In A Time Of Darkness

by Gregory James Knoll

  * * * * *

  For Idimus, it was a day to rejoice. Grahamas was dead, his army was as strong as it was during the prime of his rule and Valaira's taint had not entered his world in over a month. Not one whisper; one visit.

  While Idimus would normally repent such serenity—stir in his seat and let his paranoia fester—today he did not. This day, he was clear. He was calm. Knowing that if Valaira did return, she would fall foolishly into his trap, and he would claim her life.

  Before him, Kalinies made the final preparations to that trap; draping the last corner of a massive rug over the floor, which was now meticulously carved.

  Two weeks ago, the Wizard had begun—day and night—etching into the floor the runic spell he discovered. A spell that would negate any magick cast within its boundaries. Kalinies had taken the original design, and spread it out so that it covered almost the entire throne room, leaving Valaira nowhere to run. In order to make sure she entered, he covered it with a rather ugly, dingy area rug.

  Kalinies was almost saddened it needed to be shrouded at all. He had spent every minute of the past two weeks creating it, and now felt as though his hard work was dismissed. But it was all for his King, and the eroding of his pride; the work put in was well worth it.

  The hardest part was the circle's edge. The design was made up of an inner and outer circle. In between the border they created were over a hundred different designs, in the same language he'd seen but never understood. But he knew well enough that they had to be recreated without flaw. He had spent thirteen days making sure. The middle of the circle had only taken him a day, made simply of one large, flowing rune lacking any intricate detail given its size.

  When it was finished, the Wizard took one last look at it and covered it, so weary he could barely move his fingers, let alone stand. Yet before he could rest, before he allowed it, one final task demanded completion.

  With Idimus' eyes upon him, Kalinies stepped inside, stretched his thin, bony fingers out from the long sleeves of his cloak, and began to chant.

  Though spent, he endured the spell patiently. Attempting all the power he could muster in his weakened state, calling upon the elements—the fire—that had always heeded his call. He should have felt something by now. His heart should race, his blood charge or his skin electrify. He should have the sensation of the world's energy creeping up through the ground, into his feet along his torso, eventually to lead to his fingers, waiting to be released.

  Yet he felt nothing.

  Except for a cold, distant demeanor. An overall emptiness that seemed almost physical. It was an experience he encountered only one other time—three hundred and twenty years ago when he was captured by Highlyian officials, bound and led to Kaldus.

  His magick was useless. His magick—gone.

  He tried his best not let the angst rupture his stern emotion. He continued, tried again to eep the ground’s energy and make it his own. But he seemed to draw even less this time. A tiny fragment of hope assailed him, that he had not failed his King, but far within his soul, he cried out. Magick was his life, his entire being, and to have it taken away so easily was worse than death for him.

  Every instinct told him to run, to escape the circle as quickly as he could and reclaim his legacy, but he held still—barring an anxious twitch—eventually to face his King. "My Lord..." He whispered, raising and working his hands to show their uselessness. "Success."

  Since before Kalinies could remember, he actually saw Idimus smile. A crooked, demented and deformed expression for such a man, but a smile none the less.

  Kalinies bowed cordially, realizing that was the only appreciation he would be shown. He also knew that if he was ever going to be allowed to rest, it would be now.

  So he dipped his head again, then a third time as he withdrew backwards towards the door.

  He almost made it, until an aggressive knock halted his steps and the door opening forcefully drove him the other way.

  In total disregard to Kalinies, and in some ways to the King's privacy, Gerin was on the other side, stalking in with a speed neither had seen from him. He knelt and bowed, remaining there as he pressed "My Lord..." and waited, yet even that seemed brash.

  "Gerin..." The King resumed his usual, uncomfortable demeanor, worming about in his throne before throwing a nervous glance toward Kalinies. Without hesitation, the Wizard moved to stand by the throne. "I did not send for you."

  Gerin looked up, silent for a moment as his soulless eyes flickered, a mystified expression on his face. Then it stopped, as though nothing ever happened. "No, my King. I bring word."

  "Word? Of? Could you not have simply sent it?"

  "This, Lord, is of the utmost importance and did not trust it to a falcon or messenger."

  Interest piqued, and the King leaned forward, though his nerves never settled. Perhaps, Gerin had learned of or seen Valaira. "Of what?"

  "War, your Highness."

  Idimus heart raced, and he turned to Kalinies looking just as eager. "Of the war?"

  "Aye."

  It seemed as though Gerin was circling the subject, biding his time. Neither Idimus nor Kalinies had rested in the past weeks, and rightly so both were on edge. "Well?! Say what you've come to say!"

  "Certainly, Liege. Word has been sent directly from Elryia to me. And nearly two months from now, at the beginning of the Golden Months, she has asked I meet her on the Elysian fields."

  "Now? Why? We would all but crush her..." It was rhetorical. The King could not have asked for a better time and an easier opportunity to seal his destiny.

  Again, Gerin took his time in answering, his eyes relentlessly scanning the King. "Perhaps the death of Grahamas has driven her not to care, Sire. Or maybe she sees this as a hasty tribute to him, using his fall to inspire morale for her troops."

  "And does she have them? Troops, I mean."

  The General shook his head. "I have dispatched two-dozen soldiers, my King, in search of their encampment, but so far they have not discovered anything. Perhaps nothing exists for them to find." He lied, but held his stone expression so neither could tell.

  "Then we would certainly destroy them, and bid this rebellion goodbye for all time."

  Idimus seemed hopeful. However, Gerin's half-face held skepticism. "Even so, my Lord, it may benefit for me to carry the sword on that day... as promised."

  Immediately Gerin's eyes locked, swayed and held still as though he saw something; sought something.

  The thought of losing the blade, even for a week terrified Idimus. He wondered what if—within that time—he encountered Valaira. The trap set demanded Fate. He knew that only one chance existed. He may lure her, and she would never fall for it again if he lost it. She may very well kill him if the attempt failed. But he had waited centuries for this war. With Grahamas dead, his victory was all but assured. He needed Gerin to fulfill his end. Yet, if he didn't hand over Fate now—or later—he feared his General would lose morale. Or worse, not fight at all.

  Immediately, though, the King rejected such an absurd theory. Of course he would fight. He was a loyal fool like that. His pride was too thick to give nothing but his best. Idimus could deny him outright and Gerin would simply accept it and go on about his meek way. Still, freedom was so close, and he did not want to risk it. His mind scrambled, and he turned back to the General, worried that he had kept him waiting for too long. But Gerin seemed completely content. So the King garnered himself another fragment of time, trying to finalize his excuse to hold on to the mystical sword without stinging his General's pride. Then it revealed itself. Idimus would play on it. "I'm afraid, my old friend, I cannot."

  Gerin coiled, not completely understanding. "You cannot?"

  "You have told me, since your encounter with Grahamas, all you've thought about was vengeance. You confided in me that he robbed you of your honor, and the only way for you, you alone, to regain that was to best him in combat. His army against yours. It was why you trained yourself. Even why yo
u challenged me." The deceit was so vile even Idimus struggled with it, though only momentarily. "You can't defeat Grahamas upon the battlefield, however, you can still do so to his army. If you were to use Fa...the sword, the victory it provided for you would be hollow. Another chance may not present itself after that." The King drew closer, and tried for the most compassionate look he could muster. "I, as your friend, in good conscience could not allow you to use it. I want you to be free."

  Gerin's eyes smiled. "As do I my Lord. As do I." He rose, and bowed cordially. "I respect and appreciate your decision. I thank you in saving me from myself." He cast both a look to Kalinies, then one back to Idimus. "I apologize for my sudden intrusion, I simply could not wait to pass on such great news. You both seem worn, so I will not stay. I have relayed all I wanted. Your army is ready. I will send word before we ride out. Perhaps you would consider fighting alongside us."

  The King twitched. "I... will consider it."

  "Very well." Gerin bowed one last time, to Idimus then to Kalinies, and withdrew. He had made it all the way to the door, when he suddenly turned back. "My Lord?"

  "Aye?"

  "You told me you discovered me as a baby outside your doors. That you believed my mother had found me too disfigured and ugly to keep. Tell me, did you ever see her? Know her?"

  "No. Never."

  For a short time, Gerin's look of interest and intensity surfaced again, and he held that same long pause he'd carried the entire visit. Then, it simply vanished, and he nodded slowly. "I see. Thank you...Idimus." And uttered nothing else as he slipped out.

  When he was gone, well out of earshot, Kalinies turned to his King. "What a strange question for him to ask."

  "Indeed."