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Prologue
"Tell me of the histories, Samson," a voice asked, heavy with maturity and full of self-respect, a commanding yet peaceful voice.

"Histories, Dafel?" a whispery, ancient voice answered. A bent man with wispy grey hair and a crooked leg turned to face the middle-aged warrior. The dark haired knight looked splendid in his half-body armour, his broad shoulders and huge frame a menacing site to even the most ardent of enemies. The sun glinted of his nearly blue armour from the open archway of the towers window opposite the frail old man who stood with as much self-respect as the knight, but with a more dishevelled look about him, his hair wiry, his clothes smudged in dirt.

Samson glared at the knight's armour and at the interlocked star that was painted atop the mans heart over his breast plate. He bit back a heated retort for such armour and what it signified, but Dafel had been a valued student of his many years ago so deserved his quiet, respectful tongue, even if he had deserted and left with that cursed holy-man.

Samson paused before he spoke then sighed. "Why would a warrior-priest require knowledge of the histories?" Samson chortled. "Has your Holy One finally seen the errors of his ways?" There was no respect in that taunting voice, only contempt and bitter spitefulness.

"No, Samson," the armoured man answered with a wry tone. "I do this for my own sake and not the King's." How could he explain to Samson why he had left him to serve the priest who had become King? Samson could be a bitter man at times, wise true enough, but terribly bitter. Dafel just wished that his master and Samson would see sense and work together to destroy the evil that was coming, but then he doubted Samson would ever forgive his King for the burning of his only love at the stake for being a witch. That galled at Dafel, there was no truth in it at all, the only time he had ever seen his mentor - his King - taken revenge into his own hands.

"Your own sake!" the old man bellowed. "Hah! You are a fool Dafel! Your quest will only bring you death!" The old man mumbled amongst the sound of his shuffling feet as he approached the open window and gazed out into the blue dome of mid-summer sky. "Death too us all. It is already too late."

Samson's tower had been erected upon the highest mountain in the kingdom over looking its rolling vastness. Clouds normally obscured his view looking like morning mist draped along the ground only the ground in this case was miles below. There, not twenty leagues away on a twin pinnacle like his own and as small as a dolls house was the Keep of Souls, the house of Dafel's most recent master of these long fifteen years since Dafel had last come to him for council, the master who had been a holy-man and now ruler of this damned kingdom. And how unhappy the kingdom had become.

"Not until the evil is born and destroyed will I give up my quest. You taught me that, old man." Dafel said warmly to soften the insult.

Samson span on Dafel, that old teasing look about his weathered face that sent waves of forgotten memories of his lectures rushing through the warrior-priests mind. "The Evil is among us already, my boy!"

"But -" was Dafel’s shocked, wide-eyed reply. How could the old man still so easily surprise him after all these years?

"Did I bring you up to say 'but', Dafel?" the old man didn't wait for an answer. "The Evil was born not eight years ago."

"Eight years!" Dafel barked. "Why was I not told! You know of my oath, you were there those twenty years ago when I made it in front of you!" Samson did not answer. "Why?" he almost pleaded.

"I sent a message to your master weeks before the birth, telling him of the coming evil and who would bare him.” Samson shook his head sadly before continuing. “Dafel, he sent the poor wretch back whipped and bleeding. He was called a heathen for spreading such vile, pagan lies and was made as an example to others." Samson turned from his view out of his window, his usually soft eyes suddenly hard. "Your master is too wrapped up in his own self worship of himself to care about the Histories or what they foretell. He has become a King, Dafel, and as soon as that happened he was no longer Holy. His eyes are closed to the truth, the fool, and we will all suffer for it."

"But the Histories, Samson!" Dafel beseeched.

Samson smiled, a tight, nasty smile that made Dafel shiver. "Hah! What use are they to us now? They warned us of this coming evil yet we have not done anything about it! This New Religion you have joined has blinded us! The old ways are dying out and being replaced by ignorance! We all deserve to die just for that.” Samson threw his arms up into the air. “We were all sentenced to death the moment that child was borne and left to live!” He narrowed his eyes. “Its mother should have been slaughtered while it was still in her womb.”

There had been an extra meaning behind the word when Samson had said "mother", as if he knew something Dafel did not, something terrible. But then Samson always had secrets and only on rare occasions would he tell them, so Dafel simply shrugged the uneasy feeling away. Slowly he rose to his feet, majestically and confidently. "Then tell me where the child is, Samson, and I will do as the Histories demand. I will slit the evil child's throat."

Samson suddenly burst out laughing, jigging on the spot like a fool.

"What’s so funny, Samson?" Dafel demand hotly. "I see no mirth in the fate of our world?"

Still smiling broadly, Samson hobbled away from the window and pushed the large man in the chest forcing him with surprising strength back into the seat. "Do you want to know why I laugh, Dafel? Do you want to know my final revenge over your holy-king? Hah! I can taste the irony of it all!” he levelled his gaze at his former pupil. “The Histories can be ugly, Dafel. People beg to hear them but when they do, they run away from the truth of it all, maddened buy what they have learned. I can see that you still need to know and I hope you are still as strong now as you were when I taught you.”

"I am," the warrior-priest replied, still unsure why Samson had laughed and wary of his answer. Somehow he knew he was not going to like it.

"The evil, my boy, is the baby son of your King." Dafel could only stare back, his mouth agape like a bemused first year apprentice.

"My King...?" Dafel’s voice trailed away as he tried to comprehend this truth. "His son, Emlyn?" He had seen the boy on many occasions, had even been at his birthing rite to acclaim him as the future heir. He would make a good king when he came of age, a good and dutiful husband.

How could he possibly kill the son of his devoted master and more importantly, the son of his only sister ... his own nephew?