Prince of Darkness

by Blake Arthur Peel

  Sniffling, I ask, "Do you really mean that?"

  He turns back to regard me, giving me a long, meaningful look. "Absolutely." There is truth in his eyes, and for some reason, this calms me.

  I take a long, shuddering breath and wipe my eyes one last time, then set my jaw determinedly against the guilt. “Okay,” I say at length, offering him a weak smile. “You’re right. Thanks for listening.”

  “Of course,” he replies with a small grin, leaning over and kissing my forehead. “Even great mages such as yourself need a shoulder to cry on once in a while.”

  With that, I hand him the empty bowl and push myself to my feet, swooning only slightly as a wave of dizziness overtakes me. “Good night, Owyn,” I say with a mock curtsey. “I shall see you in the morning.”

  I begin making my way through the camp, almost instantly regretting leaving the heat of the fire behind. Near the center of the clearing, I find an empty tent which is marked with a pinned-open flap. With the recent casualties, and the lack of any discerning features between the tents, the dwellings are claimed on a first-come first-serve basis, and there are plenty of them to go around.

  Crouching down, I shuffle inside, finding an oiled tarp and a neatly stacked pile of brown, scratchy blankets on the ground. In my current state, it seems as comfortable as a feather bed with downy pillows.

  Shivering, I pull the tent flap closed and fumble for a minute in the dark, stripping my damp clothing from off my body and hanging it up so that it can dry. Then, numbly, I crawl onto my humble bed and curl up on the ground, bundling myself tightly in the dusty fabric.

  My body heat eventually warms the blankets and makes the inside of the tent more tolerable, which in turn allows me to begin drifting off. As sleep begins to overcome me, I can’t help but think about what Owyn had said, his words bouncing around inside my head. We all fail, every one of us... what truly matters is what we do after our failures.

  Inevitably, the demon dreams come, haunting my already troubled mind. However, Owyn is there as well, standing strong beside me as we meet our bitter end together.

  Chapter Four

  Owyn

  Dawn arrives in the Emberwood, much as it had those many months ago when I was apprentice to the most notorious ranger in the kingdom. Those were simpler times, I think to myself idly, watching as the orange light reflects off the glistening ice that clings to the leafless trees. It already seems like so long ago.

  The sun’s light brings with it a sense of urgency, a reminder of the looming war and all of the things that we must do to prepare for it. However, for just a moment I allow myself to sit and watch, pushing aside the crushing responsibility and just basking in the coming light of a new day. At this moment I feel a sense of serenity, a feeling of peace that calms my troubled heart as the rest of the camp still slumbers.

  How many more of these sunrises will I be able to enjoy? I think musingly, blowing hot air into my cold hands to warm them. Moments like these are fleeting, even before the end of the world.

  I turn back to the work at hand, whittling a small piece of oak I had found during the night. It is still mostly shapeless in my hand, a heavy lump of wood the size of a small river stone, but in my mind’s eye I know exactly what it will be, the dull makeshift knife working slowly to fashion the wood into a thing of beauty.

  Somewhere out in the woods a tree branch snaps, and I can feel my muscles tense involuntarily as I put away the bit of wood and raise the knife.

  Then, out of the winter scene steps a stag, its beautiful pronged head emerging from a dense thicket of bushes. The animal moves into a clearing and begins nuzzling the ground, searching for food on a patch of earth that is not completely covered in snow, and does not yet seem to notice my presence nearly a dozen paces away. Its muscled body, large and proud, moves with an easy grace as it steps through the meadow, and I can't help but marvel at its proud and natural beauty.

  My first reaction is to reach for my bow, slowly picking it up and nocking an arrow. That much meat could go a long way in feeding this caravan, especially considering the lack of protein in their diet.

  However, as I stare down the shaft of the arrow, I can't help but think of the stag I had slain over the summer and the carnage the darkhound had wrought on its kind.

  As I crouch there, conjuring images of a clearing full of ravaged deer parts in my mind, the stag suddenly looks up, noticing me for the first time. My breath catches in my throat, and for a long moment, we simply stare at one another, the silence of the forest weighing down heavily upon us.

  Finally, unable to summon the will to release my arrow, I lower the bow, though my eyes remain locked on the stag.

  The beast holds my gaze for a moment longer, as if considering whether or not I am still a threat, then turns its antlered head, walking back into the thicket and disappearing from sight.

  We're all threatened by the same enemy now, I think, somehow feeling in my heart that I had made the right decision in not killing the stag.

  Pondering to myself, I continue my vigil as the burning sun begins to climb slowly over the horizon.

  The feeling of serenity eventually passes as the first inhabitants of the camp begin to stir. Sighing, I push myself up to my feet and begin stroking the nearby fire to life. After breakfast, we will need to begin our journey anew.

  Time, unfortunately, is not on our side.

  Within the hour, most of the camp has awakened and begun the process of breaking down their tents. Rations of boiled grains are cooked on the fires and everyone seems to be mentally preparing themselves for what we all know will be another grueling day of walking.

  Zara emerges from her tent looking surprisingly refreshed, her eyes bright and her hair bound in a ponytail. Upon seeing me she smiles, walking through the packed snow and approaching me from the side.

  “Good morning,” she says in a raspy voice. “How did you sleep last night?"

  “Well enough,” I reply around a mouthful of dried desert berries. Upon closer inspection, she appears to still carry the lingering effects of yesterday’s exhaustion, dark circles ringing her eyes and a washed-out complexion on her face. Still, she seems much better than she had last night and carries herself with an air of cheeriness.

  She sniffs, giving me a sly, sideways smile. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that? I can tell by the way you said that that you probably spent most of the night standing watch.”

  I give her a small, defeated laugh. “What can I say? Old habits are hard to shake.”

  “You make such a fuss about sending me off to bed, and then you turn around and disregard your own advice.” She accepts a bowl of boiled grain from one of the former slaves, nodding in thanks before returning her stern gaze to me. “That isn’t very rangerly of you.”

  I raise an eyebrow at her. “Rangerly?”

  She shrugs and puts a spoonful of the mush into her mouth. After swallowing, she says, “A figure of speech. You rangers are supposed to be all about honor and fulfilling your oaths.”

  “You forget that I am still technically an apprentice. I'm no more a ranger than you are.” I'm surprised at the bitterness that enters my voice as I utter those words. Since finding out that Elias is a Nightingale, and with the near constant running and fighting, completing my ranger training has been low on my priority list. Still, it seems that the wound left by my master has not yet entirely healed.

  Zara seems rather taken aback by the sudden and somber turn of the conversation, and I find myself clearing my throat and forcing a smile to push through the lingering awkwardness.

  "We should reach Forest Hill before nightfall," I say, changing the subject. "Then we'll hopefully be able to get all of us warmer clothes."

  "I think I'd rather have a bath," she says, sighing and looking down at her half-eaten bowl of mush. "It feels like ages since I've had a good scrubbing. I must look absolutely dreadful."

  "You look beautiful," I reply, but she only gives me a flat look.

 
; "Don't patronize me," she says before taking another bite.

  We continue with light conversation until both of us are finished eating and the rest of the group seems to be finishing up as well. After breakfast, we proceed to break down camp and continue our journey through the forest, slogging through miles of snow and icy terrain. The old game trails are right where I remember them, twisting through the woods in a haphazard fashion, and it is surprisingly easy for me to navigate them despite the wintry conditions.

  As the day wears on, the temperature seems to rise above that which is normal for this time of year. Snow begins to thin into muddy slush, and the icicles hanging from the limbs of trees begin to glisten and drip in the sunlight.

  Zara seems to think that this is a side effect of the Arc disappearing, that the desert climate of the wastelands will eventually overtake Tarsynium completely. Something about that deeply disturbs me, having spent my recent years closely associated with nature. The thought of losing the vibrant forests and green fields of my homeland to the demon-cursed desert makes my stomach twist into knots.

  It is midafternoon by the time we finally reach Forest Hill, the muddy, winding game trails turning into familiar roads which take us through more developed country. Farm houses begin to dot the land, and soon, the hill itself is within sight.

  The freed slaves seem wide-eyed and amazed upon seeing the structures, apparently confounded by the permanent buildings made from timber and stone.

  Just wait until you see Tarsys, I think to myself wryly. The city makes this place seem miniscule in comparison.

  Something feels off as we approach the town, many of the homes standing dark and abandoned. Few have smoke coming out of their chimneys, and those that do have their barns and front doors thrown open, farmers scurrying about with packs of supplies. What’s more, the road seems well-used, with many sets of footprints and wagon ruts marring the packed snow.

  Why would so many of these homes be abandoned? I think to myself curiously. It’s almost as if the farmers have fled.

  The answer to my question comes when we make our way into town, meeting with almost full-blown hysteria. Carts loaded with personal effects fill the unpaved streets, while townsfolk rush madly about, saddling horses and transporting goods from out of their storefronts and houses. Many of the buildings already seem derelict, and even now, the road heading east out of town is clogged by a long train of people.

  “Light almighty,” Zara murmurs, coming up to stand beside me. “This looks like an exodus.”

  “Yeah,” I reply, watching as a pair of children weep while their mother explains that the kittens will be unable to travel with them. “We need to figure out what is going on. Perhaps Governor Prior will have some answers.”

  “We should have the wastelanders set up camp outside of town,” Zara says, eyes shifting about nervously. “I don’t think that they will be welcome here.”

  Looking around, I can instantly see what she is talking about. We are stopped at the base of the hill on the very outskirts of the town, but folk still give our caravan a wide berth, many shooting us suspicious looks and even glares of outright hostility. What’s more, the freed slaves, with their tanned skin and plain but foreign clothing, seem extremely uncomfortable, no doubt feeling very out of place under the scrutiny of the locals.

  “Alright,” I say at length, pointing due west. “There’s an empty field out that way they can use. Then, we go to the governor’s mansion.”

  Zara quickly communicates with the huddled mass of former slaves, then motions for them to follow me. Then, I lead them through the woods into a wide field which used to belong to a farmer who was killed in the Battle of Forest Hill. They begin unburdening themselves of their supplies, looking mildly relieved as thy begin setting up camp.

  Yari and the youths approach Zara and me as we prepare to depart, spears shouldered as if to guard us. I give Zara a look, then explain that I need them here guarding the women and children. She translates. They seem disappointed, but agree in their odd tongue to watch over the camp while we are away. Clasping each of them on the shoulder, I thank them and then depart with Zara, traveling through the trees and back to the road leading into town.

  As we make our way back up the hill, we see more of the same. Buildings stand with their windows and doors hanging open while folk scramble about to load up saddles and wagons in preparation for departure. We catch the eyes of several people when we walk past, their faces flickering with recognition, though everyone is apparently too rushed to stop and say hello.

  When we reach the inn, though, a high-pitched but powerful voice shouts out, grabbing my attention. “Owyn Lund, is that you?”

  I turn to see the innkeeper’s wife Diane Ellis waving excitedly from the wooden porch, a broom clutched in her other hand.

  “Hello, Mrs. Ellis,” I reply, stepping up to her with Zara in tow. “How have you been lately?”

  She waddles down the steps and takes me in a bone-crunching hug. “I’ve been fine, dear. Light save me, it’s you I’ve been worried about. The world’s gone mad and you look like you haven’t seen a proper bed in weeks!” She releases me, then seems to notice Zara, pulling her into an embrace as well. “And the young mage is with you! Zara, was it? I’m so glad that both of you are safe – if a little underfed.”

  “What’s going on here, Mrs. Ellis?” I ask when she releases a breathless-looking Zara. “It seems like everyone is fleeing the town.”

  Her expression falls somewhat, lips tightening into a thin line on her round face. “It’s because they are, dear. Rumors have been rampant – first the great explosion coming from Tarsys, then folk from the outlying farms saying the Arc has simply vanished... it’s got people in a panic. Everyone is afraid that demons will be coming to our doorstep any day now. They’re running away to the center of the kingdom for safety.”

  Zara and I share a concerned look.

  That’s certainly going to complicate things, I think. If this is happening in Forest Hill, it’s bound to happen in other towns as well.

  “Wait a tick – where’s Elias?” Mrs. Ellis looks around as if expecting to see him hiding behind me.

  I open my mouth to respond, then simply shrug, unable to find an explanation. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  “Well, I’d love to hear it over supper. James!” She shouts, looking over her shoulder to the open door of the inn. “Owyn and Zara have returned! Put something in the cook pot for them!”

  “That’s a very kind offer,” Zara says diplomatically, “but we need to speak with Governor. Perhaps later we can talk?”

  Mrs. Ellis heaves a sigh and bobs her head. “If you say so, though I doubt you’ll find him to be much help. At any rate, we’ll have supper ready for you when you return.” She pauses, then smiles at us. “It is so nice to see the two of you again.”

  We say our farewells then continue up the hill, dodging horse-drawn wagons on our way to the Governor’s manor. When we arrive, we find it strangely quiet. No servants scurry about and nobody from the town seems to be waiting for supplication.

  Striding right up to the door, Zara knocks and together we wait for a reply.

  Nothing happens.

  Frowning, I reach forward and bang on the hard wood loudly with my fist. Again, there is no answer.

  “Maybe we should see if he is down with the townspeople?” Zara suggests.

  I shake my head. “Prior always considered himself above the common folk. In the months I’ve lived here, I’ve never known him to leave his residence to mingle with the people of Forest Hill. He must be inside.”

  Zara hisses a protest as I reach for the latch and open the door, ignoring her as I step inside the gaudy house. Muttering to herself, she follows me, pulling the door shut behind her as we make our way down the long hall. It is just as I remembered it, with soft carpets on the floor and rich décor adorning the walls, giving testament to the governor’s noble heritage.

  The home appears to be empty, aband
oned like many of the other buildings in town, though nothing inside seems to be out of place at all. Our footsteps cause the floorboards to creek ominously, and the usual scents of clean linens and baking bread are mysteriously absent.

  Suddenly, I hear a sound coming from the cellar where the mages had interrogated me many months ago. I fall into a crouch, pulling out my knife and cautiously approaching the slightly open door.

  “There’s someone down there,” I whisper to Zara.

  “What are you talking about?” She replies softly. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  There it is again, I think, my ears picking up the faint sound of scuffling feet on the floor below. “Stay here,” I mouth over my shoulder before ducking down the stairs.

  The cellar is starkly furnished compared to the floors above, and is lit only by a thin ray of sunlight coming from a small window near the ceiling. Casks of ale are stacked against the far wall along with sacks of grain and other types of food storage, and a layer of dust covers almost everything in a light grey film. Creeping down the wooden steps, I scan the wide, dimly-lit chamber for any signs of danger, but relax immediately when I discover the source of the sound.

  Laying in the middle of the stone floor is Governor Prior, snoring softly amid a half dozen or so empty bottles. Even from my position on the other side of the room, I can smell the sickly-sweet smell of fine wine.

  “Zara,” I call back, replacing my weapon on my belt, “come down here. Everything is fine.”

  Upon seeing the drunken Governor, she lets out a small, exasperated huff. “Oh, for Light’s sake.”

  Together, we descend the staircase and walk up to the rotund man, who smells even worse up close. His rich clothing is stained and rumpled, his bald head resting on the bare stone while his chubby hands cradle a half-empty bottle.

  Using the toe of my boot, I give him a gentle nudge in the side. “Governor, it’s me, Owyn Lund. It’s time to wake up.”

  He groans and blinks bleary eyes, craning his neck to peer up at me. "Ranger...? What are you doing here?" His speech is slurred, and after a few seconds he rests his head back against the ground and squeezes his eyes shut.