by J C Maynard
Through the Tenebris
Part I — Four Sunrises
by J.C. Maynard
Contents
Through the Tenebris
Prologue
The First Four Sunrises
The Cerebrian Girl
In the Underbrush
An Evertauri
Nightsnakes
Winterdove Lane
The Hollow
The Scarlet Palace
A Phantom
Olindeux
Mordvitch
War Council and Wine
Canopy
Vree Srine
Many Different Happenings
Everrose
The Battle for the Nexus
The Pale Glow of Starlight
A Black Morning
The Thunder of Endlebarr
The Consequences of Rebellion
Royalty
Beneath Aunestauna
The Great Cerebrian Gate
Firestorm
The Fuse
City of Blood and Fire
Ashes
Maps
Prologue
~Twenty Two Years Prior
King Tronum gasped for air. A pool of blood quickly grew around him on the marble floor of the Palace hallway. The stab had punctured his abdomen, and his white cloak turned scarlet as the blood spilled out. A ferocious roar rang out into the air, as King Tronum’s winged lion chased after the figures who had attacked him.
The King coughed up a spurt of blood as a swarm of Palace Guards ran to pursue the attackers.
To his right, a young woman sprinted down the dark hallway toward him. “Your Majesty!” She knelt by his side, trying to find where the dagger had stabbed.
The King looked her in the eye. “Follow them!”
“I won’t be able to reach them, our soldiers will find them. You need help.” She tore apart his shirt and placed her palm on his bloody stomach, guided by the dim torchlight of the palace hall. “Don’t panic.” A stream of pure white light poured out of her hand and swirled above Tronum’s skin. The King clenched his teeth and groaned. The flow of blood stopped, and large scars appeared in place of his gashes.
The King stared at the woman in fear. “Who are you?”
She whispered to him, “Forget I was ever here, Your Majesty.”
Servants rushed toward the King in a panic, seeing the blood-stained marble surrounding him.
The woman stood up. “Take him to the infirmary.”
“Yes, right away.” the servant replied as he slung the King’s arm over his shoulder.
“The assassins’ dagger went deep. He’s lucky that Fernox flew in and drove them off.” A giant winged lion stood in the distance; red blotches stained its white fur. Strong, glistening wings rested on its back, sparkling in the moonlight. The white lion gave a growl and pounced out of a window and into the night.
“Wait!” said King Tronum. He turned to speak to the servants as the woman who healed him left. “Xandria ordered this, didn’t she?”
“I believe so.” said a servant.
“Where is she?” his reddened face shook.
The servant hesitated. “Your sister sir, I-”
“Where is Xandria?!”
“Your sister has fled, Your Majesty. Her guards and her ship are gone. A fleet has been sent after her.”
King Tronum cursed and slammed his fist on the blood-streaked floor.
Worry filled the servant’s eyes. “Do you think-?”
King Tronum nodded. “If Cerebria has seceded from the Empire, they will be preparing for war . . . summon the Council.”
The First Four Sunrises
Chapter One
~Morning, August 22nd
The forest fog swirled and ebbed on its own, indistinctly whispering between the trees. Disrupting the eerie silence, three horses with riders, clad in the dark green armor of Cerebria, darted through the underbrush. Tayben Shae and his horse bounded between fallen logs and moss-covered boulders, guided by the dim light filtering through the dense canopy of the forest. Blood from his shoulder dripped down his arm onto his spear. Up ahead, Ferramish troops rode away, trying to evade Tayben and his fellow men.
“Gallien!” Tayben called across to the next rider while dodging a tree. “Take the ridge and cut them off before the river while I trail them!”
“Birg and I will take them from above!” Gallien replied as he and his white stallion split off with Birg to the right. Tayben locked his eyes forward and adjusted his grip on his spear. Going fast, he and his horse turned around another gigantic tree. Without warning, his horse’s leg fell through a rotten log, sending Tayben into the air. He smacked hard into the ground below, hitting his head on a rock. Tayben tried in vain to open his eyes. His vision slowly blurred and everything went black.
“He’s up, Gallien.” said the young soldier hovering over Tayben, who lay concussed on a blanket in one of the platoon’s tents.
Gallien walked over to Tayben with a portion of dinner. “You hit your head pretty hard there.”
Tayben sighed in response, his head still throbbing from his fall. He opened his eyes and saw blood spattered on the canvas due to the wounds of his tent-mates. Gallien’s face bore cuts from today’s battle, and Birg’s eye was blackened, but Tayben saw them mostly in silhouette due to the fading light of day. Gallien had dirty blonde hair, long enough to rustle in the wind as he ran, but short enough to see his eyebrows. His face was narrow and strong, and his deep blue eyes mirrored a cool winter sky. Twenty one years old, Gallien was just over two years older than Tayben.
The tent was cold as a result of sparse light that reached the forest floor. Slowly sitting up, Tayben took the cup of lukewarm broth. “What happened after I fell?” he asked. “How long have I been out?”
“It’s still the 22nd, my friend,” said Birg. “You’ve only been out for ‘bout half a day. Gallien and me had’sd a little trouble takin’ three soldiers on our own but it wasn’t anythin’ we couldn’t ‘andle. Bloodied me up quite a bit didn’t they?”
Gallien put his hand on Tayben’s shoulder and spoke softly. “You sure you’re alright, Tayben? That was a nasty spill you took there.”
Tayben nodded. “Yeah, thanks, I’m fine — just aches a bit.”
Gallien shook his head as Birg left the tent. “You weren’t the only one who took a hit.”
“The rest of the platoons? Is everyone else alright?” Tayben asked while sipping the disgusting concoction of native roots and hardened jerky.
“I’d say about one out of a dozen are gone.” replied Gallien. “It wasn’t our most successful attack, but it sufficed. Word has it that our battalion will be moved north to meet with the main front. Come late autumn, the Ferrs will no longer be able to travel across the southern passage. Queen Xandria has cast her eye on securing the mountains.” Gallien sighed and continued. “We drive Ferramoor back, and then they force us back. And then again, back and forth.” Gallien paused and looked Tayben in the eyes. He seemed to be digesting the words. “I’ve gotten used to the sight of blood, Tayben.”
Gallien shook his head and took the empty cup from Tayben after he finished. “You, still look pretty dazed, catch some sleep while you can. The Captain won’t want to see you stumbling around like a drunk.”
“Wait. Is my horse alright?”
“Yes, Tayben. It’s all taken care of, just rest.”
Tayben nodded and thanked Gallien for watching over him once more. Tayben laughed and shook his head. “Through six different partnership transfers, Gallien — a whole year, we’ve stuck together; and yet, you’ve still managed to never be a klutz like me and get yourself concussed.”
Gallien laughed. “Just go to sleep, Tayben.”
Tayben close
d his eyes and drifted off to sleep after a short while, dreaming of a small, silver ornament and a beautiful castle; but the dream began to blur into an image of fire.
~Morning, August 23rd
Tayben awoke just before the sun rose from the horizon. Only a dim light reached the forest floor and passed through the fabric of his shared tent. With his head no longer burning with pain as it did before, he stepped up and gazed out of the door of his tent. Very few soldiers had arisen yet. Tayben dressed himself in green uniform, strapped on his shoes and headed for the trunk of a massive tree. Wanting to actually see the sun once today, he pulled himself up branch by branch into the canopy.
An eternal darkness hung over the Great Forest of Endlebarr. Fog caressed the trunks of the giant trees that stood hundreds of feet tall, blocking the sun from reaching the lush vegetation below. The cool, humid air of the forest felt alive, winding its way between every fern and moss covered log, climbing up to the bridgelike branches of the mountainous trees. Hundreds of feet of leaves and pine needles blocked most sunlight from ever meeting a soldier’s eye. The very prospect of becoming claustrophobic and deprived of light drove many mad, not to mention the strange mist that always clung to the underbrush. More orange light filled Tayben’s field of view as he rose above the leaves, and the heavy fog that always lurked on the floor of the forest soon dissipated.
As he reached the top, he scanned the horizon, a flat line of dark green for miles in all directions, save for the white peaks of the Taurbeir-Krons in the West. Clouds of fog jumped up above the trees and then dipped back into the depths of vegetation. The golden sun peaked above the earth and Tayben felt a dizzying throb in his head.
◆◆◆
~Morning, August 22nd
Prince Eston stood on his bedroom balcony gazing at the sunrise and the vast city below him. Aunestauna, the bustling capital of Ferramoor, sat between rolling hills and a large inlet of the ocean. Beyond the cluttered mess of streets and buildings rose countless groves of oak and cottonwood trees, and far away to the south sat rolling dunes of desert sand. It felt as if days had passed since Eston had risen from his bed ten minutes prior to look out on his father’s kingdom. Eston’s butler entered his room and greeted Eston on the balcony.
“Good Morning.” said Eston.
“Good Morning, my liege. Have a nice rest?”
Eston hesitated. “It was . . . rest.”
“Let me know if I can do anything to help you.” The butler began to exit when Eston’s mind turned back to the sunrise.
“Oh, what is today?”
“Why Your Majesty, it’s your mother and father’s anniversary, August 22nd.”
“Thank you sir.” Eston stared off into the city, thinking about the oddly vivid dream of war he had the night before.
The butler raised an eyebrow. “Are you alright, my liege?”
Eston rubbed his eyes. “Yes, just . . . strange dream I guess.”
“Well your mother and father are expecting you soon. Is there anything you need of me?”
Eston shook his head and the butler exited through a great wooden door, followed minutes later by the prince.
The hallways of the Great Palace arched far above Eston’s tall figure, each decorative pillar of stone reaching seventy feet in the air. Countless open windows — each twenty to thirty feet tall — lined every hallway, letting in the early morning light and the summer ocean breeze that brushed the towering white and scarlet curtains. Giant courtyards dotted the castle and provided natural light that filled its hundreds of rooms and banquet halls — candles were used in the evenings. Paintings of the Ferramish countryside, famous historical figures and royal ancestors hung in alcoves along the walkways.
Every corner Eston turned brought greetings from passers-by. From the servants and younger men and women came a “my liege” or “Your Majesty” accompanied by a quick bow which he returned. Older senators and important members of the government nodded as he passed by with a “good morning Prince Eston.” Eston knew most of the wanderers of the halls by position if not by name. He grew up surrounded by these diplomats, artists, and important citizens, all who filled the Palace with a sense of imperialistic air.
An energetic eighteen-year-old ran up from behind him and punched him in the shoulder, interrupting Eston’s thoughts.
“Hey Eston, did you get that florist we wanted for mother and father’s anniversary?”
“Yes, Fillian; and are you capable of looking respectable for one second?” said Eston he looked at his slightly younger brother’s messy brown hair, similar to his own. Together, the princes walked to a western courtyard that overlooked the inlet of the Auness Sea to meet with the king and queen.
The Palace sat atop a cliff face, a few hundred feet above the vast ocean, which narrowed its way through the hills of Pluloret and expanded into the valley of Aunestauna. Large enough to scent the surrounding hills’ air with salt, the inlet hosted a large port that connected the city with the rest of the world. Far to the southeast, dunegrass lined the seashore of the Inlet that stopped most of the southern sandstorms from reaching Aunestauna.
The Queen, with a thin silver crown and long flowing dress approached Eston and extended her hand. “Eston,” said his mother, “come and join us.” Eradine smiled and guided him over to the table with a breakfast feast at which King Tronum sat proudly. King Tronum, with a full head of white hair, a silver beard and bright blue eyes, adorned with scarlet robes and a silver crown, laughed heartily in conversation with advisors and governors also sitting at the table.
“The Wenderdehl family has never disappointed.” stated an advisor. “Of course we’ll see if that statement is true once your son sits on his father’s throne.”
Eston laughed and reassured him that he wouldn’t disappoint his family’s legacy. King Tronum’s father — Eston’s grandfather, King Gallegore the Great — was the first Wenderdehl to sit on the Great Throne.
“Well then to the royal family and their happy anniversary!” said the advisor. As the crowd celebrated, Prince Fillian brought bouquets of flowers out of the castle and into the courtyard. He stopped by Eston who was once again at the rail overlooking the steep precipice that plunged into the ocean below. “Are you going to ask him again, Eston?”
“No.” said Eston, looking over at his father. “He doesn’t trust us yet and he’s not going to increase our power in the Council. Plus, I have to go and see Whittingale today like always.”
Eston left the party and jogged across the palace to the library meet his mentor and teacher, Sir Whittingale, whom he loved as a second father. Just as the clock struck eight in the morning, he stopped as he saw a plume of smoke rise a ways off in the city — in the third district. The streets there were arranged in a big jumble, criss-crossing and cutting diagonals, creating triangular buildings that looked familiar even though Eston had never visited that part of the city before.
◆◆◆
~Morning, August 22nd
Kyan awoke facing a ceiling that seemed ready to crumble on top of his ragged body. He looked around his cluttered, stuffy, home, an attic in the poorer third district of Aunestauna. All of a sudden, the cozy habitat of stolen goods that Kyan had created seemed claustrophobic, a feeling that he rarely got. Having long black hair and sour breath, Kyan’s appearance matched the ramshackle state of his little home. The early morning sun streaming through the rotting wood panels of the attic bounced off little floating dust particles. Kyan pried open two boards with his skinny but toned arms to look at the clocktower across the square.
Seven o’clock, August 22nd . . . Strange, I thought yesterday was the 22nd.
Kyan shook his head and crawled out of the attic door onto the roof of the theatre, atop which he lived in his crumbling lair. His shack was built up from an already existing attic space in the top of the theatre. Taking out a few boards and building it up, he extended the attic of the theatre up into a small, jagged shack that sat half above and half below the roof.
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In the open morning air, up above the streets, he looked at the palace standing shining above the city with scarlet banners streaming in the wind. Up on their hill, the repulsive pricks of monarchy laughed and drank themselves without a care in the world. He spit at the Palace in the distance and began walking from roof to roof. But just for a second, a thought coursed through Kyan’s head making him feel a touch of guilt for spitting.
Kyan wore cut-up pants and a shirt that was too small. Around his tanned neck hung a very small necklace, bearing a small Olindeux, a silver medallion. Although it was summer, he also wore a jacket to conceal his identity. But for a homeless street dweller, Kyan carried himself upright. Long boards of wood stretched from roof to roof, making traveling through the city quite easy. Nimble and agile, Kyan never fell to the streets below while journeying up there. His whole life had unfolded in and over these streets.
The day was hot, and over the smell of the ocean breeze, he whiffed the golden prize — bread. The warm scent wafted upwards on the light breeze that coursed through the tall, angular houses of the third district.
Kyan jumped down to a balcony in an alley, dropped to the street, and then turned the corner onto the avenue. The scent he was following came from a bakery that he had stolen from before. Approaching the stand, he pulled up his hood and held a tall posture to remain inconspicuous. When the salesman occupied himself in conversation, Kyan reached out his hand and grabbed a small loaf. Placing it beneath his shirt, he slowly walked around another street corner and began eating the warm bread as he walked through the city.
Though not as ramshackled as the fourth district, houses of the slums leaned in toward each other, casting deep shadows even at midday. Shingles regularly tumbled off of rooftops; bricks from the tight cobblestone streets were often missing; and doors hung crooked on their hinges. Most citizens carried a knife at their waist. On this side of the city, teeth were yellowed and steps were limped.