaneously pointing at the spiritual congregation. 

     But they shook their heads, as if to say, "No", thus confirming that I alone wielded Asikris, and that I alone benefited from its augmentation.

     Drunk on what I perceived as some kind of victory, I accosted Artimus and his Brotherhood, only to have them flee before me in mass, as if I now had a weapon capable of destroying them.

     I did...

     And so it came to pass that I found myself alone in what I would later know as the Great Hall, and there I restated my terms, promising death to all if they did not give me what I wanted, which was immortality.

     The spirits came together then to unite as a single being; a giant ethereal personage that called itself The One.

     "Ascendance has chosen," said The One, "and its decree is beyond our influence.  Kill us if you must- for Asikris possesses the strength- but do not ask what we cannot give."

     When I accused The One of lying, I was answered with, "Not here, Tristian Lazarus, for what you've captured is merely a vesicle.  The true power of Ascendance lies to the east, in the Cave of the Forgotten."

     When I pushed for more, I was told that I would have to travel to that cave alone, (since Asikris was mine, alone), there to do battle with the Dragon Artax.  Artax was the guardian- or so I was led to believe- and only he could erase my name from the black book of death.

     I ordered my men to hold the Sanctuary until I returned, then riding off alone into the Desert of Lost Souls.  As fate decreed, perhaps, I did indeed find the Cave of the Forgotten, but there were no secrets to be gleaned there, and despite the might of Asikris, I was slain by the Dragon.

     So ended the legend of the Warmaker, so ended my mortal life, and the passing of years was recorded ever-after, by that event. 

     Ah, but my spirit trials were just beginning, for the vengeance of The Brotherhood was far reaching, and they plucked my soul from the twisting nether and imprisoned it for all time within the Sanctuary of Ascendance.  Artax was no guardian, at least, no guardian of the water.  No, Artimus and his ghosts had tricked me, they'd set a trap, and my sacrilege yoked me with a new task, one I endured for two millennia.  Wholly spirit but inescapably everlasting, I became the true guardian of the water against my will, and my charge would eventually unleash my folly upon the world. 

     And so my story begins here, noble reader.  It begins as a prelude to my greatest sin...  The Sender.