In A Time Of Darkness

by Gregory James Knoll

  * * * * *

  "It's good to see you again, Son." Tallvas appeared just as he did when Grahamas saw him last. His long gray hair cascaded from the top of his head, twisting once, then twice with wide waves draped over his thick, broad shoulders. His eyes were thin and sharp, emphasized by weak lines on the corners and brown iris peering beneath the eyelids. His smile was framed by a goatee matching his hair, color that grew under a thin nose pointed slightly up. He had a face that seemed as though the structure was carved from stone. His cheekbones were strong, his jaw line sharp and his brow grew further down than normal, giving him a permanent, seemingly stern gaze. But a gentleness held underneath, and he smiled, holding his arms out to the Champion. Grahamas stepped forward to accept. Before he made it Graham was hit with a hook from Tallvas’ left fist. Grahamas spun to the right and he jerked back as Tallvas sent out a jab with his right.

  "Duke?!" Grahamas expressed, parrying the oncoming shot with his right palm. "What is the meaning of this?"

  "Meaning? It is vengeance for the life that you stole from me!" Tallvas continued, throwing a cross from his left that landed against Graham's forearm, then an uppercut from his right that forced Grahamas to pull his chin back in an effort to escape. "I had honor, prestige. I had a title and a duty, all of it taken away because of your foolishness!"

  Grahamas tried his best only to defend the onslaught of fists. Soul or not, this was still his mentor, and he would not bring harm to him unless he had no other choice, if he even could. So when Tallvas interlocked his fingers and brought an axe-handle down towards the Champion's head, Graham brought his hands up to catch the Duke's forearms. "Stop this. What foolishness? All I held to was my duty and my responsibility. How did I wrong you?"

  "Idimus!" Tallvas snarled, adding pressure to his arms—of which Grahamas strength would not allow—so he then tried to wrench them free, but again fell short. "You should have killed him the first time when you had the chance. Before he laid siege to my home and my kingdom. But you couldn't do that. Your ego and your soft heart only brought you to excommunicate him." Tallvas raised his right foot and extended it out, finding it squarely into Grahamas abdomen, the strength of the blow both forced the Champion to release his grip and the air to rush from his lungs. Graham tumbled back and fell to the ground, his hands reaching to catch himself, Tallvas moving to stand over him. "And in three centuries you haven't changed. In the same way Idimus needed to die, so did Carsis. You should have killed him when you first found out." Tallvas reached behind his back and drew a sword with his left hand. "Yet you did not. You thought you could save him, save everyone, and now Eldonia will be cast into darkness, not just a kingdom." The Duke turned the blade in his hand, until its sharp tip was pointed down, directly at Grahamas. "Now I am going to correct the mistake I should have hundreds of years ago!" Tallvas shoved the blade hard, faster than Grahamas ever remembered him to be, aimed directly at his throat.

  With only inches between his neck and the blade, Graham was forced to shift his entire body weight, rolling himself over once completely to escape. It was a much wider move than he wanted, but it was necessary to avoid the blow.

  Tallvas’ blade chipped harmlessly into the solid black onyx-like material that the ground was made of, a moment later he had yanked it out, turning to the left to pursue the champion.

  "Stop this. I don't want to hurt you." Grahamas said, but he remained on the floor, waiting for the next inevitable attack.

  "Hurt me?" The Duke raised the sword, spinning it halfway through its arc so that the hilt was now resting against the top of his hands. "You've never hurt anyone that deserved it." Tallvas crossed his left arm over his chest, prepping the sword by bringing it behind his right shoulder. For the second time, the Duke went for Grahamas neck, seeking to slash rather than puncture it.

  This attack, however, Grahamas was ready for and instead of rolling to the side, he used the smooth surface to slip down, and Tallvas blade grazed over his head. Once free, Grahamas continued his descent, and as he slid down, his legs went up. His left raised to knee level of Tallvas and Graham turned his foot outward, pushing it through the gap in the Duke's own legs. With a slight shift to the left, the top of Grahamas’ boot worked its way into the back of Tallvas knee. Once his left was secured, the Champion kicked his right foot out, burrowing it into Tallvas stomach. As he shoved forward with his right foot, simultaneously his left tugged back, first buckling the Duke's knee, the kick throwing off his balance as he tumbled down.

  The Champion knew that Tallvas would be laid out for only a second, so he took that moment to get back to his own feet. Using the kick to springboard himself, he rocked back and brought each of his hands to the side of his head, fingers stretching back well past his ear. Once his palms were pressed flat against the ground he shoved off, kipping up to stand. When he landed, Tallvas was in the same position.

  "You're only delaying your death, Grahamas." Tallvas lurched and leaned over, seemingly ready to strike again, his sword in his right horizontal, lined up with his hip.

  "Why are you doing this?"

  "Make no mistake, Champion. This should have been done a long time ago, when you first walked into my Kingdom!"

  Again, Tallvas used the word "My" when referring to Highlace, which was unlike him. When Grahamas met the Duke and years after, anytime he spoke of the kingdom—be it to Graham or the people—Tallvas always used the term "ours". Everyone shared it, took care of it. It belonged to all and the Duke made it a point to express such. To hear him say a thing now left Graham both curious and focusing on what Lornya told him about the deceptions Sayassa would use on him, how it would prey on what he held most dear. It was more than possible that’s what lay before him—a mirage—rather than the man he had known and admired. But he had to know for sure, and as Grahamas stared at the tip of the sword, anticipated the attack, he discovered how to reveal the truth. "What would Jeralyle think if he knew how bitter and lost you had become living here?"

  For a moment, Tallvas showed confusion, then narrowed his eyes on Grahamas, tightened his grip on the sword. "Jeralyle is no concern of yours!"

  "He is part of our group now, of our family. It is my job to ensure he receive the proper life lessons, and I will teach him as I see fit. I will share with him the need for compassion and understanding, forgiveness and heart. He will learn all that I have, and I will willingly show him. Those things you seemingly hold such a distaste for now. He will come to be just like me."

  "I will never let you!" The Duke roared, reeling his right arm back and charging forward.

  After such a commented, Grahamas expected as much.

  The test was not to see if this Tallvas knew of Jeralyle. He had proven his knowledge of the outside world when he mentioned Carsis. Instead, Graham had said that to engage the spirit to attack.

  Tallvas, with an animalism Grahamas had never seen, reached both hands around to his right side latched onto the sword, took three hard steps, and thrust the blade forward, like a shimmering battering ram.

  It was the attack that Graham predicted from Tallvas’ stance, and the one thing that revealed him as a deception. The test was not in his response, but the attack itself. Of all the styles and offensive maneuvers in Grahamas' repertoire, the rushing, enraging stab that Tallvas now used was one Graham never would. The move was easily defended and would often leave the aggressor wide-open. Yet it was an attack used far too often. Knowing that Tallvas, in one of his first lessons to Graham, had taught him to counter it—even when unarmed—and turn the attacker's momentum against them to land a fatal blow. The real Tallvas would not have used it, and only the Duke would have known not too. It was one of many moves that were shared only between he and Grahamas.

  So when the spirit charged forward, Graham did not hold back, no longer worried about hurting it or killing it. He saw the tip of the blade racing towards his abdomen, but Grahamas didn’t move, at least not right away. If he pulled away too soon, Tallvas would be able to stop
his charge, and Grahamas needed him to continue.

  When the blade was close enough and Tallvas’ replica was pressing forward hard enough, it unwillingly put its weight on one foot—driving on with no chance to turn back. Grahamas made his move. First, he turned the left side of his waist only slightly so the blade barely slipped by. Then he thrust his right hand down, latching it onto the few inches of the sword’s handle that Tallvas’ grip did not cover. Once he had a firm lock, his left hand fell, falling on the guard of the sword and squeezing it. As the Duke's momentum drove him forward, his arms locked and he was unable to stop. Grahamas held strong, keeping the blade stable and stationary. While Tallvas was still moving, his sword was not, and his firm hands on the handle had no choice but to slid up, then break. As the grip loosened, Grahamas didn't give the Duke the chance to recover it. The moment he felt the tension release, he yanked out to wrench the blade free. It pulled entirely from his palm, giving Graham complete control over its movement. The Champion only continued to pull back until the blade was further along his left side. Once the handle had reached his ribcage and two thirds of the long blade stuck out next to his kidney Grahamas turned counter-clockwise, spinning around until he was facing the same direction as Tallvas, his right shoulder pressed against the Duke's still extended arms. Unable to stop or even slow down, Tallvas inadvertently and haphazardly drove on. Grahamas jerked forward slightly, the man's broad chest crashed against his back; the sword wavering slightly after the Duke unintentionally impaled himself on it.

  Grahamas believed he would hear a grunt or even a whimper, but the only sound was a sudden rush of wind whipping by his ear, flicking his long hair in every direction, then all was silent; all was still. The spirit had dissipated completely, including the sword, vanishing back into the mists.

  "Well... done..." Grahamas heard a voice say.

  The moment he finished speaking, Grahamas saw another form growing out of the fog, this one a bright white within the dismal gray and dirty crimson. It started from the ground, only an inch high and three feet wide, but it grew—swirling and twisting, breaking away the other colors as it rose from the ground, first as tall as it was wide, then twice that much. The center of it was clean and pure, the edges a wavy, soft border and the top arching to reach height of what seemed like seven feet. It was a door.

  Grahamas had passed the first trial.