The Botvian soldier grimaced as he knelt beside his friend's corpse. The decapitated head lay on the ground approximately three yards away from its body. The dead man's fingers were raw and bloody from an apparent thrashing with his murderer. This man had definitely put up a fight, a final battle for his life. He had lost that final fight. Blood oozed from his body and soaked his torn clothing.

A dull and scratched Cromedian sword poked from the bushes near the murdered man's body. The killer must have dropped the sword as he ran from the death scene. The dead man was obviously killed for one reason only. He was Botvian. His murderer was not.

The kneeling soldier's face pinched up into a sorrow-filled ball. But no tears fell from his eyes. He had seen too much death. Tears no longer comforted him. Grief was a permanent fact. The loss of his friend met a somewhat callused attitude. He sighed, allowing the exhaling air to be his silent wail.

His legs slowly raised his skinny frame. He glanced upward and met the eyes of his commander. The soldier's lips slowly widened. "What'll we do with him?" The soldier finally queried in a monotone voice.

The commander scratched his chin and lowered his eyes to look at the victim. "Suppose we'll have to leave 'im," he said as he pushed his lips forward into a deep frown. "Can't afford to risk ourselves."

The soldier slowly nodded.

Up the hill a boy suddenly screamed in terror. "She's dead! She's dead!" Shrill screams continued to fill the air. "My mommy!" The boy sobbed. "She's dead!"

The soldier and commander raced to the crying child. Their stomachs churned as they looked upon the grisly scene, this one even worse than the first one. The woman's pretty and lifeless face was the most haunting image either war veteran had ever seen. Her eyes were half closed and her mouth was open as if in a frozen scream.

Shocked by the sight, the two men were unprepared for the ambush that awaited them. A series of arrows whizzed through the air. The commander's leg was hit by the first attack.

"Run!" Yelled the Commander.

The soldier swept the boy off the ground and held him to his chest. His legs leaped forward and steadily carried him and the boy. Behind him he could hear the painful screams of his dying commander, who by now had been pierced with three more flying arrows.

The entire village was surrounded and being attacked. Death lowered over the land like a black and choking cloud. The killer was also human, but the motive was pure evil. This entire village was massacred in one surprise swoop. Hand-to-hand combat met with flying swords and whipping arrows. The men of the village were unorganized and unprepared for this battle. The ground was quickly covered with their blood.

Sobs were heard over the screams as the villagers scrambled to save themselves. A flying arrow whizzed through the air and struck the tiny boy. His eyes looked up to the soldier and silently spoke of shock and pain. Another whizzing arrow hit the soldier in the back of his head. He fell to the ground instantly. He and the boy lay lifeless in a pool of their shared blood. Both were killed for only reason. They were Botvian. Their attackers were not.

Peace was truly a forgotten word in these three kingdoms. The ongoing war was fought in the villages and among the innocent. This was not the type of war that was battled between soldiers and generals. Surprise attack was the common reality. Bombs regularly exploded throughout the land, killing dozens of unarmed locals. Hatred swelled in every heart. Survivors sought revenge. Botvians killed Sorbians and Cromedians. Sorbians attacked Cromedians and Botvians. Cromedians plotted against Sorbians and Botvians. These three kingdoms were a triangle of hate. And the more they fought and killed, the more they were met with revenge and murder.

These people were enraptured by generational hatred and pride. Peace treaties had been drawn up between the kingdoms over the 250-year period. These signed treaties were born in praise and celebration, only to be quickly broken in a spirit of contemptuous anger and violence. But the truth of the matter was this. Everyone secretly wished for an end to the pain and torturous suffering. But no one was strong enough to overcome the deep seeded hatred that stifled their very souls.

No one, that is, but one single man.

A Monarch ruled the Botvian Government. King James III had grown up watching the Botvian people suffer. He looked into the eyes of sweet, young children and saw no signs of hope or joy. Their eyes seemed listless, as if they had been tranquilized. Instead of sparkles of innocence, he saw death. Somehow these children could sense the future. No laughter rang out; no smiles touched their faces. These children were the living dead. They seemed to know that they had no future.

King James III had no sons or daughters. He had no family to protect, no blood ties to rescue or save. Yet his heart had a tiny crack in it, a crack that allowed his love for his people to stand stronger than his hatred over his enemies. He knew that peace was the only answer. Hope for that peace was planted 25 years ago by this man, King James III.

His hands were strong and masculine. His body was muscular and sturdy. The Botvian King, James III, was a shrewd and powerful ruler who required respect. His deep voice declared competency and his eyes revealed wisdom and compassion. He stood tall and confident. He was victorious. This king had known many battles. Death did not surprise him. He was ready for his enemies and his mission was to protect his people. His army was clear on their war objectives. The Botvian people came first. Because of this, the Botvian people looked up to their king with admiration. He was the only man in their land who seemed in control of the lifetime of fighting. And he was secretly on a mission for peace.

King James sat in his castle. His eyebrows were tightly pulled together. He had heard about the village massacre only two hours earlier. Hundreds of his people were dead. Most were unarmed children and women. The King shook his head. "Revenge is not the answer," he said to himself out loud with assurance. "Peace. There just has to be peace."

The people always expected a return attack whenever any band of Botvians had been murdered. This is how the warring kingdoms had continued the conflict over the double centuries. Many people no longer understood why the hatred began. War was a part of their lives. Every child was raised hating people from the other two kingdoms. Hatred was the common emotion. Revenge was expected.

King James reflected on all of these facts. He lowered his head and sighed. "The war has to end for the sake of my people."

There were few options available to the king right now. He knew that peace was necessary, yet was aware of his present limitations. Only one man that he knew of could help him find the answers.

The king scribbled on a long piece of paper, rolled it up, and then pressed his seal onto the paper.

"Give this to my High Commander," he ordered his servant.

The scroll included instructions for how to locate a man. This man was a seerer who had powerful skills of illusion. Rumors about the man's past circled the Kingdom. This seer was both powerful and controversial. Yet the King knew that the seer held the key to his search for peace.

Jemidon was indeed a powerful seer, yet this fact was hidden by his outward appearance. His black, skinny frame was aged and crippled. His limbs were bent and fractured and implied traumatic beatings. His face was attractive, but the deep wrinkles cascading down his cheeks and around his eyes could not allow him to be defined as being "handsome."

He habitually leaned on his staff, putting his full weight onto the thick stick. His natural height of five feet, seven inches was disguised by his leaning shoulders and back; that hunched back robbed him of five whole inches.

Despite his present appearance, the first impression everyone had of Jemidon was that he was once a great man. Even while hunched over his staff, Jemidon had a subtle charm about him, a way of carrying himself that spoke of honor and virtue. But like most great men, Jemidon's day had long ago faded.

His face was constantly consorted into a deep frown. His hands clenched his staff tightly. His jaw line was tense. And his eyes flashed stories of sadness and disappointment. It was as if he allowed his eyes to be an outward symbol of the pain he had suffered.

Few men had experienced the type of tragedy Jemidon survived. Yet even in the midst of his haunting memories, Jemidon continued to be the type of man who instinctively sought what was right and good. He was ruled by a deep-seeded compassion for others. He was moral and just and cared about the kinds of ideals that bring life and hope to others. Bravery was always his defining characteristic.

Jemidon was one of those few authentic people who grace the world. He was born with more potential than most people ever realize in an entire lifetime. But like many great men, life had fought against Jemidon. The evils swirling through life had won over him. His body now drooped downward. His thoughts were focussed on self-doubt and constant rehearsals of his well-lodged excuses.

He was a wanderer who had no permanent home. His journeys throughout the countryside had raised much suspicion and had also created gossip. A handful of people believed him to be a spy. Others, those who revered him for his apparent previous greatness, talked about him with excitement and also controversy. Who exactly was this man named Jemidon? Rumors were whispered among the villages.

His powers for illusion only fed into the villagers' gossip. He traveled to the various villages and used his skills of sorcery and illusion to help the locals. These skills of illusion were well tapped and had become renown around the countryside. But no matter what Jemidon did, or how much he helped others, fear still swarmed his heart. His very soul had been crushed and it now ached with ongoing spiritual pain.

This was a man who had been born with unlimited promise and who had succumbed to the fiery darts of misfortune and suffering. The Jemidon that King James III had called for was filled with self-condemnation. And his first desire was merely to wallow in his self-made prison of torturous doubt and ongoing contemptuousness for himself.

Jemidon shook his head and replied to the King's High Commander that he most certainly would not meet with the King. "How could I possibly help him?" Jemidon thought. "I'm a nobody."

But the High Commander had strict orders. King James knew that Jemidon would not agree to his initial terms. The opened scroll was thrust into Jemidon's empty hand. The old man's frown curved downward into an even deeper expression. He read the king's words slowly and moaned as he reached the final words. His hands loosened their grip and the sheet of paper fell to the ground.

The King had written a brief and compelling argument that Jemidon could not refute. If Jemidon did not offer his services to the king, all of the people the sorcerer had helped would surely die. The note contained details about the recent massacre and reminded Jemidon that these types of events had gone on for more than two centuries.

What the King was proposing could usher in justice, life, peace, and what is good and right. Jemidon could not argue with the moral truth. He bit his lower lip and looked at the high commander. "I'll go." He declared in a deep voice.

Jemidon was now officially hired. He would work as the King's seerer. His task was simple. It was his position to help King James discover a way to develop a permanent peace treaty with the warring nations.

The King greeted Jemidon with exuberance. He smiled and thanked the old sorcerer for agreeing to this offer.

A quick smile broke the frown glued to Jemidon's lips. Laughter rang out of his belly. "Of course I accepted. You left me with no choice!"

The King was immediately taken aback by Jemidon's sense of humor. It seemed to speak of another side to the old sorcerer, a side that was apparently dormant inside his exterior. The sense of humor seemed to hint to Jemidon's past and made his apparent greatness all the more prevalent.

King James instantly developed a rapport with Jemidon. The two men had the same type of heart. They both cared about others and were ruled by a moral compass that was now guiding them to find peace.

Jemidon was lead to a large table where a several sheets of paper were spread out along the table's surface. These sheets included a map of the countryside and details about the two Botvian enemies. The natural resources of the enemies were listed.

"The answer is here," the King declared. "I just don't know how to bring it all together. That's why I need you."

Jemidon nodded and picked up one of the pieces of paper. He could sense the urgency of the situation and he also felt like the way to deal with this mess was simpler than either man realized. He felt just like a person who had an idea just at the tip of his tongue. It was almost there, and yet he could not quite grasp the solution.

Both men were interrupted by the High Commander.

"Excuse me, your Majesty. You are expected in the village in two hours. Your caravan is awaiting."

The King motioned toward Jemidon. "He'll ride behind my carriage." The High Commander nodded.

King James III climbed into his carriage and sighed the first sigh of relief he had felt in days. He felt calm and hopeful. Jemidon was indeed the answer to the probing questions swarming inside of him. He could see the compassion in the old sorcerer's eyes. He knew they were on the brink to discovering peace, and he felt like he could finally relax.

The caravan slowly made its way outside of the castle and onto the dusty road.

A sudden scream filled the air. The King looked outside his window just in time to see a horse galloping toward his carriage. A man was sitting on top of the horse and had a bomb strapped to his belly. The bomb was designed to detonate upon impact. The King could only watch in trembling fear as the suicide bomber crashed into his carriage seconds later.

The explosion rocked the entire royal caravan. Jemidon was thrown outside of his carriage and immediately ran to the King's side. The King's half-conscious eyes met Jemidon's.

"You'll be all right," Jemidon smiled as he looked at the dying King's face. He refused to admit the truth in this one situation.

"No," the King declared. "I won't."

King James looked at Jemidon. His lips were quivering and his eyes were teary. "My people," he said. "You must help my people."

"How?" Was Jemidon's only response.

The King knew that his death would incite more hatred into the hearts of his people. Revenge would create another series of murderous plots. And that would mean that another hundred years would quickly pass for his people. They would only know more death and violence. Peace. They had to find peace before it was too late.

"You mu-must be-become m-me," The King stuttered. His words were becoming hard to form. His body had suffered several internal injuries from the blast. The bleeding was sucking away his energy. His life was slowly ebbing away.

"Oh no!" Was Jemidon's instant reply. "I could never do that!" His circling doubts were only growing deeper.

"P-p-please," King James begged. His face was now pulled together in painful convulsions. "P-p-please. You m-must. P-promise me. P-promise me that you w-will save m-my p-people. . . P-promise me you will t-take over m-my k-kingdom."

Jemidon felt a pang of duty and nodded his head. "I promise." He said to the dying King. "I promise." He smiled.

King James III turned his head and looked away. He sighed and his spirit was instantly gone.

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