The Order of the Trident (Eldarlands Book 1)

by Samuel Rikard

  Malakai raised his voice. “Alright, you lazy dogs. Capt’n says it’s time to set sail. Weigh anchor and loose the mooring. Grab an oar and quit yer snorin'.” He chuckled. “I made that up. Row to the deeps and prepare to raise sails.”

  The anchor chains clanked into position as the men pushed the ship away from the wharf. Free from the shallow waters the sails shot up. They flapped in the breeze for a few moments until the wind caught, pulling them taut with a loud pop. The ship lunged forward, picking up speed.

  “Navigator, head due north.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  The ship turned, leaving Everik behind. Gareth felt the sea breeze against his bearded face. The waves crashed gently along the side of the ship, giving it a majestic bounce. He walked to the bow and looked down at the keel. She was chopping the waters with relative ease. Watching the waves wash against the hull, he let the only two things he’d ever loved erode with the increasing distance. A smile on the horizon, he closed his eyes.

  Kill them all, no exception!

  Chapter VII

  The Scholar

  The smell of aged parchment mixed with the stale odor of stone and clay radiated through the darkened room of rock and petrified wood. The walls were filled with varnished shelves, packed with tomes of all sizes. The occasional rack of scrolls stood amidst the clutter, organized with wooden dividers. A young dreualfar sat at the edge of one of the ancient slab tables, his hands locked against his forehead, holding his long, silver hair in place.

  He stared down at the inscriptions smudged across the yellow page. Taking a deep breath, he turned to another, to see another set, just like the ones before. Despite his restlessness, Nezial felt a fondness for the dusty old collection. It was a home of comfort, far removed from the chaos right outside his doors. A loud crash roused him, demanding his attention. The sounds of battle echoed, through the sealed, wooden barriers, causing his ears to twitch. Frustration growing, he placed a small piece of flat bone between the pages and shut the book. He stood with a heavy sigh. The commotion grew louder as he walked toward the door, as if a war was being waged right outside. He cautiously pulled the door open ever so slightly and peered out.

  Several dreualfar, not much older than children, blocked the wide passageway, emitting bloodthirsty cries of excitement.

  Nezial stepped out to get a better look. The two young black-skins stood facing each other, defensive and full of anger. Each one held out a dagger, ready to drive into the ribs of the other at the first chance.

  One sliced in, narrowly missing the other.

  The second jumped back, crashing into the crowd behind him. Unable to catch his balance, aided by the shoves and punches to his back, he tumbled forward and hit the ground, rolling with the motion, only to spring back to his feet.

  He halted and looked down at the crude, unpolished blade embedded in his gut. Blood began to drip from the wound. His gaze traveled up to the panicked face staring into his. He took a step backward and pulled the blade free. For a moment, he studied the weapon coated with his blood.

  Armed with both daggers, he gripped them as best he could and charged. The small instruments felt heavy, unwieldy even. He tripped over his heavy legs, falling to the rocky floor.

  “Finish him, finish him!” The crowd erupted in cheer at the unarmed youngling.

  He glanced around, taking in the mob before him, and the beaten opponent in front of him. An overwhelming pride flourished inside. He casually approached the whimpering body, in a growing pool of blood. The daggers lay where they had fallen. He reached down, securing the bloody weapon he'd released when his opponent fell into him. Another step closer, and he stopped above the dying dreualfar. It took no time to reach down and grab his hair, pulling him up to expose the thin and gasping throat. He closed his eyes and swallowed, dragging the sharpened steel across the tightened flesh, feeling it pop against the pressure. Listening to the final gasp, he laid the child's head and stood to claim his victory.

  Nezial shook his head at the sight of the dead pup. So much untapped potential wasted on a flawed ideology of keeping only the strong. He turned back to his study and closed the door, continuing his thoughts. They fail to realize strength comes from more than just combat specialty.

  He recalled the trials of his youth, being forced to battle stronger dreualfar. They looked at him in a new light when he blasted the first one with a fireball. Since that day, they’d pretty much left him alone to study in the quiet, nearly abandoned library.

  His focus renewed, he returned to his seat and opened the book again to absorb its secrets. The contents of the passage played out in his head. He couldn't explain, but they held a particular interest for him, reminding him of stories from his childhood.

  The stories of their entrance to the darkness were fairly common, though he was certain they were wrong. The evidence he'd found in the book proved that. His people created the tale, playing the victim, when in fact it seemed to be the other way around. He didn’t know when his people were banished but he felt like he was one of the dreualfar forced from the light that day.

  He turned away from the passage, allowing his imagination to carry him out of the library. He found himself walking in the sun, wondering what it would feel like upon his skin. The sort without pain. He'd felt its sting before. No, he wanted its gentle caress, like the surface dwellers enjoyed.

  It would be a wonderful thing, to watch sunbeams burn through the green of the tallest trees, sparking bright patterns on the ground. The creatures of the surface would be so different from his own. Friendly and welcoming, helping protect each other instead of plotting to overthrow your neighbor at the first opportunity. Nezial rubbed the scars on his chest recalling the villagers that greeted him the last time he tried to walk the surface. The burns lasted nearly a week, leaving him in constant pain the entire time. Had it not been for the burning, he could have made his way through the town unnoticed. It was no wonder they were scared of his kind. If he'd seen a figure sizzling in the sunlight, he'd probably be afraid of it too.

  Truth be told, his fear rivaled the fear he evoked in them. He shook the memories from his head. In a violent outburst, slamming the book, he shouted across the chamber. “These thoughts serve no purpose!” I’m powerful and soon I’ll find what I need to walk the surface without fear of the sun or those that live in it. A smile came to him with the thought of success.

  ***

  Days turned into evenings, the hours drifting along, though in the underground it was hard to tell. The sunlight had no impact, therefore nothing was timed.

  Nezial slammed the tome shut. A scowl took form across his face, “I need no history lessons. I need evidence, this damn book doesn’t contain anything close to its synopsis.” he shouted, venting his anger. The heavy pages clapped together, sending a cloud of dust into the dank air.

  Resting his elbows on the table, he laid his head in his hands and ran his fingers through his stringy, silver hair. Reaching the back of his head, he locked them in place, supporting himself against them. A long, deep sigh escaped him. He was exhausted. The continual study was tiring, but he had to find the answers.

  He stared blankly at the shelves across from him. Scanning the shelves, he took in the sight of the thousands of spines staring back at him, many he’d already read. Doubt grew with each cover he passed. None of them held anything close to the knowledge he sought. Shaking his head, he released his hold and stood. Scooping up the closed tome before him, he carried it to one of the shelves near the rear wall. It didn't take long to find its home. A perfect sized slot rested between the other books, free of dust. He gently slid the book back into its home and looked around, lost in the library’s abundance.

  He glanced across the dark chamber, searching for anything that might comment on breaking the curse. The books were a never ending puzzle. Some spoke broadly, other simplistic. Though none seemed to hold the answers. It was the strangest form of telepathy. The author would write the world as they
saw it. Hundreds, maybe thousands of years later, someone would read the words and understand exactly what the author meant. There were obvious exceptions. After all, everyone saw things in their own way. But the general idea was always there. If that wasn't telepathy, what was?

  Nezial extended his arms, stretching his back in an arch. Instinctively, his mouth opened wide, releasing a deep yawn. Without dropping his arms, he reached to his chin and gave a firm, steady push. Several loud pops echoed in the empty chamber, bringing a renewed flexibility to his neck. Repeating the process on the other side, his eyes caught a brief shimmer on one of the shelves. His attention locked on the overflowing rack, he rushed toward it hoping to catch a glimpse of the item that called to him. Moving to the left, he started at the top corner and quickly scanned each binding, hoping to see the flash of light again.

  Nezial investigated three full rows before coming across a thin black book, one he’d never seen before. A strange phenomenon in itself, considering it was on a shelf he’d already read completely.

  A slight golden sheen surrounded the book as if it were reflecting some kind of light.

  He looked around, searching for a candle or torch that might have given the book its reflection. Finding nothing, he removed it from the shelf and returned to the large table in the center. Placing it where so many others had sat, he loosened the buckle and took his seat.

  He stared at the glimmering cover for several minutes, unsure if he should open it. Fear crept into his mind. Will it contain another failure or, at last, success? And more importantly, what will that mean? Swallowing hard, he reached for the edge of the cover and flipped it over revealing the pages within. A sickness overcame him. He stared deeply into the aged parchment, blank as it could be, seeking the slightest smudge. Vigorously, he thumbed through the pages. No words, no marks of any kind, just blank sheets staring back at him, appearing to be made from a thick, dried skin.

  “Damn it!” Losing himself to anger, he slammed his fist down, feeling a sharp pain shoot through his knuckle. Fueled by rage, he glared at the wound, noticing the broken flesh at the edge. The binding's much harder than it appears. He lifted his hand to inspect the wound. A single drop of blood fell to the open book. He watched, unable to stop the black liquid from splattering onto the page. It landed, sending several smaller droplets around the initial impact. He reached to wipe away the thick beads, but they disappeared, soaking into the flaky parchment. He rubbed his fingers against the rough texture, unable to find the smallest trace of wetness.

  Nezial stared in wonder. Where'd it go? Flipping through the pages, he searched for any evidence of the black life-fluid. The book remained free of mar. This isn't likely. On a whim, he grabbed his dagger out of his boot and pulled the leather sheath from the blade. Placing the edge against the back of his hand, he pressed in, letting the steel bite into him. The blood started to pool around the wound. Placing the dagger on the table, he held his hand over the book and let the beady, fluid drip freely into its pages. Several drops spilled out, splattering onto the calcareous material. Like the first, they disappeared quicker than he could fathom. He stared in wonder at the blank pages, feeling his heart beat faster with each passing second. He shook from excitement, unsure if it was the mystery of the book or the thrill of something unknown. He waited patiently, hoping his blood would expose the secrets of the blank pages.

  The page remained blank. Excitement leached away, leaving the bitter taste of failure behind. He lowered his head in defeat. Another waste of resources.

  He reached for the book, ready to give up and replace it on the shelf, and stopped.

  A faint message was forming in the center of the page. He held his breath, afraid to move his hand lest it disappear. The marks grew darker moment by moment, in time with his increasing heartbeat. Finally, it was dark enough to make out symbols, written in what he guessed was his own blood.

  He studied the writing. It was a strange language, unlike any he’d seen before, yet somehow he knew what it said. A large smile spread across his face with the first sentence.

  To release the shadow, the ever-changing host must anoint the chosen in the reflection of worlds.

  Nezial read the words again. His puzzlement over the meaning of the message diminished his pleasure in understanding the script.

  “How can I do this?”

  At his question, the markings disappeared, leaving the page blank once again.

  He waited several minutes before reaching for his dagger. Placing the blade against his flesh, he readied to sate the book's appetite. The iron bit into him a second time just as the new symbols appeared.

  Returning the blade to the table, he picked up the small book. “A key is required to free the ever-changing from the sanctum of void. Once free there is no avoiding the path, for avoidance is the key to assurance.” He read each word aloud, listening to them, tasting them on his lips.

  The words faded slightly, revealing a large symbol below the message.

  A smile came to him. He gently shut the cover and locked the buckle into place. “Thank you.” he whispered to the slim volume, placing it in his satchel.

  Returning his dagger to its sheath and stuffing it back into his boot, he flung the leather strap of his satchel over his shoulder and headed for the door.

  ***

  He stood at the center of the round chamber, staring up at the elders, each one wicked in their own right. Dreualfar society was a meat locker. Only the finest made the cut. The rest were shaved off in battle or infection, despite their natural resistance to such. He recalled the boy killed outside his library days earlier. Once the obvious fat was trimmed, so to speak, it was these seven that did the trimming of the rest. They were the elders, they had no equal. Each one obtained his or her position by replacing the former holder through trickery, seduction, and murder. Their entire system was shaped by this group, keeping the strong and letting the weak die off. If many of these elders had their way, he would have been among the clippings, dropped to the floor and shoveled up for dog meat. Fortunate for him, he was stronger than they'd expected.

  “Why have you called for us this time, Nezial? Have you found another enchantment which will allow you to exist comfortably in the sunlight?”, one of the old dreualfar teased.

  Nezial absorbed the taunt. He'd been subject to their humiliation as long as he could remember. It didn't change anything. In fact, it made him push harder. One day he would be able to shove it in their faces. Their cold, dying faces that would look up at him, rather than down. He waited patiently between the seven chairs, placed in a half circle, each one facing him.

  He swallowed hard, ready to speak the words he'd rehearsed a thousand times. He was used to being mocked and tormented by his people. They didn’t understand his desire. Accustomed to their scorn, he chose to ignore them rather than respond. There was no sense in giving them more ammunition. His gaze fixed on his aggressor, Khronis. The elder was nearing a feeble state. Soon he would start to weaken and his chair would be ready for a new occupant. Nezial always hated that wicked smile perched on his lips. He was unusually cruel, even for a dreualfar.

  Nezial sighed, letting his feelings about the elder pass. He glanced toward each of the seven, erect in the chairs, some men, some women, some ancient, while others were slightly older than him. Studying their faces, he ensured they were ready to hear him.

  “I’ve discovered something much more interesting.” he declared, pulling the thin black book from his satchel, raising it high above his head for all to see.

  Whispers filled the room at its sight.

  An ancient woman rose from her central chair, naming her as the eldest of elders. With a gesture toward the others, she made the whispers subside. “Tell us what’s been revealed to you.” She leaded against her podium, anticipating his words.

  He recited the story, leaving no detail unattended.

  The whispers resumed, growing in volume, yet too sporadic and mumbled for him to decipher.

&nb
sp; “Interesting.” the eldest of elders commented. Her voice gained strength as she spoke. “We’re aware of whom the book is referring. The oldest of our kind have always believed the unspoken one is responsible for our existence. We do not know what happened to him, all knowledge of that time has been lost or forgotten. We only know of him from an old tablet found thousands of years ago. If this book can tell us how to free him, then it’s our responsibility to do so. There is however one thing you must do before we can provide the assistance you'll need.”

  Nezial listened carefully, hanging on each word. He felt overjoyed that she believed him and even more excited that they were going to help him. “What do you need of me?” he asked, hoping to avoid seeming too eager.

  “You’ll need to travel to Eldarian, to the tomb at the center of the city. There you’ll learn everything you need to know.” She reached to her neck, pulling a thin black chain from her robes. “You'll need this.” she said, tossing it to him.

  He looked over the amulet, noting the strange icon. He studied the stone symbol, cracked down the middle revealing half of a demonic face. He placed it securely in the satchel along with his book. “I’ll return once I have this knowledge.” Refusing the wait a moment longer, he turned and made his way from the chamber.

  The ancient woman waved her hand, watching him exit the thick stone doors. Dust fell from the archway with the vibration of the slabs moving into place. Within moments, the passage was sealed, as if it had never been opened.

  Nezial waited for the stone to settle, before spinning and placing his ear against the barrier. The voices were muffled and difficult to understand. He motioned at the stone, reciting a quick chant, and placed his ear against the slab, hearing them more clearly.

  One of the elders asked, “Nadilia, do you truly believe he's capable of bringing him back?”