“I had a hand in it,” the robed man said simply with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “That was a long time ago. The shadow was cast back, but as the Great Fate churns endlessly, and so He returns once more.”
“He? The shadow?”
“The Dark God, Sariel.”
The name hung in the air, and she gaped. Deep in the pages of the Faith was writ mention of a twisted deity in opposition to the Mother. He had taken on different guises and names across Time, but the priesthood always whispered the name Sariel.
Justine did not know if the Dark God ever lived. The Mother kept Him at bay. Yet there is still the king’s justice. Shaking her head, she grimaced at the robed man. “So you have read the pages of the Faith.”
“Child, I helped write them.”
Justine heard enough. “Who are you, truly?”
“Mother called me Gabriel.”
“You could not have told me this before? It is a simple enough name.”
“Names do not matter. I wished for you to seize your fate before you came to this land. You spurned me. You spurned Mother. Every day He grows stronger.”
“If the shadow e’er comes,” Justine insisted stubbornly, “I would know of it.”
“Then you have met him.”
“Who …” she let her words trail off.
“I do not know the who, child,” Gabriel explained. “Mother struggles against Sariel, and I fear She fares far worse than He. Yet I know his vestige walks this realm, but where, and whom, I do not yet know. Mayhap the elders will know.”
“The elders?”
“Those hidden, unseen servants of the Great Fate,” he replied whilst shaking his head. “They do their part, so you must do yours.”
Justine moved to shove Gabriel away, but her arm was caught inches before his face; yet the stranger had not raised a hand. “How … is it …”
Suddenly she was thrust against the far wall; it felt like her bones were cracking in half. Stumbling to a knee, she meant to charge at Gabriel, despite the pain. Then suddenly Marcus and Amerie shouted out, straining against some shackles unseen. “The Great Fate will not have me fall this day,” Gabriel said. “Nor will It allow you do play more the fool than you already have.”
“Steel will cut through you,” Justine grunted, rising to her feet. She put both hands on Resolution. “If you are no spectre, you will die like any man.”
“Child, do not wander so aimlessly.”
She threw herself at Gabriel, but a wall of light held her blade fast, and from the robed man’s chest a sphere emanated. “You have not made yourself ready for this, and I forgive you.”
“Release me!” Justine screamed, writhing against Gabriel, but she could not move. “Release me Gabriel!”
“Once you have seen …”
“Gabriel!”
The domed antechamber, her knights, and the darkness dissipated. She found herself on barren, dead ground. An enormous black mountain filled her sight: its jagged peaks piercing grey clouds above. A city stood upon its lower slopes, empty and drear.
“Gabriel,” she muttered. “Gabriel!”
No answer came.
Sheathing Resolution, she moved her feet, but tripped headlong atop a pile of corpses. Scrambling to her feet, she saw that they were everywhere. The whole field was dead, their faces contorted in terror. The smell of fetid rot filled her nostrils.
Then Gabriel’s voice echoed in her mind. At the dawn of Time, Xavier took from the clay and crafted men and women; but they were featureless, without thought or motive. Mother blessed them with wisdom, with kindness, with faith. But it was Sariel who twisted them to perversion, to lust, to greed. Shorn of Mother’s Light, this is all they will be.
“Gabriel! Where are you?”
Silence.
Frustrated, she pushed through the sea of corpses, towards the city with its high walls. It was large to her eyes, backed by an immense keep with sprawling towers that looked as if it were broken from crystal.
So many dead, she thought, but for what?
The gate, though tall, lay opened on one side, and she pushed through, revealing a cobbled road that wound northwards, towards the lower slope of the mountains. Yet to her left and right corpses piled up; some vainly clasped weapons, others reaching out towards the mountain, the keep, or both.
All bore terror in their eyes.
Gabriel’s voice returned. Here they put faith in a man who did what he thought was right. Hurt by wrongs of other powers, this man could feel naught but pain and sorrow, mistaking vengeance for justice. One day, he would invite a daemon to his counsels who tore away his flesh, leaving naught but a broken husk in its place. Such is the fate bestowed by Sariel’s Faceless Shadow.
As Gabriel’s voice faded away, she balled her fist and screamed, “I am not your puppet! This means naught to me. Show yourself!”
Silence once more.
Sighing, she pressed on down the road, averting her eyes from the dead, and the road turned east.
The keep rose taller and taller, until it seemed like an overbearing shadow, blotting out all light. Then she heard the clangor of steel on steel, and quickly drew Resolution. She thought it came from further north, within a courtyard just south of the keep.
Two foes were locked in battle, oblivious to all but themselves. They wore armour and cloaks, but their faces seemed to fade in and out, their features indistinct.
Gabriel’s voice returned once more. The battle that rages is older than Time, fought by vestiges tempted by Mother’s love, or Sariel’s hate. They think themselves right, but they are both wrong; the storm rages and they are but victims to it. Yet, this battle is different—it is the end, the last battle ever fought, and Mother is at her weakest.
One foe batted away the other’s sword, throwing the hapless body against a low wall. Springing at the enemy, and as the steel pierced the armour, the foe wailed, and all the light seemed to dissipate.
The Darkness is coming.
“Justine!”
Amerie stood beside her. Faithful Amerie, and Marcus, who held his sword fast, pointing towards Gabriel.
Justine nodded slightly, and turned to face Gabriel. He stood smiling his flat, expressionless smile, and as she trudged towards him, a light slowly swallowed him. “What was that?” Justine asked.
“The reign of Darkness, should you fail Mother.”
“Why me!” she shouted, standing in front of Marcus. “Why does it fall to me?”
“Your father, he—”
“Do not speak of my father—”
“King Adrian harbours Sariel’s ancient gifts, awaiting the return of the vestige. Your father learned of it, and died for it.”
Justine collapsed to her knees and bowed her head. She would not raise her eyes; Gabriel would not see her cry. “And Lord Arthur?”
“Did I not reveal that in your dreams?”
“He … tried to talk my father down.”
“And yet still sits by the king’s side. Sariel must not hold victory, child.”
“Justine.” Amerie’s soft voice filled Justine’s mind. She let her friend lift her up.
“My thanks, Amerie,” Justine said solemnly.
“Time calls to us all,” Gabriel said suddenly, the glimmer of light flickering fast. “Come to where Mother’s Light is strongest, and bring the gift.”
Amerie reached out and clasped a torch. The orange glower lit Justine’s face, but she thought it so terribly dark. “Let us leave this place.”
Justine let Marcus lead. She trudged slowly along, Amerie’s arm around her hip.
Father … what is it that you found?
The Warrior Voice
Falling Light
15 April 14811
Justine cleared the forest under the mid-afternoon sun.
The flat plains of the north stretched to the horizon, green upon green, blossoming with the new growth of spring.
Reaching forward, she patted her horse’s neck. She never gave the hors
e a name, believing that he would never survive the winter. As the months dragged on, the beast grew stronger, never tiring. Justine never had a more faithful companion. He deserves a name, though. Red, perhaps? I was never good with names.
Ser Marcus and Lady Amerie rode beside her. Their eyes brightened at the plain and the fresh spring air. “It is good to be free of the forests,” Amerie remarked. “If I never sleep on another root, it shall be too soon.”
In more ways than you know, Justine thought sullenly. On the journey northward, she avoided the western reaches of the forest and the old castle where Gabriel had waited for her. The stranger had not crossed her path since, and for that she was unduly grateful.
“You will long for those cold nights when we return,” Marcus said absently. “Lest Ser Brennon could do what fear of death could not. I doubt Lord Theodore will listen to much we have to say.”
Justine shook her head solemnly. The bickering, in-fighting, and politics lay just before the coast. It was not something she looked forward to. “He will listen.”
“He never took no well for an answer,” Amerie said, frowning. “Given how we left, I do not think he will be more receptive.”
“You once told me waiting would do him good,” Justine said, remembering the last night on the Gold Counter. “I took my time that morning.”
Amerie giggled. “You made both of us wait. It did him little good.”
“We will brave it,” Marcus said. Justine and Amerie looked at him, but that did not slow his speech. “We must. The southern lands hold too much promise. They must see that.”
Far south of the forests the land sloped down, criss-crossed by flowing streams and cradled by slight mountain ranges to the west. Justine thought cities could grow from there, their fortified walls a barrier against the beasts and the long reach of the king. If nothing else, Justine thought that Lord Theodore would see the sense in that.
Yet there was another site that was more promising.
Further south, the land ended atop a tall cliff, though the water pooled below, deep and still. It would serve as a natural harbour, and sloping paths could be cut, leading to the green. Ships to protect us from the south, and a walled city pointing north. It is what we will need, when King Adrian sails east.
The sun began to slowly set, and the smell of sea and salt began to fill her nostrils. Fanning a hand above her eyes, she saw short grey walls rise in the distance, stretching for a pace ‘til they turned northward. In its midst stood two large doors, though the right remained opened. Further north she espied sloping, blackened roofs, a tall structure to the east, open fields to the west, and a burgeoning stone lodge erected at the rear.
“Lord Theodore has been hard at work,” Justine remarked, putting both hands on the reins before encouraging Red to a hard canter. “Yet he does not heed Ser Brennon’s councils. Those walls should be taller, and archers upon the crenellations.”
“I did say that he does not take no well for an answer,” Amerie said, though it seemed she was forcing a half smile. “From you or Ser Brennon, seemingly.”
“Be on your guard,” Marcus said brusquely, frowning as he kept an eye upon the walls. “Men like him do not change.”
Justine passed through the settlements gates without so much of a hail. She saw stone houses arrayed in lined streets, though the roads were more mud than dirt. Men and women trudged through the streets carrying burdens or chasing after wayward children, dirt and soot smearing their faces. She did not recognize one of them, and their eyes barely looked to her.
The northern road forked to three paths. Justine looked east: a tall cylinder building stood, its top conical and black. She thought it was the granary, but not a man or woman stood outside it. Westward lay open fields, and men in browns and greys planted seeds. Then, further north, the mud street ended before a short wooden stair, leading to the doors of the lodge; there men and women in mail stood guard, hands on the hilts of their swords.
She slowed Red, and Amerie and Marcus rode close. “Where are the men and women of cloth?”
“There are no churches, no places of worship,” Marcus said quietly, though his eyes never left the guard at the door. “The lord has much to answer for.”
“And Ser Brennon,” Amerie said softly.
Brennon will answer for much, Justine thought and dismounted before the stair, tying Red’s reins to a fence post.
Only one of the guard strode forward, hand still clasped to the hilt of his sword, eyes hidden beneath an iron helm. “Lady Justine Duvan,” he intoned, “Lady Amerie Akellin, and Ser Marcus Rennet. Lord Theodore Rusels awaits within.”
Justine locked her gaze to the implacable iron face of the guard. “It is a sign of respect to remove one’s helm.”
The guard simply stood aside, pointing towards the lodge. “Our lord awaits, Lady Justine Duvan.”
“Mayhap you did not hear when I—”
Her eyes shot to the doors of the lodge. A stout man stood in gilded plate, the clamour behind him lost in a moment. His helm was in the crook of his arm, and the brown curls atop his head was matted. She knew it was Brennon, but he seemed to age ten years since the eve of winter.
“I shall see to Lady Justine and her knights,” he pronounced, though sadly. “Return to your post.” The guard did so without a word.
Justine embraced Brennon. “It is good to see you, Brennon, but these months have weighed on you. What has happened?”
“We have survived winter,” the knight replied, “as you have, but our choices are rife with consequences that yours had not. I will tell you what I can, but Lord Theodore will come himself if you do not heed his invitation.”
Justine looked to the settlement once more, took in the dirt and the mud, the gloomy streets, and the downtrodden men and women. She had many questions and did not think the answers would satisfy her much. Solemnly, she nodded to Amerie and Marcus, before walking with Brennon.
Inside the lodge stood tall and wide, with candles burning atop wooden chandeliers and torches flaring along the walls. The front hall was lined with long wooden tables about the sides and rear, with the middle bare but for the dancing of men and women in finely sewn doublets and flowing dresses. At the tables none were garbed in but the finest of cloth, drinking ale and wine from ornate goblets and tearing into meat. None that Justine could see wore the silver and white of the Faith.
Brennon led to the east, passing behind tables, and speaking quietly to her. “Not long after you departed, the arguments between Lord Theodore and Irwin Kole became much worse. The men were heated, each telling the other that they would doom us all. Some days after, some traders wound up dead inside their tents, then a few lesser lords followed. I spent more of my time preventing bloodshed than much else, and neither trader nor noble stepped down from their stance.
“Demetri, Tricia, and myself saw the need for a guard, at least until affairs settled. We went among the nobles, traders, and faithful looking for strong arms. There were only a few willing, but enough to deter more death. Yet as the weeks wore on, the foragers returned with less and less. I took charge of the food stuffs myself, much to the dismay of the lords and traders, but by then the guard had enough steel to settle matters. Once the cold set in, more and more men and women joined the guard, though for want of food, do not doubt.
“The people suffered, Justine. Yet there was little we could do. Father Curtis prayed, Irwin shouted and screamed, and Lord Theodore held his own councils. Then, when the cold snapped, ships arrived with food, clothes, and tools, all friends of the lords. Lord Theodore did not fail to grasp that opportunity.”
Brennon turned north, stepping behind the tables. Justine could see Lord Theodore in the distance, drinking and bandying words at the high table. “The lord did more than argue,” she admitted, softly. “Walls rose, seeds were planted, and food was aplenty. No dissenting voice was heard.”
“So it was,” Brennon said, shrugging. “Yet as you saw outside, little of it went beyond the noble
s and the guard. Justine, I fear that the guard will not heed my words, ne’er mind yours. They are loyal to Lord Theodore, yet what he has done—”
“Lady Justine!” Lord Theodore shouted out, waving a goblet in the air, the wine spilling upon the floor. “Sit and eat and drink with me.”
“What has he—” she cut herself off, feeling many eyes upon her, not just Lord Theodore’s. Countless nobles lined the high table, some drunk, though others stared contemptuously. She sat down beside the lord, signalling Amerie and Marcus to stand near. Brennon stood off to the side.
“A drink for Lady Justine Duvan!” Lord Theodore cried out. A serving maid in a simple grey blouse hurriedly poured red wine into her goblet, and another shouted for half a chicken off the roast.
“You have done well, my lord,” Justine said after taking a sip of the red wine. It was a good vintage, strong and smooth, but she dared not drink much. “Though I saw no guard upon the walls. Are they all looking northward?”
“The north?” The lord chuckled, slopping red wine on his pristine black doublet. “King Adrian shall not bestir himself. Indeed, many of my friends in the kingdom defy the king, bringing much and more that was sorely needed. Another ship will arrive soon, and I would have you meet with these lords. They will join with us, soon as matters settle in the kingdom.” He paused and bellowed out a rumbling laugh. “They say that the king has been in a fury, but our dear friend Lord Arthur still advises. King Adrian is a fool who cannot see treachery, or simply cannot believe it.”
Justine swirled the wine, staring at the ornate goblet with its jewels and gems encrusted near the lip. She was convinced that there were lies in every word Lord Theodore spoke, and more would hurdle forth. “And our other friends? Irwin Kole and Father Curtis Lakin? I did not see them on my return. I would have words with them before long.”
“That would be taxing,” Lord Theodore replied, frowning. “Irwin Kole gave not a fig for the people, only filling his own coffers. We are much better without his counsel.”
A plate was put in front of her: half a chicken seasoned with herbs she did not recognize. She stared at in wonderment, remembering the people walking dejectedly, so bedraggled and dirty. “You have impoverished them.”
The Prelude to Darkness Page 11