PROLOGUE
The old man knew this was the end. He knew he had been found, and he knew there was no escape. Still, as he tromped through the early morning English woods, half running, half stumbling due to exhaustion, he wasn’t ready to give up. He knew his pursuer wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t quit until he had what he wanted. But what he wanted, the old man did not have. Acknowledging this wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t save his life if his enemy knew this. His life was over no matter what. All he was doing now was leading his enemy away from what he was after. Protecting it was all that mattered now, and the best way to do so was for the secret to die with him.
“Just a little bit farther,” he thought.
He could hear his pursuer’s footsteps crunching the autumn leaves behind him. They were so close now. The footfalls doubling the pace of his own. “Almost there. Almost there,” he thought. He could hear his destination ahead now. The water from the stream, still moving more quickly than normal due to recent rainfall, lapping the leaves and sand on the banks, rushing towards the sea. The stream wasn’t for escape. There was none. He may not be able to prevent when or how he would die, but at least he could choose where. It was a small thing, but it gave him hope. Having finally reached the banks of the stream, he stopped to lean on a tree. His lungs burned like fire, only matched by the stitch in his side. The footfalls behind him slowed, then stopped. He could hear the heavy breathing of his enemy, also tired from the run. He didn’t turn around to look at his pursuer. He didn’t need to. He knew who it was, and, even though he hadn’t seen that face in almost 18 years, he didn’t want to.
“I thought perhaps you forgot about me,” said the old man, “or maybe just moved on from this.”
His enemy’s words came slow and deliberate in a deep baritone voice, “You hid yourself from me quite well, Pelias. But I knew you would make yourself known if I was patient.” There was no longer any sense of being out of breath from the chase. Like him, his words were methodical. “You know why I am here. There is no reason to have to die.”
The old man laughed to himself and said, “We both know I won’t be leaving these woods tonight. Let’s not lie to each other. Not now. Not at the end.” He turned now to face his pursuer. A chill went over his body. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the cool fall night air, or if it was because the man before him was not the same man he once knew. His face slightly hidden under a hood, bearded and older. Wisps of gray streaked around his temples. Dark tribal tattoos covered his face.
“Where is it?” he asked the old man. The words were less measured this time. There was an excitement in his voice. He could hear the longing, and see the greed in his eyes. Not just for what he was after, but for the kill to come.
“It is not here,” said the old man with a smile he knew would anger his enemy. “You are too late. It is out of your reach…again.”
The movement was so swift and fast, the old man almost didn’t see it. There was a flash of blue light, and he was lifted off his feet and thrown back, away from the trees, landing face down into the stream. He couldn’t breathe. Unsure if it was because of the attack or the frigid waters, now flowing around him. He turned over on his back to face his attacker again. The calmness in his face had been replaced by rage. The woods had grown silent. The temporary light from the attack had diminished and left behind only the soft moonlight. He approached slowly, deliberately. Each footfall crushing the leaves, and punctuating his words.
“Where. Is. It?” he demanded again.
“Do what you came here to do, Balin,” said the old man through hardened lungs from the attack, trying to sound braver than he felt. “I will tell you nothing.”
With a gesture of his hand, Balin lifted the old man out of the cold stream as though he were on strings, like a marionette. Balin walked close to him. His hooded face so close to his, he could feel the moisture from his breath as he spoke. The old man was taken aback by how powerful his enemy had become.
“You don’t have to,” he said. The calmness returning to his voice. “You would not have have hidden it far. I have learned much over the last 18 years, Pelias. I have traveled the world, and learned what you tried to keep from me. Your powers are nothing now, compared to mine. You are weak, and I have surpassed you. Now, I will succeed you. All you have done is doom another to your fate.”
The old man knew this wasn’t an empty threat. He even knew it wasn’t said for effect. It was spoken as truth. He would kill anyone and everyone who gets in the way of him acquiring the artifact.
“It does not belong to you, Balin,” the old man replied.
“IT IS MY BIRTHRIGHT!” Balin’s shout echoed through the woods. For an instant, a manic, twisted look came over his face, but it was quickly gone. Still, the temperature in the woods seemed to have dropped even farther with his words.
“No, it was your birthright,” the old man replied. “That now belongs to another.”
“Don’t lie to me, old man,” Balin taunted. “There is no other. Not anymore. Nor will there be.”
His voice filled with such sadness, the old man spoke, “Believe what you will, Balin. There is nothing more I can do for you. You have made your choice, and I tire of hearing your prattling attempt at justification. I do not have it, nor will I reveal where it is. Finish it.”
A smile crossed Balin’s face. “As you wish, Pelias,” he said. Balin reached into his cloak, and, spinning on the spot in one fluid motion, pulled out a dagger from under the cloak, and thrust it through the old man’s chest. The magics that were holding him in the air released him, dropping him with a splash into the cold stream. The old man knew it was over. His only sense of solace came from the knowledge that he had done his job. The artifact was still safe, and Balin did not know where to look. In fact, he knew he had drawn him as far away from the truth as he could, and perhaps set him on the wrong trail once again. The pain in his chest from the mortal wound no longer hurt, and even though he had never been afraid to die, it still surprised him that he felt no fear. Balin walked up to stand over him, crimson stained waters flowing around his black boots, he knelt down, and placed his hands on the hilt of the dagger sticking out of the old man’s chest, pulling it free. Pelias could feel the life leaving him, and flowing down the stream. As he watched his enemy, black cloak billowing in the moonlight, walk away from him, his eyes closing into the darkness of death, one word came to his mind, giving him peace in his final moment: Rasputin.