The Prelude to Darkness

by Brenden Christopher Gardner

  The wind was like a torrent; the dust and dirt pummelling him. He could not keep the same pace, but neither could the whelping, unless she …

  She was like a silhouette, the length of her cloak flapping in the wind, but she did not take another step. Hand raised, a grey rock was in her hand, and a blinding light cascaded out from it, soaring to the skies above, casting off the noon day sun as if it was naught but a grey haze.

  The chill wind had all but died. Dust and dirt no longer touched Andrew’s lips. It was still the dead, brown land, but something else permeated the air. Sorcery, he thought, balling his fists. Sorcerers from the desert, surely, but—

  Aerona unwrapped the scarf around her face, then turned and smiled. “The ruined town.”

  Dirt swept over mortared roads, and rows of stone homes crumbled in on each other, piling upon the foundations. Lanes seemed to sweep endlessly, but one path stretched southward towards a larger structure, a town hall, Andrew thought, but only on account of a leaning bell tower that still stood.

  He could not believe his eyes. None of the cartographer’s maps charted a town this far south. How far, how long? Tearing his gaze from the ruins, the whelping still grasped the grey rock. “What sorcery is that?”

  “Oh, this?” Aerona proffered, tossing the grey rock from hand to hand. There seemed to be an inscription on it, dulled and faint, but it was not writ in the common tongue. “When you chase enough legends, you discover a relic from those stories.”

  I should have read more books. Andrew did not know what to say to this whelping. It was beyond what he knew.

  “There is a passage in the basement of the town hall. Come.”

  Andrew followed Aerona through the south-bearing road. Though the stone walls of the homes leaned in on each other, naught else remained. Dolls, pottery, furnishings, or whatever else these people may have once possessed had faded to dust. There was not even blanched skulls or bones. Time had long come to claim it all.

  Does my imperator know of this? he asked himself solemnly, eyes staring to and fro at the ruins. Does he know that his people dwelt here once? Does he know what remains hidden?

  The road widened and arced around a dry, wide basin—mayhap a sprawling fountain once, filled with copper coins and little fish—before continuing a short way to dirt-covered stone steps, leading to the first floor of the broken down town hall. The upper eaves leaned in on each other, and he had to duck underneath a wayward outcropping, but he followed Aerona inside.

  A frayed and blanched carpet swept from wall to wall in a wide antechamber. Large, splintered holes in the walls let light flitter in, just below thin window slits. Eastward, a short stair led down. Andrew walked towards it, but could not shake a harrowing feeling that he was stepping over the restless dead.

  The stair was steep and dark. Aerona grasped the grey stone, and it emitted a dull, yellow light, guiding their steps down. In the depths lay more dust and dirt, and the wooden beams thrusting upwards were chipped and cracked.

  “There is naught down here,” Andrew said, arcing his head to and fro.

  “Only for those who do not have eyes to see,” Aerona said, smiling. “Or who thirst only for drops of wine.”

  What is she—He was left to darkness. “Where are you, Aerona? Do not—”

  “Betray you? You are daft,” the whelping said, her head and right hand appearing suddenly out of the western wall. “Come, and do not tarry.” She disappeared again.

  Sorcerery and—He banished the thought and moved through the darkness. At least she could have left the stone so I do not have to… His left hand went through the wall as if the rock was no more than a pool of water, and his right hand rested still on the stone. Shifting his weight, he hurried through; the moment seemed to stretch, and he thought his body had split in two. Yet Aerona stood with her arms crossed against a dirt wall, the light of the stone illuminating a darkened tunnel. He turned to the wall; it looked as stolid as the rest. “What was that?”

  “Your guess would be as good as mine,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “I do not understand it, but you do seem hale and whole. Shall we press on?”

  The answer was unsatisfactory, much as that grey rock, the ruined town, and the portal, whatever it was. Andrew reached for Doom’s hilt, and reassured it was still there, nodded.

  Aerona led on.

  The tunnel sloped gently downwards. Andrew looked to the walls and saw naught but shadows and darkened earth. Straining his ears, he heard only footfalls ahead and his own. No chattering insects or the squirming of worms. He stretched a hand out and ran gauntleted fingers against the dirt wall, but there was naught but soil: no roots, worms, or insects.

  “I had checked that too, during my first descent,” Aerona said from ahead, not bothering to turn about. “Does it truly surprise you that no life pervades these tunnels? It is scarce enough on the land above.”

  “It was not always like this,” Andrew mused, more for himself than the whelping. “I would have thought some semblance of that would lie in the depths.”

  “We have all heard the rumours,” Aerona replied faintly, “of when the sun scorched this land, or was it the desert further east? It matters little. Do not tarry now.”

  Of all the cacophonous speech of the whelping, she was right about that. It mattered little. And worse if this is a wild goose chase. Andrew squeezed Doom’s hilt, trudged on, but never let Aerona out of his sight.

  On and on the tunnel sloped. Aerona hardly said much more, and Andrew did not mind that. He tried to keep his mind on this slow, gradual descent, and what awaited at the end.

  And whether or not he would have to draw Doom against it, and Aerona.

  After awhile, the tunnel wrapped tightly around a corner to the right, then flattened. A smell filled Andrew’s nostrils, metallic, like a blacksmith’s forge. Distantly, he saw grey, no silver, against the deepening dark, growing ever larger.

  “We have no more need of light for the nonce,” Aerona announced, dropping the grey rock into her pocket.

  The whelping was not wrong.

  Andrew could see walls wrought of metal or silver, and a piercing light shone down from above; not torches or candles, but utterly unlike what he had seen before.

  “Eyes forward, Andrew, to that door at the end,” Aerona said. She was walking backwards, and Andrew could see the graveness on her brow. “The visages you will see are not meant for your eyes.”

  “I will be the judge of that.”

  The whelping shrugged and walked forward once more. “Do not say I did not warn you.”

  Andrew turned his head to the right and left, briefly.

  Flickering scenes flashed upon the walls: of castles rising high amid a bed of verdant green, of shimmering towers against a backdrop of snow and ice, of sand-swept vistas and men and women reading by a watering hole.

  And they were as real as if he stood within them.

  How can they be? No artist has ever painted such a work, and lest I am a fool, there is no canvas and—

  Another scene caught his eye, utterly unlike those that came before it. The sun waxed low on a field of green, and soldiers wielding pikes and shields, halberds, and swords circled a band of knights and mercenaries. Faces were blurred and blood marred their tabards, but the crystalline plate of the Faith were unmistakeable, even in the throes of death. Then, in a fleeting moment, the visage seemed to change: a woman was growing larger, rising towards the grey sky, and a smiling, grinning mask of blood seemed to screech out and—

  “I told you, they are not meant for your eyes.”

  Aerona had her hand on his shoulder, and Andrew pushed her away. “What was that?” he demanded.

  The whelping shrugged her shoulders. “The past, the future, or some fiction, who can tell? It is not meant for our eyes.” She kept walking down the hall.

  It feels wrong. All of it, Andrew thought as he kept his eyes forward, refusing to look at any more of the scenes. He did not fear a reprimand from the slip o
f a girl, but there was some sorcery at work.

  Further ahead, the whelping paced down the hall briskly, her head down. Questions flittered in Andrew’s mind, but he realized that if she knew the answers, she would not offer them.

  No, but the Corsair saw this, once, and did my imperator know of it? This ruin. The portal. The grey stone. And now these, whatever they are. What is my imperator hiding from me?

  Andrew intended to find out.

  “We are here,” Aerona announced, stopping.

  An arching door wrought of marble stood at the end of the silver hall. There were symbols etched across the middle of the slab, glowing a deep crimson. Andrew wracked his mind for their kin, but he had not seen its like before. In the centre of the door, a circular depression was wrought, and the whelping thrust the grey rock, now dulled, into it.

  The words faded, and the grey rock pulsed blindingly. Andrew averted his eyes, but then the sound of iron grating against rock filled his ears. Prying open his eyes, he saw that the slab of the marble had split in two, leading to a darkened chamber beyond.

  “Come,” Aerona said, passing through the doorway. “Not much further now.”

  The light in the silver hall seemed to dull, and Andrew felt a chill: darkened fog coalesced around his ankles, pouring in from whatever lay beyond the door.

  Now is not a time for fear, he told himself and withdrew Doom, before walking through the door.

  The dark seemed to stretch endlessly. If the antechamber had walls or a roof, Andrew could not see it, nor could he see the whelping. Shaking his head, he pressed forward through dark.

  “Aerona,” Andrew called out, but the girl did not answer. “Aerona!” he shouted.

  “I told you not to tarry!” her voice shouted back.

  “Where are you?”

  “At the treasure, you will see it.”

  There lay naught but darkness, no, Andrew saw a speck of light, faint and growing. He started to run. It became clearer. There was a cut in the wall and an empty pedestal atop it, the light penetrating the gloom from higher above. Aerona stood off to the side, hands clasped behind her back, eyes towards—What? There is naught at all.

  Andrew rounded on Aerona, the tip of Doom inches from her exposed neck. “What sorcery is this?”

  “Draw my child’s blood, and you will never see the light of day.”

  The voice came from the darkness. Andrew forgot about the whelping, turned and extended his sword towards the abyss. Footsteps clanged, echoing across the chamber. A broad, muscled man clad in boiled leather stepped into the light. His brown hair draped to just above his shoulders, eyes sharp and piercing. He had a long sword drawn, the tip resting upon the palm of his left hand.

  “Robett Harkan,” Andrew intoned.

  The captain walked to his daughter, kissing her lightly on the brow. “You have done well, my daughter.”

  “You were right, Father.” Aerona’s eyes narrowed. “Much like the imperator, his sworn swords seeks power more than aught else.”

  Robett patted his daughter on the shoulder, before turning to Andrew. “Disappointing, even when it was Shipp’s old right hand.”

  It had been another deception, lies built upon lies. Andrew felt the fool for falling for it, for ignoring the telltale signs, for giving into every demand. The two of them, the wretched islanders were so proud, so sure of themselves.

  I will not return to my imperator empty-handed, he decided. “You have sown your grave, Robett Harkan.”

  “Mind your threats, Black Wrath,” Robett replied without a grin or smirk, cold and callous as stone. “A treasure you shall not have, but mayhap we can come to an accord, if you are a better man than whom you serve.”

  “You speak of accords.” Andrew spat. “Your daughter—and perhaps the Corsair too!—led me here with sweet, honeyed lies. I wanted to end this madness years ago. I should have. I am no longer heeding the counsel of captains.”

  Robett tapped the tip his sword against his gauntleted palm. “You speak of our overlord and his fool plans?”

  “Our? No, he ceased to be my overlord when he poisoned my flesh and left me for dead.”

  “Mayhap the Corsair more than the overlord, but that hardly matters. Will you hear what I have to say?” Robett sheathed the longsword at his hip and crossed his arms.

  The scar throbbed mercilessly on Andrew’s arm, but he did not sheath Doom. He wanted to cut down father and daughter both, leaving them to rot beneath the waste. Then, he would board the Widow’s Wail and strike down every ship Robett Harkan commanded.

  Not talk. Not now. Not ever.

  “I did lie to you,” Aerona said suddenly, frowning solemnly. “I did not think you would follow me here otherwise.”

  Andrew stared at Aerona: the whelping stood her ground, never averting her eyes, though a slight sadness seemed to glaze across them. He turned to her father, the captain who served the wretched overlord. One is as foolish as the other.

  “Are we men or beasts?” Robett asked, shrugging his shoulders. “You have come this far. Sheath your steel and hear my words.”

  “I do not see why I should.”

  “We want the same thing,” the captain said simply. “Damian’s blood spilling into the sea.”

  Cursed-born scum, I desire that more than he knows, Andrew admitted to himself, before reluctantly sheathing Doom. He leaned against the wall with arms crossed. “Speak then, and tell me why you have taken the imperium’s treasure.”

  “Imperium’s treasure?” Robbett furrowed his brow. “No, it is not the imperium’s treasure. It is a vestige of the ancient realms, gifted by gods long forgotten, and terrible to behold.”

  More lies. “My imperator believes that such treasures were among the powerful, guiding them as they shaped the history of the realm. If Damian should—”

  “He must never hold such a treasure,” Aerona piped in, but her father glared at her, and she dipped into the shadows.

  “My daughter is not far wrong,” Robett admitted. “Nay, no sovereign should hold it within their grasp: not King Marcus, High Priestess Lutessa, nor Imperator Argath. There has been enough blood on account of those stones.”

  The captain believed the veracity of his words, Andrew had no doubt of that. And yet he thinks himself above sovereigns, above my imperator. No, he has not treated with my imperator, or he would know better. “And you are worthy of such a gift?”

  “I do not possess it, either.”

  “But you know where it is?”

  “I do, though you will never learn of it.”

  “Even when I bleed you and your daughter both?”

  Robett withdrew his steel, extending it. There seemed to be veins along the sides of the steel, glowing faintly, almost like the inscriptions on the whelping’s grey rock and the marble door.

  Answering, Andrew drew Doom. “Your steel. I have seen none like it.”

  “There are no blacksmiths that forge blades like Vindication. Their makings were lost long ago.”

  “You seem to know much, Captain Robett Harkan,” Andrew said, and he allowed himself a smirk. “It is a shame that I must bring your severed head to my imperator, for he would have preferred words with you.”

  Steel scraped against leather. The whelping had a long sword in one hand and a steel breaker in the other. Robett shook his head. “No, Aerona, he is not your foe.”

  “Father, I wish to—”

  “No!” At the sound of her father’s voice, Aerona sheathed her steel and backed away into the darkness.

  “You will regret that,” Andrew said. “But she will not mourn long. Even Damian will sail at the sight of your child’s head.”

  Robett leapt forth, but Andrew met the captain’s steel easily. Robett winced, barely keeping on his feet. The inscriptions upon Vindication grew brighter, though that did not help the captain. Andrew pushed hard, sending his foe tumbling away.

  “They told me you were strong,” Robett said, smiling slightly. “Strength alone, however,
does not fell every foe. Damian proved that.”

  Andrew did not want to hear any more. He hurdled forth, slashing overhead at the captain, though the wretch slid away. He swung to the left, hard. Robett met the slash, ducked, and made for Andrew’s legs. Andrew saw it and met the blow. Steel locked together, Andrew tackled the captain with his shoulder, sending Robett rolling away.

  “Father, above!”

  The captain raised steel above him, meeting Andrew’s slash, before rolling away and gaining his feet.

  “You are not Damian Dannars,” Andrew mocked.

  “No, I am no blade master, but neither are you.”

  Robett lunged at Andrew’s legs, feinting and slashing, but meeting only Doom’s bite. Smiling, Andrew parried a side slash and pushed all his weight into a counter-slash. The captain’s lost-in-the-making long sword, Vindication, spun away, and he hurdled after it.

  But he was too slow.

  Andrew thrust Doom through Robett’s side, piercing boiled leather and flesh.

  “No!”

  Andrew turned amidst a haze of crimson, Doom in hand, but dropped it. He felt blood seeping through his chain. Aerona had lodged her longsword through his gut. Screaming, Andrew pushed the whelping away and tore her steel out.

  There was so much blood.

  He pressed both his hands against the wound, and his gauntleted hands turned crimson. Collapsing on the ground, the light seemed to fade away, darkness clouding his eyes.

  All but for fleeting voices.

  “Aerona, my sword, do not—”

  “No, Father, we must get you out of here. Please. No one will find him here.”

  “He cannot, we must…”

  The fleeting voices faded, and there was naught but darkness.

  Damian’s wretched, cursed, darkness.

  Shadows of Death

  Dawn

  7 September 15129

  Andrew saw naught but darkness and shadows.

  He tried to make a fist and push himself up, but his body would not move. Drawing in breath, he shook with pain.