In A Time Of Darkness

by Gregory James Knoll

  * * * * *

  “Grahamas, do you see that?” Lornya had ridden ahead, the first to see the tiny opening on the left side of the road.

  The Champion turned quickly, trying to adjust his eyes to the moonlight’s dim setting to see what she did. “…Where?”

  “To the left. Is that what we’re looking for?”

  As Grahamas rode closer, in the distance, amidst the long grass and speckled wildflowers was a small group of rocks ten feet high and half as wide in the middle of nothing, like a tiny offspring of Forgas that had escaped from the rest of the range. It seemed like a suitable hiding spot. Had the three of them not been looking for it, they would have ridden right past. “Only one way to find out,” Grahamas said, winking at Elryia and prompting her to come along as he veered off the road. As the gap closed, he imagined he would see a larger, longer group of rocks behind it that made up the cave. But they stopped abruptly, certainly not enough to make any kind of hiding spot. “I don’t believe this is what we’re looking for.”

  Elryia stopped as Grahams did, perusing first the stones in front of her and then to every other area around her. “It has to be. I don’t see anything and Davaina is right over the hill.”

  “Perhaps we missed it…”As both of them continued to search Lornya came to join them; Grahamas edged closer to the rocks. “Do you…smell that?” His face turned foul and eventually so would the others’ once they were close enough to encounter the rancid stench that was coming from the hole.

  “What is that?”

  “Death.” Grahamas stopped yards before the cave, sliding off of his horse and drawing his blades before his feet ever hit the ground. His early idleness about Morgondeval wafting away as the odor filled his nose.

  “Don’t go in there alone…” Elryia crept and Lornya followed, each tucking to the one of Grahamas’ sides. Graham bent to peer into the cave, choking slightly and ignoring the urge to cover his nose; though the temptation grew with every step closer that he got.

  “It’s not a cave… it’s a hole. The tunnel goes into the ground, not to the back of the mountain.”

  “How far?”

  “I… I can’t tell,” the Champion pulled back, searching the field around him.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “A torch… Or at least something we can use for one,” but all the Champion found was a wide stick, a flicker of regret for not replacing the one that burned out—coincidentally on his first hunt. “I suppose this will have to do…” He tucked his blades back into his belt then bent down to pick it up. He turned his eyes first to Elryia’s attire and then to Lornya’s, then back to El’s. He finally huffed and looked at his own clothing. “I liked this shirt,” he said quickly, the sudden rip jolting both women and forcing them to look up. Both the Goddess and Elryia locked on a strong, toned arm. Lornya blushed and looked away while Elryia stared. “Do you mind?”

  Elryia worried that she had been caught, but when she focused she noticed his head was turned towards the cave. Then his hand holding the stick up in front of her, his torn sleeve wrapped and folded around the top. “Oh…” she smiled, flinging her hand up towards the sky, intentionally flicking her fingers the moment they passed in front of the stick. “Fiera Xentas!” and the makeshift torch erupted into flames.

  “Much obliged,” Grahamas bowed cordially and paced towards the entrance. “This isn’t going to last long at all, so let’s hurry.” He ducked minimally, holding the torch level with his head and stepped in, still biting back the urge to gag or bring his arm up to cover his nose.

  The tunnel was wide enough for them to walk side-by-side, and Elryia had crept up to him, wrapping one hand around his bare arm and the other sliding into his palm. She first observed the grass roots dangling crookedly from the roof as the tunnel changed from rock to dirt the further in they got. The odor was growing stronger, but none of them could say where it was coming from. It seemed to be all around them, but when they looked it was simply dried dirt, cracks in some places and holes in others.

  Grahamas, at first, crept as he moved the torch back and forth before he halted abruptly, choking one last time. “Lor… If you were ever to make sweet smelling flowers, now would be the time.”

  The Goddess only laughed as she nodded in agreement, moving to one side of the wall and placing her hand on it. As she dragged it down, Grahamas imagined flowers would sprout from the walls but only a “Hmm…” came from the Goddess’ mouth.

  “What is it?”

  “The dirt… It’s dead.”

  “Dead…?”

  “Nothing is going to grow here… ever again. I can’t imagine what may have happened but the ground is devoid of anything.”

  Grahamas grumbled now, knowing he would have to endure it, but what worried him more was what could have drained the life out of the very earth.

  Elryia finally lost her willpower and removed her hand from Grahamas’ arm to bring it to her nose, “Where ib it cubbing fom?”

  “What was that?”

  El pouted, not wanting to remove the block, “Where is it coming from?” she said after she reluctantly did so.

  The Champion shook his head, moving forward now and still no clues were given. Even after he had taken in a deep breath and closed his eyes, now using only his sense of smell. As good as it was, it still failed him. He focused, concentrated on pinpointing the source but it seemed impossible. It surrounded him. As hard as he tried he couldn’t track it. “I’m… I’m not sure,” he regrettably admitted. “Let’s just get out of here quickly.”

  One hand held the torch while the other clutched Elryia’s, keeping her very close to him. He had moved so suddenly that El planted her palm hard against the wall to keep from falling forward, a tiny clump broke and fell away from its holding. She thought nothing of it and continued moving forward.

  “Stop,” Lornya spoke, “Grahams, bring the light back here.”

  He nodded and turned, holding the torch up to where her finger was now pointing. He brought it as close as he could but the sleeve had burned almost all the way down and the light was fading. None the less, he verified what Lornya had seen, and was overwhelmed with a sense of urgency.

  “Graham?” Elryia leaned closer and examined along with him. “Is that…what I think it is?”

  The Champion replied with angst “If you think it’s a bone, then yes.” He heard Elryia take in a hard breath and he leaned closer, pulling with his fingers at the hole to expand it. He had not worried, at least not yet. Potentially, it may not be what he thought. Possibly, it was the bone of an animal, but Graham knew better. Moments later his eyes proved what his mind suspected. Beneath the dirt, buried well within, was a human hand only half decayed, the tips of its fingers clawing at the wall behind it. “Wait here,” he whispered, bringing the torch further down the hall.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “More of them. A smell this strong isn’t just from one.” Grahamas continued searching along the wall; making holes every few feet, hoping to stumble onto another set of bones. Then he stopped, observing a puncture that had already been created. Though this one was lower and looked like it was caused by something sharp, rather than just than the wall crumbling. As he bent to study it, the light flickered, and then went out. “Damn!” he muttered, now all left in darkness. “I’m going to be naked by the time we’re finished.” Grahamas said after another rip echoed through the chamber, followed by a giggle, but the Champion could not tell which one it came from. “Where are you El?”

  “I’m right here.”

  Graham headed towards the voice, reaching out to try and find her hand. “The torch is right here,” he said, pulling her palm up and guiding her to where it was. “Don’t set me on fire,” he said with a playful tone.

  He heard a gentle growl come from the girl before she spoke the words, “Fiera Xentas” again. The tunnel erupted in a soft orange glow before the tip of the torch caught fire. Grahamas bowed and moved on. Elryia was
just glad it wasn’t him that went up in flames.

  Graham, now both arms bare, tilted his head and went back to where he had been, leaning to examine the hole. Elryia simply stepped back, trying her best not to gawk…and failing miserably.

  Once he was out of range—or so she thought—Lornya crept up, whispering: “Stop staring.”

  Immediately Elryia blushed and averted her eyes, turning defensively to argue the accusation, until she saw Lornya smiling and committing the same act. “For shame!” Elryia bit back jokingly. Suddenly, a very unnerving, disturbing possibility entered the young woman’s head, “Lornya…you and Graham…you were never…I mean…you two…”

  The Goddess laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, “No. Never. We’re more like family.”

  Elryia tried to contain the rush of joy across her face, showing only a small smile. Then curiosity and intrigue surfaced again. “What about you and Ristalln?”

  Lornya chuckled, but it sounded more like an uncomfortable cover up. “Ristalln is…” She turned in the direction Grahamas has gone, letting out a hard breath, “We…”

  “Damn it!” Grahamas muttered again, interrupting them as the darkness came a second time.

  “We’ll talk soon,” Lornya, whispered to Elryia as she walked by her, patting her gently on the shoulder. “That one burned out rather quickly Grahamas.”

  “The wind seems to have caught it. Though I don’t know how all the way down here.”

  Elryia chuckled, recalling how forceful Lornya had let her air out only a moment ago. “I do,” she whispered, mostly to herself though she nudged the Goddess with her elbow.

  Lor only giggled as she squeezed Elryia’s arm, “You can thank me later.”

  “For what?”

  But Lornya didn’t reply, only led the girl to where she believed Grahamas to be, “We’re here Grahamas…”

  “Good,” he reached out and eventually found El’s hand. “One more time?” he asked, guiding her hand to the torch.

  Again, Elryia cast the spell. When the room lit up, she discovered what Lornya had been talking about. “Oh…” Graham had used his entire shirt this time; El blushed and blinked, then stared before tearing her eyes away, only to stare at him again. “Thank you Lornya.”

  “Don’t mention it,” the Champion blinked as he turned his bare back to them, still digging at the earth around the hole without saying a word, “What is it?”

  “The body we saw. There’s more…a lot more.” He pointed to the wall, where both Elryia and Lornya pressed in to look. “Each one is linked to these punctures in the wall. What they’re used for, I’m not sure.” His hand went from the clean holes that were waist-high to the ones he had created. “But there’s dozens of them and in the three that I’ve examined…I’ve found these.” The torch crept up and within each hole he revealed more human bones.

  Elryia scowled and looked around, “There…there are bones beneath all of these holes?”

  “Every one that I’ve searched under.”

  Elryia reached out to him, pulling him quickly from the wall and leading him down the hall, no longer noticing that he was shirtless. “Let’s hurry Grahamas, I no longer want to stay here.”

  Grahamas moved with her, holding the torch up high. “Agreed.” Lornya remained close as the Champion walked another twenty feet before the tunnel finally ended. Beyond it was a large, circular chamber—one that was virtually empty except for a large burlap sack in the middle. “Hope…” Grahamas drew to the entrance, verifying the silence before he entered.

  “Be careful.”

  He nodded, “There’s three of us and one of him. We have the upper hand.” The closer he drew, the harder he looked; but still he saw no sign of danger.

  He heard it.

  It was the sound of a snag, then a snap. He reversed just in time to see the archway caving in. “Back!” he shot to Elryia, placing his hand on her waist and pushing her from harm’s way as he leapt in the other direction—into the chamber. The sudden force combined with the dust snuffed the torch’s flame. The last thing Grahamas saw before it all went black was the room being closed off completely from the tunnel—from Lornya and Elryia—and a quick, large figure darting in front of it.

  As much as he wanted to, Grahamas didn’t curse a third time. In the span of half an hour, he had ruined his shirt, lost all three lights, and was now trapped in a dark, empty chamber. And something else was in here with him. Most likely the same creature that had plastered those corpses into the wall, and the Champion feared he might be next. Slowly and silently he drug the blade out of its sheath, doing his best not to give away his location.

  Pft. Pft.

  Grahamas turned, hearing something in the corner that sounded like arrows being shot into sand, but it stopped the moment that he focused on it. He passed his sword from his left hand to his right, keeping it vertical and in front of his chest as he took another step back, all the while his left hand searched for the bag.

  PFT. PFT. PFT.

  This time it was louder—closer, and came from the other side. Both his body and his blade followed it as best he could but it was sporadic, making it almost impossible to lock onto. He stepped back and another wave of his hand produced nothing. His desperation was growing. He knew full well what it was, wandering around in the dark with him: Morgondeval.

  Pft. Pft.

  Pft. Pft.

  The creature seemed to be drawing back, perhaps to toy with him or to catch him off guard. Maybe, even, to intimidate him.

  “Graham…” came a faint voice from the corner, “Are you hurt?”

  He debated answering, fearing it would reveal to Morgondeval exactly where he was. His better judgment, however, took over, as he knew if he didn’t respond she would worry. “No…” he paused for a long moment, waiting to see if it moved. Silence. “No. I’m not hurt…yet,” the last bit of his sentence tapered off so she would not hear.

  “Lornya and I will dig you out. Stay safe.”

  “Aye, I’ll help once I find Hope.”

  PFT! PFT!

  It was right in front of him now, and his first reaction was to raise his sword to block his vital organs. The flat of the blade slapped against his left side but a sharp, stinging pain scratched against his unprotected right. He winced, but held strong—even after he felt his own blood slide down his ribcage.

  Pft. Pft.

  The sound withdrew, as Grahamas tugged out his dagger. He didn’t touch the wound, didn’t even wipe the blood away. Morgondeval was fast, and not being able to see where he was coming from made him all the more dangerous. Grahamas could not afford to lapse in concentration.

  Pft. Pft.

  “Champion…” came a low, gravelly voice to his right, “We’ve been waiting…for you…”

  Grahamas jerked towards the voice, “You know who I am?” He asked, trying to bide his time until they dug him out, to let at least a little light in.

  “We can…see you…see your insignia.”

  PFT! PFT!

  Graham felt another searing scrape, this time across the arm that bore his symbol. Another wince before Grahamas lashed out, but his blade found nothing.

  “We’ve waited…so patiently,” it hissed, sounding as though it was fading.

  “Why? For what?”

  “To trap you… To kill you…”

  The Champion took another step back, searching for his armor now with his feet. If Morgondeval knew what he was planning, the creature would attack—fatally—and Grahamas needed time. “Ristalln said you were so pleasant…”

  “Lies… said to get your armor, said to get you… So many have wandered in here… Some seeking us, some seeking shelter… All of them stayed…to become our prisoners. But your Knight, we let walk out, knowing he would one day tell you to come.”

  Grahamas wondered if Hope was even still here or that sack, as well, was one of the creature’s deceptions. “Why?”

  “You brought death upon the Salvation. He saved us…saved man
y. He created us… and you destroyed him.”

  Now Graham thought the creature was simply rambling, trying to drown out its footsteps as it crept up. “I’ve killed many. Can you be specific…?” The Champion taunted him, gambling that the creature would become enraged enough to make a fatal mistake. A growl that lasted too long, a hiss that drew on, even a scream was all he needed.

  “You knew him as Pallorn… but he was so much more,” the creature became silent for a moment, “we see fear in your eyes, Grahamas the True…”

  Graham tried to mask it, but it would seem as though he failed. Pallorn was simply a man with ties in early Highlace. Yet, no one in the kingdom knew behind his chamber doors Pallorn practiced a black, malevolent magick. One he used to bring about an unbridled darkness that Urvagh kept buried, perhaps what it was created for in the first place. To imprison a creature more powerful, more evil, and more dangerous than even Valaira: the Lathlogar.

  Pallorn succeeded, though not in the manner that he had hoped for. Pallorn lost his soul to the creature; his body became a vessel for it. For nearly a century afterwards, he kept a very tight grip on both Highlace and Reiskin. Then, as Tallvas relayed it to him, Reiskin risked both his kingdom and his life to protect an unborn child: birthed him in secret far away from Highlace. And eighteen years later, that same child would grow to be a young man. One seeking to free the people and the good-hearted king, and the only person who would stand up to Pallorn. He was not a pure demon and not as powerful as the Lathlogar in its true form, but it was still the first time Grahamas feared for his life.

  Now, if he didn’t figure something out, it may all end here. “Focus Grahamas,” he whispered in his mind, no longer responding to Morgondeval. Whatever fear Graham may have had in his eyes dissipated when he closed them. Seconds passed and first he heard only panting. And then digging and finally he locked onto the creature’s muddled, sporadic heartbeat—half surprised he even had one.

  “What are you trying, Champion?”

  Still no answer came and the creature advanced. Grahamas stepped back. The thump drew closer, the sound then broken by a swooshing from the left. Grahamas assumed that it was the weapon Morgondeval had cut him with originally. This time, the Champion was ready for it and as the sound closed on him he swung his sword directly at it, turning and angling to give him a better advantage. He lowered it as the sound neared his ribcage. What followed, rather than a stinging pain, was a click and a sudden jerking of his sword—obviously connecting with something.

  Morgondeval hissed and another lashing sound came, this one from the Champion’s right. With his blade still vertical, Grahamas glided his hand in front of his waist, raising it slightly as the rushing sound came at a downward angle. Graham had rotated his wrists, turning the blade nearly horizontal when he heard another click and felt another jolt.

  Whimpering, Morgondeval drew back as did Grahamas, letting out a sigh of relief when he felt something press against his calves. His hand reached around, waving in the darkness behind himself. When he didn’t touch anything, he knew it wasn’t the wall he had hit. Grahamas chuckled, positioning his feet with his right in front of him and the other tucked against Hope, or at least what he anticipated it as. Both arms went behind him and he dropped his sword and dagger on either side, hearing them thump in the sand. Morgondeval was fast. If Grahamas’ plan was going to succeed, he would need to do it before the Mantis King attacked.

  “Impressive Champion… Perhaps you can battle us blind but you will never defeat us.”

  “I won’t have to!” he crouched as he spoke, pushing his hands above him and then springing up. He yanked his head back as his legs kicked forward, his body twisting as he somersaulted over the bag. As he descended and leveled out, his fingers locked onto the sack and he ripped the top open. Instantly, a silver light spilled out the tiny hole. As his body fell, so did the bag until both his chest and satchel were lying on the ground. Not a second lapsed before Grahamas reached both hands out to grab their respective weapons and regain his footing. Despite a lack of light to reflect on Hope, the enchanted armor lit up the majority of the room. Morgondeval no longer had the darkness to hide him, and he was just as the legend described him.

  From his torso up, he was a man, one with wild brown eyes and scraggily, curly black hair that tumbled sporadically across his face. Thick black eyebrows twitched and convulsed above his eyes. His chest was skinny and scarred; patches of dirt and blood marred his flesh. It seemed as though his top half was barely alive—merely a puppet for his lower. His arms stretched out and hung at his sides, long fingers with unkempt yellow nails at the tips. The limbs barely moved, merely swaying with the motions of his body as if he had no control. His head reacted in the same manner, laying lazily towards the side—almost resting on one shoulder—and when he turned or crawled, his head would rise to give a wide-eyed frantic stare at the Champion and then sway and drop onto the other. All the while, he smiled at Grahamas, a menacing grin that demonstrated his dingy, rotting teeth. For a moment, his lips caught on the decay, and he only pulled harder on the smirk.

  His bottom half—where he got his name—was made up of nearly two-thirds of a mantis, though much larger and solid black. Where his hips should have been were two long, wide claws extended out into three parts. The first hanging down towards the ground, bent at the joints as the next segment angled upwards, much wider and stronger than those attached to the body. The arms bent a third and final time, ending in long serrated pinchers that positioned towards the ground. The very edges hooked towards the body, coming to a sharp point. The body was attached to his stomach, his flesh turning gray the further down his torso went, first in streaks of black and then completely melding into the thin, segmented frame of the mantis. The lower half broke into several layers, resembling shingles on a roof. The first flap lay over the second, which lay over the third and on. Attached to the middle slab was another pair of legs with a thick and short base that crimped into a much thinner section angled towards his front. The third part of the legs bent backwards—much like a human knee—and ended in very sharp points that dug into the dirt. Further down his body the creature’s second pair. These had the same thick base but the second portion went straight out, perpendicular to the ground and then bent almost obscenely, leading to the last bit, ending with that same sharp point embedded in the dirt. The body held a total of five segments that grew thinner with each section, molding into a wide, pointed end that resembled a crude tail, dragging along the ground.

  Both claws were stained with blood, most likely Grahamas’ and the Champion looked down to survey his wounds. But in a fraction of a heart beat his eyes were back up, no longer wishing to take his chances with this monster.

  Morgondeval lopped his head from one side to the other and then raised it upright, looking to the Champion with the same wild eyes and then to Hope. Seemingly filled with hate towards the armor, Morgondeval’s gaze expanded, followed by its mouth. It let out a piercing screech, a long black stem exited, appearing much too stiff and jagged to be a tongue.

  Grahamas focused on it and the realization sank in. “That’s what the holes were from…” he spoke aloud.

  “Yes… We feed…trapped them within the walls and lived off them…”

  Grahamas felt a twinge of rage, allowed his grip to tighten on the hilt of his sword, “There were dozens out there…”

  “And dozens more… In other places…other caves. We’ve been alive a long time Champion. Hiding in places where the world would not see us. We hate the holes, the dirt, but we must be safe. The world does not understand us. Fears us. We are freaks…”

  “You would be just as ugly if you were completely human. You’re nothing but a murderer.”

  Again, Morgondeval’s human head dropped as he crawled along the back wall, his arms flapping as the legs of the mantis frantically skittered to lead him forward, “We… serve a higher purpose.”

  “I know it was not to protect my armor…” and Grahama
s looked down at Hope. He toyed with the idea of putting it on now to engage Morgondeval, knowing it would protect him. The Mantis King was fast and had an incredible reach. Putting this piece on was involved and he didn’t want to risk giving Morgondeval any kind of advantage; make himself more vulnerable. At least now he could see, and from the sounds on the outside it seemed like Elryia and Lornya were getting closer to digging him out.

  As Morgondeval crept forward, so did his flimsy head, staring at Graham with depravity as his body swayed, the black tongue snaking out once more. “Let us end this…Champion. Your friends draw close and we want them to find only your dead body.”

  “Tell me something… You know what Hope is. Why did you keep it here so long?”

  “It is…unexplainable. Others who have come here cannot lift it. We…cannot touch it. It pains…”

  On the outside Grahamas heard a muffled voice say step back. Knowing it was Elryia and that she was going to use magick, his mind clicked. Slowly his eyes crept down to Hope and then back up to Morgondeval as another plan glimmered in his head.

  He waited patiently while Morgondeval crept up, locking his eyes on the armor. And even though he was not wearing it, it could still be of use to him. “You…should not have admitted such!” It all happened so quickly and in unison, Grahamas was barely ready for it. The catalyst was Morgondeval leaping from the darkened corner, both his sharp, serrated claws jutting out towards and aimed at the Champion. Mid-descent El’s blast blew dirt and debris into the room and for one second, what would be his final, Morgondeval got distracted. Graham reached down to wrap his fingers around Hope’s plate and yanked his arm forward. The Champion raised the armor off the ground and flung it directly at the leaping monster.

  It hissed and then raised its human arms and mantis claws to bat the armor away. Morgondeval’s skin flared, a rupture of black smoke and the stench of seared flesh filled the room. It lasted only a second but it was painful enough to make the Mantis King flinch. Hope tumbled off to the right side. Grahamas was right behind it, leaping to connect with Morgondeval in mid-air. The creature never saw it, and before he could raise his arms to block the advance, Graham had driven his shoulder into the mid-section of the creature, stopping them both. Before they hit the ground, perhaps before they even began to, Grahamas rammed his sword against the exoskeleton, gripping it with both hands to first crack the hard shell of Morgondeval and then drive it through him.

  The Mantis King screamed and then slumped, his massive weight pushing their descent to the ground faster. Grahamas hit first and much harder but kept his sword right where it was. Gravity did even more damage as Morgondeval inadvertently fell onto the blade. All of his legs, now shaking and apprehensive as they dug into the dirt; Morgondeval’s head flopped down and his eyes—now quiet—stared at Grahamas. Oddly, he was smiling as he spoke, “Our Master…sleeps…dreams of his return… Of killing you.”

  The Champion groaned and pushed, using every ounce of strength he had to keep Morgondeval from falling entirely on him. Thick, black ooze seeped from the wound, rolling down the blade and landing on his chest. “Then…since you’re on your way to see him, tell him I wait patiently for that return, only to send him back—more violently than the first time!” Grahamas used one last bit of energy and shoved up, driving his blade all the way to the hilt.

  His eyes went silent and in his final breath—his last attempt—he raised his claws. As his heart stopped, they fell—however idle—aimed at Grahamas’ head. The Champion lifted one hand to grasp at the arm, but a flash and a wall of fire crashed against the Mantis King’s side before Graham could even reach them. Morgondeval flew across the room, as the Champion lay there, covered in the creature’s dark blood.

  When Elryia approached to make sure he was well, he raised up slightly—more disgusted than injured—and wiped away the blood soaking his chest.

  “Grahamas are you hurt?”

  “No. Not terribly.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Graham only nodded this time, dusting himself off. Concerned, Elryia’s fingers traced the large scratch on his chest and then the smaller on above his insignia, a questioning look crossing her face, “Not terribly hmm?”

  “It’s a flesh wound.”

  Her hand dropped and then both slid around his waist, ignoring the black slime, where she then rested her head on the side of his chest that wasn’t bleeding. “I was worried you were really hurt.”

  “I may have been if not for your spell. Thank you.”

  “Of course Grahamas. I’m just glad that I could be there for you, like you have been for me.”

  “Not even death would stop me from being there for you.”

  With a grin he couldn’t see, she squeezed him lightly. Holding him for only a moment, she pulled back to look at the wound, finger pressing to the very edge of it, “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  Elryia nodded, whispering “Ravexes Lari” softly as the tip of her finger flared a white fire. As she dragged it across the wound sealed itself, leaving behind only a small mark of blood. With concentration on her expression she moved her hand to his arm, whispering again, prompting the same fire along the second scratch, completely erasing it as well.

  As many times as he had seen it, he was still amazed. Most healing spells only sealed wounds; they didn’t eliminate them. Elryia’s had. Since she was young she had the incredible ability to completely dispel any wound—no matter how large—with only a few simple words. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I believe this belongs to you,” Lornya approached from behind the two with Hope in her grasp. With a bow, she offered it to Grahamas.

  The final piece of his long quest was before him. The armor was made up of three pieces. The chest plate was one solid part with only a small hole at the top for his head to fit through. Front and back was one single piece of metal, silver in color and flawless. Along the top, the armor stretched out across the collarbone and connected at the end to chain mail within the inch gap that led to the bicep plates. The edges of the shoulders extended upwards, half a foot passed the top of the chest plate, there it separated and twisted into numerous frozen flames along the upper and outer edge. Below it was a long, solid plate that ended just before the elbow with three inches of chain mail that would eventually connect to the gauntlets.

  On the smooth front of the armor, near the sternum, was an insignia—the same one that Grahamas was born with. When Grahamas was young and Tallvas told him that he was grooming him to become Champion, he showed him Hope, the armor that he would one day wear. After Graham saw the insignia emblazoned on the front, he believed it was etched for him. He asked Tallvas if they had created a crest for every Champion and the Duke simply shook his head and stated, “No, Grahamas. That’s how Reiskin and I knew that you were going to be special, for you were born with the mark that has donned this armor for centuries. When we saw that, we realized you were our savior.” To this day, the Champion could not explain why he carried the symbol on his arm, but he had a strange bond to the armor as though it was simply a part of his own body. And now it was complete once more, he felt a sense of peace—one of accomplishment and serenity.

  “Much obliged,” he returned the gesture and took it from her, turning the insignia away from him as Elryia crept to his side, her cheek tucked to his shoulder as she looked at it. He stepped to the left and lifted it up high over his head, pushing his hands through the large gap at the bottom. He swore he saw Elryia pout before his vision was completely cut off by the plate, returning moments later as Hope slipped over his head. His arms were raised high and the sleeves pulled down fitting over the bend of his elbow. The armor was much wider than normal, made that way to fit over the user, eliminating weak points by remaining one single piece. The Champion twisted and turned his body to make sure it was sitting correctly on his frame.

  Elryia had heard Grahamas talk about it a dozen times, yet she never imagined it would be s
o extravagant—so striking—after all this time. A curious, wondering look passed her face, not able to help herself as she ran a finger down the arm. “You’re going to fuse it aren’t you?” Grahamas had told her several times about the mystical properties of Hope, two of which he was now going to demonstrate.

  “Aye, now that it’s complete,” both El and Lornya looked on with eagerness as he spoke, “Remise Yavaldes.”

  A light erupted from his lower half, hands and head in the shape of the armor. Long, thin beams generated from the tips of his fingers and the bottom of his neck. They trailed and spiraled up, forming the outline of Hope before they pulsed and intensified one last time. After they completely faded, leaving behind the previous pieces, the room lit up temporarily with a soft silver light, then blazed with another white flare. The same streaks of light blazed at every gap Hope had, etching its way around the unlinked sections of the chain mail. The entire suit—now completed—illuminated, the armor pulling in on itself, wrapping and forming around the body of its wearer. No longer a bulky, hollow guard, it was a fitted, sleek suit that Grahamas found much easier to move in.

  For the first time in centuries, the symbol for peace and unity, morale and faith, the icon of a peaceful kingdom was whole. Grahamas still had an army to gather, a war to fight. He still had vengeance to seek against the man who killed his king, and now had to destroy the woman who could keep all of Eldonia in her clutches. Despite all that, deep under the mask, Grahamas was smiling. This was the beginning. Three hundred years later, countless miles traveled, he found himself—finally—at what felt like the starting point. He was one step closer. He sat idle far too long, lost his way and his heart, but a tiny child and a short letter had sent him on his path to return. Deep in his soul he felt the fire he once raged across battlefields with, protected his home and his people with, believed and inspired with. He had Elryia, Lornya, a group of strong, loyal companions and the best ally he had ever known. He was almost complete, had nearly everything to set what was wrong, right.

  Only one piece was missing, one thing waiting patiently to be retrieved.

  He returned Hope to its hiding place within himself, turned his now visible eyes to Lornya, “Fate?” The Goddess nodded slowly as the Champion continued, “Good. Let’s get started.”

  “Agreed.”

  Grahamas took Elryia’s hand as he led her out, placing one last look on the slumped, lifeless body of Morgondeval. He did not speak, but deep in his mind he recalled what the creature had said just before it died.

  “Our master…sleeps…dreams of his return… Of killing you.”