Love & Magic don't mix when the youngest and most powerful of the brotherhood of immortal Magician falls in LOVE
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Saga of Immortal Magicians (In the Name of Love)
It's XI century. A secret brotherhood of immortal magicians has been growing in number and power for more than 1300 years. When the youngest and most gifted, among them named Vinezardeh, disobeys their rules and falls in love with a mortal princess, he finds himself standing alone against the brotherhood. On the eve of his wedding thanks to his unlimited power he becomes witness to a treacherous plot in which his beloved princess is involved. With a broken heart and unable to die so to stop his anguish, Vinezardeh lock's himself up in his mountain castle and casts a spell on himself. Thousand years later in the beginning of the XXI century an ordinary girl seeking refuge finds herself in Vinezardeh's enchanted castle and awakes him. But is he ready to return to life after so many years, when the world he knows is gone? And for what will he use his unlimited power for when his heart is full of disappointment and mistrust?
IN THE NAME OF LOVE
It was the spring of 1034. The wide fields of Lorraine were showered with small, parti-coloured flowers, on whose leaves the dewdrops glistened under the sunbeams of daybreak. The fresh green lawn was soft and aromatic and surpassed in beauty, the thick costly carpets in the chambers of royalty, who were predestined by their riches and luxury never to feel the fragrance and charm, which God spread to the Earth in this early morn. The crisp air vibrated and the smiling sun bravely rose to the sky and peeped behind the snow-covered peaks of the Alps. A few barefoot children ran after a billy-goat and their clear voices blended with the birds' morning anthem. A small village nearby made half-sleepy attempts to wake up and begin with replenished vigour its hard and labourious daily round.
In defiance of this bewitching heavenly view, somewhere from the distance came floating a slight, but ceaseless sound. It seemed that behind the opposite hill thousands of people unceasingly and repeatedly banged with iron lids. Soon the rumble dangerously approached, resembling the roar of a coming thunderstorm. Simultaneously, just on the opposite side of the small village, yet quite far away, appeared the same rumble. The weather was fine and the sky was fleeced with white clouds, the poor peasants quickly realised what was about to fall on them. They ran away, trying desperately to save their children and cattle. Their small, humbly houses would not offer much resistance to these cruel armies, which were created to smash everything in their path, with brutal force – the fresh green meadows, the houses, the people.
Everything which these unprotected peasants had, would be covered in dust, ruins and blood, when a thousand spears started onward in the name of a certain master, who strove to increase the gold in his treasury and the glory of his name and to enlarge his territory. The poor people knew all this and considered their own helplessness to stop these deadly hordes, who had chosen their small place for the arena of a pernicious battle. Resignation was second nature to them and only their instinct of self-preservation had kept them and their children alive so far. They relied neither on God’s mercy nor on the protection of someone else. The more their master took care of them the more he became interested in the number of his cattle. The enemy would not care for their small village and would just ride them down blind and deaf to their cries and pleadings. God for them was only a judge who endorsed and blessed the rulers and the plunderers; they knew only this and no one let them learn anything else…
Ahead of the first army was Count de Kresie. Mounted on a magnificent stallion, whose saddle was splendidly decorated with pendants and tassels. The Count rode proudly in his shining knight's armour with a lance in his hand, resting on a holder by his foot and rising menacingly towards the vernal sun. His crimson cape flowed from his shoulders to the horse's rump. Lifting the visor of his helmet, his green sly eyes took a rapacious survey of the approaching less numerous adversaries. He had acted with treachery and surprise and this would destroy his deadly enemy - Duke de la Felice. De Kresie was exulted over him because his enemy’s domain would be annexed to his county. The Count was not a brave knight, but a cunning politician. He only engaged in battles either with greater numbers than his enemy or from an ambush or a few days after he had broken a peace treaty. De Kresie was a man of average height with a small crown of fair hair. He had a shallow face and a short beard. He was 35 years old but he had already succeeded in more acts of treachery than an old swindler of 70. He led an army of a few thousand young knights. None of them had shining armour but they carried their swords brightly and cheerfully, and they were ready to fight, to kill and to rob.
This was the army whose rumble first had reached the small village. These were the invaders.
The second army was quite far away. It consisted of the knights of the Duke de la Felice. The Duke was advanced in years and was above all, an honourable man. He would never doubt in the words of any warrior, even if that warrior was his enemy, even in the words of Count de Kresie! The Duke’s army numbered not more than one thousand cavalrymen. They were in low spirit and looked like people, who either had awaken too soon and had failed to put in order their accoutrements, or they had ridden so long and had lost a part of their armour on their way. Their lances chaotically hanged in all directions. In spite of the battle still to come they were already looking defeated. Ahead of this army was not the Duke himself but his first vassal Viscount de Minetoreh. He was a tall and stocky man of 30 with an imposing figure. He rode a white horse, decorated like the horse of his enemy. His long blond frizzy hair flowed from under his helmet. He looked mean and proud with his blue eyes. De Minetoreh was a proud man with lofty aims and ambitions. Although he knew he was vastly outnumbered, and defeat was hanging in the air, he rode bravely towards the battlefield. As the sunbeams played with the last dewdrops, the poor peasants with horror and despair waited for their bloody doom. The army of Count de Kresie loomed closer.
Everyone watched as the two armies moved closer to each other. No one noticed the lone rider who came from the foot of the mountains. No one was able to say when he had appeared. Many people could swear that no one had disturbed the advancing troops. But fear held their consciousness and nobody thought about the lone horseman.
The strange rider had already reached the small village and confidently directed himself towards the army of Count de Kresie. He was probably a young man, discerning from his demeanour and his fresh, white hands which held tight the reins. There was nothing else discernable about him as his long black cape hid his body and a hood covered his head and face. Nonetheless, it was clear that the man was not a knight. The mysterious man rode his horse, a raven black stallion, cheerfully and calmly. The proud animal was powerful and tenacious. It had a wonderful, unruly mane. When its hoofs touched the ground, it was as if little lightning bolts were striking the ground, igniting sparks of light.
When the lone rider got near to Count de Kresie, a soft and clear voice was heard from under the hood. The voice was stern enough so that its owner was sure that he would get an answer:
“Good morning, Count! Could I ask where you set out with this wonderful crowd?”