BOOK 1

* * *

THE RED PRINCE

THE TALE OF THE OLD BLOODS

* * *

As the Giants became fewer and mortal creatures became more numerous, before ages had names and when time was still in its infancy, the blood was still strong.

The weak beings of this age took the blood gladly and mortal mated with Giant until mighty creatures rose to rule the rock, tree, earth and sea.

As the Giants disappeared, they left beings of strength and twisted form to rule their lands and fight their Long War. These old bloods were few and most bore a visage of madness which they used to cow the primitive men. Faces and bodies, half-twisted by the enormity of their blood, and minds with cunning intent.

As long ages passed, the old bloods waned until the blood was almost spent. They warred with the Great Race of Jekka and they warred with each other. Through the inexorable passage of time, mortals forgot about their masters.

The old bloods that remained bore children and the blood diluted until all that was left were abnormal remnants of Deep Time.

As the Jekkans left and men appeared, gaining their own power, naming their own lands, kingdoms and empires, the old bloods retreated to the darkness of the world. Some hid in forests, some in the deepest caves and some – those that could pass as men – walked paths of their own and kept alive the blood of Giants.

PROLOGUE

* * *

The Lady OF Haran ducked behind a line of rocks and held her breath. The ground was hard and dotted with sharp stones. Beyond the rocks and across the northern plains of Haran rocky pinnacles rose, harsh and unyielding terrain where a thousand warriors could hide in a hundred places, anywhere from Ro Haran to the Walls of Ro.

'How many?' she whispered to Sergeant Ashwyn.

'Maybe a hundred, my lady. Another group of hunters trying to sniff us out.'

No more than forty paces away, the column of Hounds had not seen them and continued their march northwards, oblivious to the warriors of the fifth cohort.

'Not us, Ash ... not us,' she replied. 'They don't know our names or who we are. They only know that Alexander Tiris, the Red Prince of Haran, is hiding up here somewhere.'

The Hounds clanked past, the noise of their marching masking any other sounds. She wondered about their training, or lack of it. To march into enemy territory in such a blatant fashion was ignorant, stupid, suicidal. The Seven Sisters didn't care about their troops – so long as they had more than everyone else. They're just a mob, she thought.

She peered carefully over the rocks to get a better look. Her long black hair, loosely tied in a topknot, brushed her neck as the wind picked up. It chilled her, finding the gaps in her leather armour and making her fingertips tingle. She wore no chain shirt or steel helmet, preferring to avoid blows rather than to bear them. That set her apart from the prince's Hawks more surely than her gender or origin.

'Announce our presence, sergeant,' she said.

Ashwyn drew his short sword and signalled to the men. Two hundred, half the unit, poised to strike. The Hounds were now parallel to them, ambling northwards, a shining mass of black armour and scimitars.

The warriors of Haran moved as one as Ashwyn shouted, 'We are the Hawks of Ro, stand down or die.'

* * *

Although she had lived in the duchy of Haran for ten years, this campaign was her first prolonged stay away from the city of Ro Haran. It was a long way from Hunter's Cross, especially for a young woman untutored in the strict traditions of Tor Funweir, but then she'd never expected to be married to a duke of Ro.

Alexander Tiris had come to her land with an army of Red knights to purge a settlement of Dokkalfar. They met strong resistance from the warriors of the Cross. The knights floundered in the forests, but the fighting still lasted many months. The final battle against Xander's men left only two survivors. They huddled together in the deep woods, far from either camp and badly wounded.

He had told her he was a knight. He had told her he only followed orders. He was of the Red and did his duty for the One God. But his eyes were opened when the Dokkalfar found them.

He struggled at first, but his wounds were severe. He had no option but to accept their help. Over weeks and months they watched each other heal from the hidden branches of a Dokkalfar settlement. Each day she saw his glare softening, his conviction wavering. It wavered until he was no longer the same man. He stopped clutching his sword, stopped fussing over his armour, he even stopped calling them risen men.

At some point – she couldn't be sure when – they began to love each other. Endless days with each other for company meant they shared everything. War and death were a thousand leagues away, too distant to mean anything any more. So the king's brother and an unsuitable woman gave themselves to each other in the stillness of the forest. When they left, clutching hands, they were bound for life. He was handsome, tall and muscular, with strong hands and ardent brown eyes.

Alexander Tiris and Gwendolyn of Hunter's Cross married in a Darkwald village on their way back to civilization, with a vagabond Blue cleric to speak the words that united them.

Their first few months were difficult. Every knight of the Red has a story of a man he once knew who tried to leave. Without exception, those stories end in death: sometimes the noose, more often beheading. Xander was...