Beyond the Darkness

by M. A. Maddock

  The reality of being left alone terrified the boy. ‘No!’ he sobbed. ‘You cannot leave me here.’ The tears began to stream down his flushed cheeks.

  ‘I must go, Petrio, but I need you to—’ Oran’s words were interrupted by the sound of banging, coming from the street below; they were now pounding at his door.

  ‘Are they coming for you—and the Mistress?’ The boy had failed to notice her absence; he had grown accustomed to it. For once, Oran was thankful for her lack of presence.

  The banging grew louder with every wasted second. Fearful, the Warlock swept the boy off his feet, then ran to his own chamber. Closing the door behind them, he carefully placed Petrio down.

  The room, brightly lit with small lanterns, was surprisingly simple in its means, so as not to attract unwanted attention to its hidden secrets. One prominent piece stood out in its simplicity: the gilded, hand-carved Arezzo mirror. Standing long and majestic, it commanded the attention of its admirer. Oran stood before it in a moment of vain weakness. Only now, did he truly notice the familiar reflection staring back at him. It looked worn—he looked worn. But there was no time to reflect on the damaging lifestyle that had led him to it.

  He then caught the boy staring up at him, from the corner of his eye, waiting in anticipation, while occasionally looking over his shoulder, watching the door, expecting their intruders to barge their way in, at any given moment.

  Oran touched the mirror with his fingertips. It appeared to come to life. Petrio’s eyes widened, in amazement, as its glass quivered before parting, revealing a hidden chamber. But the boy’s astonishment was briefly interrupted, by the deafening echoes of continuous banging below, and raised voices screaming;

  “Stregonaria!”.

  ‘As large and strong as they are, the doors will not protect us much longer, Petrio.’

  ‘Sofia!’—the boy suddenly remembered his friend— ‘and the dogs!’

  Oran felt the lump in his throat tighten. He could not bring himself to tell him. ‘Do not underestimate Sofia,’ he said. ‘She’s clever and knows what to do. She will look after them,’ he added, feeling the guilt of his lie—knowing the necessity of it. ‘Now, come with me.’

  The moment they stepped through the mirror—away from view—the threatening mob crashed through the entrance of the great house.

  Oran and Petrio were met by peaceful silence. The boy looked behind him, staring back into the chamber, its light penetrating through the glass, illuminating the space in which they now stood.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Oran assured him. ‘We are quite safe.’

  Petrio gazed around the small, but spacious annex; it was filled with unusual items that looked of great value. He was in awe of their beauty and curious as to their origins. Oran watched the child’s astonished face, his eyes pre-occupied with wonder.

  ‘This is all yours now,’ he told him. ‘A little premature, I must admit but, nonetheless… all yours, Petrio.’

  The boy’s mouth fell, then looked up at him, speechless.

  ‘I cannot begin to explain it all to you, Petrio; there’s no time. But you must listen to what I can tell you. Do you hear?’

  The child nodded with such enthusiasm, Oran smiled, imagining his head would fall from his little shoulders. The Warlock turned his attention to a small, walnut casket, sitting alone in a corner. The boy marvelled at its beauty: its deep grain was distinguished, and its hinged top highly polished, emphasising its exceptional quality, while the front was divided into three, ebony panels— each one applied with pure gold rosettes—the centre panel containing a simple, brass lock.

  The Warlock leaned over it, for a moment. Its lid then slowly raised before them. Petrio moved closer to see. When Oran moved aside, its contents lit up the child’s stunned face. In all his short life, he had never seen so much gold. He quietly observed Oran hastily fill some tanned, leather satchels, with as much as he could, before closing the casket.

  The Warlock then rose and faced a blank wall, before placing the palm of his hand gently against it. From behind, a light ignited, taking the shape of a great sword. The wall seemed to melt away, exhibiting a fine array of battle swords—one behind the other in perfect order.

  Oran tenderly removed two, gazing upon them like old friends reacquainted. He turned to show them to the boy, but Petrio was stood frozen, staring back into the mayhem now taking place inside the chamber. The intruders had demolished the door with axes, before ransacking the room. Petrio stepped back when one of them approached the mirror, pointing and peering at it; he was terrified they would break the glass—discovering their hiding place. The man appeared to be saying something to his comrades, but Petrio could not hear them. However, it was evident from their actions the mirror would not succumb to harm.

  ‘They take too much pride in exceptional things,’ Oran remarked, watching them. ‘Besides, they could not break it—even if they tried.’

  Petrio looked sharp, holding his breath—the fear evident in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Oran. ‘They cannot see or hear us.’

  Relieved, the boy released his breath, letting go of his concern.

  With nothing to find, the trespassers left as swiftly as they entered. However, Oran knew where they would go next. He turned away to study the wall again, and placed his palm against it. This time, the light took the shape of his hand, before revealing the one precious item he would not leave without.

  Suspended alone in time, it had waited for its Master to retrieve it. Oran reached out and held it for the first time in years. The amulet sat perfectly in his hand. Carved by ancient craftsmen, each Warlock possessed his own, recognised by their individual, and unique, engravings—a representation of their Realm.

  Its thick, gold chain draped over his hand as he stared at the centre piece. The captivating drop-diamond still remained as black as its origins. Oran looked deep into its core, as if expecting the long-awaited “light of life” to show itself to him, announcing to each Warlock, the new ruler had entered their world—The Magus.

  ‘What is that?’ the boy asked, stretching his neck to see.

  ‘Nothing that concerns you,’ said Oran, quickly placing the chain around his neck. He felt revitalised by the amulet’s touch as it came into contact with his skin. However, it lacked the strength and power he had hoped to feel from it; it was not yet time.

  Kneeling before Petrio, he held his gaze. He noticed how his thick, dark locks were dishevelled. The boy hated having them combed. “It hurts!” he would always moan to Sofia, who strived, without success, to straighten them. The child’s eyes stayed fixed on his. Looking into them, Oran had always questioned their strange colour—sometimes grey, tinged with dark hazel or green. But at that moment, they appeared ashen grey and filled with doom.

  ‘What ever became of your parents?’ he muttered.

  The boy looked at him, puzzled.

  ‘Forgive me, child. Just the ramblings of an ageing man.’

  ‘You are not old,’ Petrio replied, frowning.

  Oran smiled at his innocence. ‘I shall treasure the compliment.’ The Warlock embraced him before returning to serious matters. ‘Take this satchel to Sofia. There is enough gold to give you a comfortable life.’

  ‘I don’t want to stay here, Master. They might kill us. Please take—’

  ‘No—Petrio,’ he snapped. ‘They will not touch you.’

  The boy jumped. He had rarely noticed the Master’s short temper—only when he was serious. This occasion now called for him to listen.

  Sofia and her husband had been left childless and had accepted their fate. Oran had watched the bond between herself and Petrio grow over time. Not once, had he seen her scold him. He recalled the conversation he had had with her, in relation to the boy’s welfare, and the guilty look of joy in her face, despite her attempt to conceal it.

  “Should anything happen to myself, or the Mistress, can I rely on you to take him into your care?”

  Together, the
y came to an agreement: should the circumstances arise, he would provide for their needs, while she, and her husband, would raise the child.

  “You have my solemn word, Signore.”

  He trusted her implicitly.

  ‘Sofia and Gino will take care of you—with this,’ he added, pointing to one of the satchels. ‘She can give up work to look after you. Do what she says—educate yourself well, and—’

  ‘Will you come back for me?’ the child begged.

  Oran was struck by the sadness and desperation in the boy’s plea. Forced to lie again, he nodded. For an instant, he noted a hint of green in the child’s eyes as they sparkled with hope.

  ‘Are we agreed, Petrio?’

  The boy reluctantly nodded.

  ‘Good. Now—there is something I want to give you.’

  The great sword gleamed, as though it had been newly forged. The boy admired the strange engravings on the blade.

  ‘What do they mean?’ he asked.

  ‘That it belongs to me,’ said Oran, holding it out to him, with pride.

  Petrio stroked the weapon with his small hands, its steel cold and smooth, its weight too much for his slight frame, as he attempted to lift it.

  ‘It is for you,’ said Oran, trying to hide his amusement. ‘For when you are older.’

  Petrio gasped and looked up. ‘Why are you giving it to me?’

  ‘So that it will protect you. This sword cannot be taken from its owner. It must be given.’

  ‘What will happen if someone tries to steal it from me?’

  Oran grinned. ‘Trust me… they won’t!’

  Petrio stared down at the over-sized weapon in his hand, imagining himself using it in future battles. Seeing the glint in his eyes, Oran reached out and took it from him.

  ‘It will remain here, boy,’ he insisted. ‘But it is important I give it to you, now, so it will know you when you return to claim it. Then learn to use it well—for the right purpose. Promise?’

  Petrio nodded, gaping at the other weapons. ‘Will you take them all?’ he asked.

  ‘This is all I require,’ he stated, removing another, matching that of the one he had bestowed on the boy. ‘I shall leave the rest behind, along with the life I had here.’ He looked through the mirror, into the chamber. ‘When they have finished their pointless search of this house, they will eventually give up, and leave.’

  Petrio’s lip trembled as he fought back the tears. ‘But what of Lucia?’ The image of her smouldered body returned to haunt him.

  Oran sighed. ‘She is dead, child, and they will blame the one they are searching for—who is long gone.’ He slowly nodded. ‘Aye, they’ll know, soon enough, there is nothing more for them, here.’

  ‘But what of the Mistress?’

  Oran hesitated.

  ‘Is… is she not coming?’

  ‘No,’ said Oran. His reply was firm and final. ‘You will never see her again.’

  The boy gasped. ‘Sofia! Will they take Sofia?’

  Oran shook his head. ‘I assure you, Petrio. They have no interest in a middle-aged cook.’ He leaned towards him. ‘But do not tell her I said that,’ he added, winking. ‘No, I promise you, Sofia is safe.’

  Petrio sighed, relieved there would be someone to look after him until the Master returned.

  ‘If, in the future, you need more gold,’ he continued, showing him the casket, ‘it is here for you.’

  ‘How will I open it?’ he asked, tilting his head.

  Oran smiled at him with genuine affection. ‘Your inquisitiveness will carry you through life, Petrio. Always ask questions yet be prepared for lies. Do not judge people, until you are certain of their character. And never presume. If something can be opened and closed… then surely it can be opened again. True?’

  Petrio nodded, before it occurred to him. ‘But where is the key?’ he said. ‘I saw none.’

  Oran raised his brow, surprised. ‘How clever of you,’ he stated, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘There is none… because the key is my name.’

  ‘Your name?’ he gasped, captivated by the mystery of it.

  ‘Watch, and listen,’ said Oran beckoning him closer. The Warlock knelt before the lock, then whispered his name into the small hole. It was the first time Petrio had heard it. The lid slowly opened to the name of its overseer.

  He turned to the boy. ‘Did you hear it?’

  Petrio nodded, still in awe of the new wonders being introduced to him.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oran,’ the boy whispered, for fear of someone listening.

  ‘Remember it—but never speak it—unless you are here in this place. Do you understand?’

  Petrio nodded, again.

  ‘Good,’ said Oran. ‘It will also take you through the mirror.’

  ‘Does Sofia know your name?’

  ‘No—nor will she. Do I have your word on it?’

  ‘I promise, Ora—’ Petrio stopped himself quickly, by placing his small hand over his mouth, frightened the name should escape him.

  Oran smiled in approval.

  The Warlock then turned and stared back into his chamber. The door had been destroyed, giving him a glimpse into the dark hallway, beyond. There was no sign of light or movement. Perhaps they have gone, he thought. He hesitated before making his decision; his concern was for the boy.

  Taking the child’s hand, they stepped through the mirror. As they made to leave the room, something caught Oran’s eye: the flickering of a tiny flame was making its way towards them, from outside the chamber. He promptly turned, intent on entering the mirror again.

  ‘Aspettare!’ The familiar voice was welcoming. ‘Wait!’

  Oran and Petrio stopped on hearing Sofia’s voice. The cook entered the room, heeding caution.

  ‘Sofia, Sofia!’ Petrio cried, throwing himself at her.

  She embraced him, still clutching the candle, its quivering flame creating dancing shadows on the walls and ceiling, as it shook in her trembling hand.

  ‘Did they touch you?’ asked Oran, rushing to her side, placing his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Me?’—she shook her head— ‘they would not dare!’

  Oran was relieved. If anything had happened to her… he refused to think of it. They looked at one another. Without saying it, he could tell by the anguish on her face, she had been to the Mistress’s chamber and seen the devastation. They nodded in understanding, mindful the boy’s feelings. Then, quietly indicating to one of the leather satchels, he placed it discreetly on the floor.

  Sofia then knew it was time.

  Oran smiled at Petrio, as the boy still clung to her thick waist, as if holding on for dear life. The lump formed again in his throat at the idea of parting from him—from them both; also, leaving behind the remains of Lucia, without giving her a decent burial. He knew Sofia would see to that.

  ‘Look at your gowns, bambino!’ she began, attempting to scold him. ‘Your doublet is filthy!’

  ‘Where are the dogs?’ Petrio asked, ignoring her, his innocent eyes, looking up, waiting for her reply.

  Sofia chewed her lip, then glanced at Oran, her mind racing, thinking of something to say; she, too, had seen the dogs, their lives sucked from them.

  ‘They ran from those men, Petrio,’ she lied. ‘I am certain they will return in a day or so. But if they are too frightened to come back…’ She paused, stealing another quick glance. ‘I promise, we will get you two new puppies. Would you like that?’

  His face lit up. ‘Can I have three?’

  ‘As many as you wish,’ she promised, taking his hand, leading him away. ‘But, for now, it is important we go. Si?

  ‘Si!’ he replied, nodding with enthusiasm.

  He quickly turned, his excited eyes searching the room for his Master.

  Oran was gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  England: 1587

  Captain Reece Molyneaux rode away from his young wife, of two years, fighting the urge to look back;
he was more than aware of her tearful blue eyes watching him leave. It pained him to know she would remain standing in the little doorway of their modest home, until he disappeared from sight, despite his insistence she stay inside; it would make their parting a little easier. However, she refused to do so, determined to see him off.

  He had hoped to have more time with her, and there was still much to be done.

  When I get back, he thought. At least he had repaired the leaking roof and secured the draughty windows. The winter had been unusually mild, but a hint of snow now hung in the cold, biting air. He could smell its icy breath bearing down on him.

  He had dreaded telling her—but that was the way of it; the Kingdom had called him to duty. There had been much unrest since the execution of Queen Mary, and rumours were rife as to her demise. It seemed she had been implicated in plotting against Queen Elizabeth—her sister, no less. How much truth there was to it, he could not say, and yet somehow it did not surprise him. Therefore, once summoned, there was no question of it; he simply had to leave. No, there was no escaping the orders of his superiors.

  His thoughts kept slipping back to her: their nights together, locked in each other’s arms; the feel of her soft skin against his; her scent; the heat of their passion, wanting it to last beyond the bounds of ecstasy. He would remember it all—those precious moments no-one could steal from him—and would take them to the grave, should he never see her again.

  She had desperately wanted him to stay, her agonising pleas still clear in his mind, and yet this time, there was something more to them; as harrowing as they were, he sensed an underlying tone of foreboding.

  “Please, don’t go!” she had begged, holding on to him, as if for dear life. “We can go away, head north.”

  As tempting as it was—him considering it in a moment of madness—he knew he had no choice. They both did.

  He closed his eyes, trying to feel her one more time, his growing ache weakening his determination, so much so, it compelled him to turn his head.

  She waved slowly when he looked back. He watched as she drew the warm, green shawl over her head, concealing her long, fair hair from him. She wore the item—which had belonged to her late mother—as a reminder of her, giving her a sense of comfort each time he was called away. And if there was one thing, he was glad of, it was knowing he was too far to see the tears he knew she would shed for some time yet. But still, his heart ached for her. And as their precious moments together crept back into his thoughts, he quickly shook them away. It was pointless torturing himself; he could not go back. Also, desertion was not an option. No, he would rather face the hounds of hell on the battlefield, knowing, as long as he survived, he’d be returning to her—the thought of her mere existence, urging him to stay alive. He would endure that, rather than face execution, for discarding his duties to the Crown. Besides, he was no coward.