by Robert Ryan
About the author
I’m a man born in the wrong era. My heart yearns for faraway places and even further afield times. Tolkien had me at the beginning of The Hobbit when he said, “. . . one morning long ago in the quiet of the world . . .”
Sometimes I imagine myself in a Viking mead-hall. The long winter night presses in, but the shimmering embers of a log in the hearth hold back both cold and dark. The chieftain calls for a story, and I take a sip from my drinking horn and stand up . . .
Or maybe the desert stars shine bright and clear, obscured occasionally by wisps of smoke from burning camel dung. A dry gust of wind marches sand grains across our lonely campsite, and the wayfarers about me stir restlessly. I sip cool water and begin to speak.
I’m a storyteller. A man to paint a picture by the slow music of words. I like to bring faraway places and times to life, to make hearts yearn for something they can never have, unless for a passing moment.
THE DARK GOD
BOOK THREE OF THE DARK GOD RISES TRILOGY
Robert Ryan
Copyright © 2019 Robert J. Ryan
All Rights Reserved. The right of Robert J. Ryan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All of the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Trotting Fox Press
1. The Broken Sword
Brand walked silently through the sacred woods of the Duthenor, and the magic within him grew restless. It sensed something, and responded.
He stepped carefully and reverently, for this was not a place to move fast or to speak. And those few with him did the same.
Shorty and Taingern were among them. What they thought of this place, he did not know. But they each had seen strange things before, and knew there were powers in the world beyond the understanding of people. This was such a site where those powers were strong, and the ancient Duthenor had known it.
The Duthenor seldom came here. It was a place of ancient ceremony, and usually it was left alone except for certain times of the year and certain occasions.
This was one such occasion. The sword of the chieftains of the Duthenor was broken. It was a link between father and son from a time out of memory and into myth. It was a part of the Duthenor people themselves. It was a symbol of them, and its breaking was like the dying of a chieftain.
And there were rites that went with that, born from a past older even than the Duthenor habitation of the Duthgar. They went back to the dark days, the time of the elù-haraken. The Shadowed Wars.
One of those rites was the offering of something of great value back to the land from whence all life sprang. In this case, it would be the sword itself.
Brand carried the broken shards reverently in his hands, held palm up before him. No steel blade was allowed in the sacred woods, and none of his companions carried a weapon. But the broken sword was the offering itself, and there was a tradition of giving swords back to the land when their owner died. This was in that spirit.
Though it was early morning, the forest was dark about him. The trees were mostly pine, and the scent of resin sharpened the air. To all sides the trunks marched away, dark and mysterious. Branches creaked, and strange sounds of wood rubbing against wood disturbed the quiet.
It was an eerie place, and Brand sensed foreboding tickle the back of his neck. Was that the natural effect of the strange woods? Or were his instincts warning him of something?
It did not matter. They were nearly at their destination now, and there was no turning back. With him and his two oldest friends came Sighern and several of the highest-ranking lords of both the Duthenor and Callenor tribes.
Brand paused. Then his gaze found the hidden path that he remembered of old, and he turned down it. Overgrown by ancient trees it was, and the sense of eeriness increased. Here, he remembered coming once as a child with his father. It had been eerie then too. Strange that it should be even more so now as an adult.
Furthgil, the gray-bearded lord of the Callenor, preeminent among his tribe now that Gormengil was dead, cast a wary gaze about him as he followed down the dark trail. Well he might. No Callenor had been here before, but they too would have their sacred place. Behind him, for there was only room for one man at a time, came the lords Brodruin and Garvengil. These were the most senior surviving nobility of the Duthenor. They hid their unease well, but they had been here before and knew what to expect. Last, but not least, came Bruidiger. No lord at all, but a warrior of great presence. He represented the Norvinor tribe, and Brand thought it fitting. Here he had gathered, against tradition in such a sacred place, not only the Duthenor but representatives of all the peoples that faced the great threat to come. It was the beginnings of binding them into a single force, and that was needed. Without it, they would not survive.
The path wound downhill now, and the steepness made each step treacherous. It grew darker, and the trees leaned over them, looking down like sentries, scrutinizing those who passed.
But pass they did, and they came to their destination. The trees gave way, grudgingly. The land leveled, and a patch of clear sky, blue-purple as it seemed looking up through the dark tunnel of tree trunks that formed a circle around them, gazed down unblinking like an eye.
Here of old the chieftains of the Duthenor made offerings to the land to honor it. Here was the Ferstellenpund, a tarn of still water, mirrorlike, its surface still and the bright-colored sky reflected in it. At night, there would be stars, but no offerings were ever made save by daylight.
The banks were too steep to walk, but the end of the trail had led down a rocky path to the water’s edge and a flat shore. The path was cut into the rock by the hand of man, but no Duthenor would ever have done that. To the shore Brand came, the others behind him. And here, by the very edge of the tarn, they halted amid a heavy silence. This was where he would commit the sword back to the land. This was the sacred heart of the woods.
Tendrils of mist reached up from the water, creeping into the trees. No sound came to Brand’s ears. The whole world seemed watchful, as though it awaited some event. It was a dreary place, and Brand’s heart was heavy. He began to think that the eeriness of the woods was caused by his own emotion. Grief washed through him. So many had died recently. So many more yet would. And the sword of his forefathers was broken, even as his parents were dead. The hopes of his youth were ash, and the reality of the world was hard to bear.
But bear it he must. He straightened. For now, he would do what was required of a chieftain. When he left these woods, the combined army of the Duthenor and Callenor tribes would be waiting nearby. He would lead them, and he would wield them like a weapon to do what had to be done.
A movement caught his eye. It was a trickle of water running down the stony bank at the other side of the pond. But there was no sound of running water, nor did it disturb the surface. It was strange. Yet there were many strange things about the pond. Another was that no one had ever plumbed its depths. And it had been tried, at least according to legend.
Brand gave no more thought to it. He uttered the sacred words of the Duthenor, the words handed down from father to son, from chieftain to chieftain, since days beyond memory. They were the words spoken at an offering. They were the words spoken at a chieftain’s funeral. And he heard an intake of breath from the men of the other tribes with him. They would have their own such sacred words, and they would know the sanctity of such things. They would know that Brand was treating them as lords of the Duthenor, letting them hear what only lords of the Duthenor had ever heard before.
And when he was done, he cast the shards of the broken blade into the center of the pond. The still water shattered. The image of the sky shuddered, and the water showed the flashing image of the surrounding trees, leaping and striding like warriors drawing swords to attack.
The shards of the blade slid into the water, disappearing from sight, though even that made no noise, and it troubled Brand.
Yet the offering was made. That which was drawn from the earth was laid to rest within it again. The land had been thanked, and the rite completed. It was time to turn and go.
But Brand did not move. Where the water should be going still again, it did the opposite. It trembled, and then seethed. The tendrils of mist turned to billowing exhalations, and vapor rose in a sudden fog. This had never happened before. Not that Brand’s father had ever told him, nor that any rumor of legend whispered.
Brand waited. But for what, he did not know.
2. Will You Serve the Land?
A feeling came over Brand, and it was one that he had experienced before. But at all other times it was vague and slight, a hint of things that could be.
Now, it washed over him as a mighty wave. It was awesome, and it was a wonder. It was both joy and terror. For it seemed that his mind opened and expanded, or else a veil had been withdrawn that had dimmed his perceptions. He stood where he did, and he gazed upon the churning water of the Ferstellenpund, but at the same time he had a sense of other lands and other places. Deep into the earth his mind plumbed, and it also streaked high into the thin airs above the earth. North, south, east and west it sped also. And it seemed to him that he heard whispers of joy and far-off wailing, as though the land itself spoke to him of what was happening to the people who dwelt upon it.
The water of the pond began to still again, but now there was a presence in it. He saw nothing, but he felt it. And the sense of awe that overwhelmed him before redoubled now. The others fell back behind him, but slowly, reverently, Brand knelt upon the stony shore.
He looked into the water, and there was a face there. Human it appeared, but he could not be sure. Nor could he tell age, for the face was ageless, and in her eyes, for it was the face of a lady, it seemed to him that all the woe of the ages was caught, but also all the joy. Wise was her gaze, and tranquil, yet behind it lay an indomitable will, stronger and more enduring than mountains.
And the lady spoke, her voice clear but coming from no one place. Rather, it seemed as though the woods about him spoke, and the very air thrummed with her voice.
“Hail, Brand. Do not be alarmed. No harm can come to you here.”
Brand remained kneeling. “This I know, Lady, for you are the land itself, and ever have I striven to protect the life to which you give rise.”
She smiled at him. And it seemed that sunlight bathed the dark woods.
“Yes, you have done this. And I thank you. Yet I must now ask more. Will you devote your life to me? Will you serve the land?”
“I will, Lady.”
Her smile deepened, and it was like sunlight on a winter’s day. Brand gazed into her eyes. They seemed at times brown, and hazel and then green. They were wells into which a man could fall forever.
“I have watched you, Brand. I have felt you move across the earth. Your deeds are great, and your fame grows. All over the land I hear rumor of your name.”
“Fame is fleeting, Lady. This you know better than I.”
“You are powerful too.”
“All power grows old and withers, Lady.”
“You could be an emperor, for you could conquer realms and gather armies. The riches of kingdoms are yours for the taking. Who could stop you?”
“I stop myself, Lady. I have no desire for those things. The riches I truly seek are now forever beyond my reach.”
The image within the water paused then. It could have been for a heartbeat, or for eons while the sun tracked the sky and the stars wheeled in oblivion. Brand did not know which, for he still gazed into her eyes and he knew that in this place time had no meaning.
“Then will you serve the land?”
“I will serve you.”
“I am pleased. Take back your sword. You will have need of it, lòhren.”
Brand knew what she had meant when she asked if he would serve. But this puzzled him.
“You call me lòhren, but lòhrens wield no sword. They carry rather a staff.”
If it were possible, he would have thought her expression amused, though perhaps it was some shimmer of water that altered her face.
“You are not as other lòhrens. Your talisman is not a staff, but the sword. Take it.”
It was then that he saw the rest of her body, for the water seemed to move and clear. She stood within it, upright, and in her hand she held the hilt of a sword. His sword that he had cast into the tarn broken.
She rose then, and all the while that she moved, still she fixed him with her gaze. Up, out of the water she ascended, and it trailed from her in streams and yet her skin was dry and so also the cloth of the simple white dress she wore. But the sword dripped water in her hand when she held it before him, now by the blade with her two hands, the hilt pointed at him.
He reached out, reverently. His right hand took the hilt. It felt good in his grip, but suddenly his sense of connection to the land strengthened even further. Something of her passed into him, for now both held the sword together and he felt one with her, one with the land.
And then her hands were off the blade. The world seemed dimmer, and for the first time Brand remembered he was in the woods, and the strange sounds of the forest came to life around him once more, reminding him of where he was and drawing him back to it, and back to the tasks he had yet to accomplish in this small, small part of the world.
“I will serve you well, Lady.”
“This I know, Brand. And this I say to you. You will be like no lòhren that has gone before, for you will be a warrior, and a lòhren, and a king all. You will sire kings, and of your line will spring the hope of the north.” She paused and her eyes glittered with thoughts beyond what Brand could discern. “Know also,” she continued, “that the enemy comes. And with them, gods. It falls to you to defeat them.”
Brand held her gaze. For her, he would risk his life. He had done so many times in fighting for the land.
“I am a mere man, but I will contend with them as best I can.”
“This also, I do not doubt,” she answered. “They will kill you if they can, but you are resourceful. And though they be gods, yet still they fear you. Let that give you courage and confidence. Your task is very hard. Perhaps your hardest yet. But you are Brand, and you do not die easily. You may yet prevail.”
She reached out and touched his cheek gently, as though in blessing. Then she sank noiselessly into the water and was gone. The surface of the pond was still again, reflecting the purple-blue sky as it had earlier.
For a few moments Brand stayed kneeling. He did not trust himself to stand, such were the emotions that roared through him. A warrior, lòhren and king he would be. And of his line would spring the hope of the north. What did it all mean?
But he would get no more answers waiting here. What answers he would have would come fighting men. And gods. But only if he survived those battles. Yet the sword in his hand would help him, and he rejoiced that it was whole and his again. It did not matter how. The land had given it to him. It was both a sword and the symbol now of his stature as a lòhren. It was subtly changed, too.
He gripped the sword tightly and stood, turning to face the men he had brought. They remained kneeling, and were pale-faced and trembling. They looked at him with wide eyes, and he wondered if they would ever look at him the same again. Even Taingern and Shorty.
“Rise!” he commanded. “We have work to do.”
3. The Tomb
The shadow of fear was upon Horta, and he did not like it.
How had things gone so wrong? Only he and Tanata had survived the wrath of the old Letharn spirit that Brand had somehow summoned or loosed upon the world. The rest of the Arnhaten were no more. The thought of it shamed him. But what followed had been even worse.
It was with disbelief that he had watched Brand fight Gormengil, and win. And in winning somehow sway the Callenor to join him. One moment they had been at war, and the next Brand led both tribes. It was the breath of the dragon. For the first time
Horta understood exactly what that meant. Brand was touched by fate.
But so too was Horta. He had a task to complete. He had been chosen for it, for out of the countless searchers through years unmeasured, it was he who had found the tomb of Char-harash. It was he who would draw him back to life. And nothing could interfere with that now that he was so close. Not even defeat and the ruination of all his plans.
It still burned him like fire. He would never forget slipping away like a thief when Brand usurped control of the Callenor. He had found Tanata, taken horses and fled before they could be found and stopped.
For long years Horta had schooled himself to harden his heart. He had done things that would shrivel the soul of an ordinary man, but the shame of defeat had done something. Emotions flowed through him all the time now. Anger. Fear. Grief. He liked none of them, but stronger than they, and more welcome, was lust for revenge and the knowledge that it would come to pass. An army of Kar-ahn-hetep were on the way, and not even the combined forces of the Duthenor and Callenor could stop it. And when they conquered the land, the resurrection of Char-harash could begin. Then his own life could begin anew again also, for he would be the right hand of the god-king.
They rode down a steep bank. Tall pines grew to the left. To the right, the lights of a faraway village twinkled palely. Too close, Horta knew. Yet this was a populated land and even traveling at night there was a risk of being seen.
“Where do we go, master?”
Tanata had followed him loyally, never questioning him until now. But it was a good question, and it needed an answer.
“Where we must. Where our duty requires us to go. And where we will be safe from prying eyes.”