Beyond the Darkness

by M. A. Maddock

  As with the Albrecht, the item had remained hidden from view. Detached from his world, and the world of mortals, for decades, he had remained disinterested and uninformed as to any of its happenings, choosing to forget his past in exchange for a normal, though, secret life.

  For years, the amulet’s centred diamond had remained dormant and black—in mourning for its lost Magus. And so, it remained, in its lifeless state… until his son took his first breath… fourteen years before. He hesitated before opening it, recalling that fateful night.

  From the moment his wife announced she was expecting their first child, Oran welcomed the news, feeling his life would finally be complete, after leaving his turbulent past behind.

  Dead and buried, he had told himself, letting it go. My family are now my priority.

  But in the weeks, leading to the birth, something—deep in his subconscious—troubled him. However, he dismissed it, blaming it on the natural apprehension experienced by an expectant father. He had, after all, felt it before—once—then quickly cast the memory from his mind. But, as the day drew closer, the feeling persisted. He became restless—unable to sleep—persecuted by dreams of his past.

  The night Gillis Shaw was born, the child caused them grave concern, when he failed to breath, at first. But after a few moments, in the capable hands of a physician, he finally let his family and the world know, he was very much alive—through the first sound of his new voice, reverberating into the night.

  As he looked into the radiant face of his exhausted wife, cradling their new son, Oran felt immense pride—beside them, his wife’s mother and step-daughter, doting over her baby brother. Although not his, he had adopted the girl as his own, vowing to love both children equally.

  But his happiness was short-lived as the disturbing feeling crept back, stronger than before.

  As he watched over his family, something was luring him away. He tried to ignore it, but still it persisted, commanding his attention. Finally, he gave in to the unknown force, compelling him to act.

  And so, he waited… until the house fell silent.

  Oran found himself staring at the place where he had left it: hidden in an old coffer—concealed from prying eyes. For decades, it had remained there, untouched, and almost forgotten.

  Rejecting any notions creeping into his mind, he could not help but sense a mounting dread—it determined to make itself known to him. As if guided by its energy, he hastily inserted the key, then lifted the lid from the coffer, where he knew the item would be hidden: among the personal effects from his past. Oran reached in, retrieving the pouch from its resting place, staring at it, contemplating the item inside, when panic gripped him.

  No! he told himself, refusing to think it. Impossible!

  In a matter of seconds, the precious item—his amulet—was swaying before him like a pendulum, counting the uncertainty of time, its priceless, black stone reflecting his image in its lustre. He leaned forward as it gradually came to a stand-still—the item, now demanding and craving its Master’s attention.

  He held his breath…

  When the precious jewel fell from his hand, he stepped away, staring down at it—wide-eyed in disbelief—its centre-stone reawakened—ignited by a spark of light, announcing to every Great, and High Warlock, the birth of a new reign—their Magus—his son.

  Horrified by the truth of what he was seeing, Oran felt the life he had made begin to slip away. An image of his new-born son entered his mind. Shaking his head in denial, he quickly returned the item to its place of hiding.

  Out of sight, out of mind, he tried to convince himself.

  However, in the weeks after, he grew anxious, constantly looking over his shoulder, imagining the eyes of the world were watching him—following his every move.

  He soon became over-protective of his family, causing his wife to question his unusual behaviour. Unable to hide it no longer, Oran was forced to tell her the fate awaiting their son. But she refused to believe him. Therefore, with the help of an unlikely source—her mother—she finally realised the dreadful truth. Seeing the look of devastation on his wife’s face, as she desperately clung to their son, fearing the worst, Oran knew she could not part with him, nor would he make her. He was not ready or willing to give up his son.

  Oran was suddenly jolted back to his present life, feeling the intensity of the item’s energy.

  Despite his reluctance to remove it, he had to know—he had to see for himself.

  Drawing back the cord, he opened the pouch and reached in, feeling the coldness of the thick, gold chain still attached to it. He hesitated, then took a deep breath. Slowly and surely, he finally lifted his amulet into the humbleness of his workshop, letting it back into his life.

  Oran stared at it in utter silence, then dropped to his knees, shaking his head—re-living the same reaction it had given him, all those years ago.

  Gone was the darkness of the pear-shaped stone, now replaced by the paleness of emerging sunlight. The diamond had finally come into its own, during his son’s growing years, fully aware of the presence of its Overlord. Oran’s face fell as he tried to comprehend its truth. The small, priceless piece of engraved gold, clutching the stone, swayed on its thick chain, again, just as it had done before. When it stopped, he narrowed his eyes, noticing something, deep inside its core yet could not distinguish the source.

  Oran suddenly looked sharp, convinced someone was watching him. Observing the normality of life, outside his place of work, he became aware of how quiet it had become—the lateness of the day, having unexpectedly crept up on him—by the lowering of the sun.

  Quickly, he calculated his thoughts, as to how much time they had. His mind raced as he considered their options. The boy’s age! He sought to remember it. Thirteen? Fourteen? he thought. His coming of age? How long before…? Each question struggled to provide answers. He then realised… there were no options.

  Oran now felt the peaceful life, he had come to love, fall into the clutches of his old one. It seemed the Elliyan might have their way, after all.

  Not if I can help it! he told himself. Whatever their intentions, I’ll find a way, he vowed. That had been his promise to Rosalyn: to deny their son to the Elliyan—if it meant saving the child from the monumental burden awaiting him.

  I’ll do it! he told himself. And damn the consequences! He would graciously accept them, in exchange for his son’s safety.

  His mind was made up.

  Taking the Albrecht sword, and the amulet, Oran locked the chest. He paused, considering the key. It would stay with Rosalyn. Only once, had she inquired about its contents.

  “Nothing of great importance, my love”, he had told her. “Some old tools, knives, and one or two blunt swords. I’ll keep it locked away from the children’s busy hands”.

  As to whether she had believed him, he could not say, and yet she respected the privacy of his lengthy past—never inquiring again. He trusted her implicitly; besides, he would have known, had she attempted to open it—and was thankful she never had.

  Placing the amulet about his neck, he regarded it, sparing a thought for the others who also possessed the same. Staring at the stone, one in particular came to mind, when it suddenly occurred to him, prompting his subconscious to ask:

  Where are you?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Oran’s two-day journey on horse-back took him west, across the great loch. He then travelled north along the Tayflu river, before heading east, his route then taking him through the Aber hills, and on to Ellan Moy forest—the place he had had no desire to visit again. But things had changed, now; there was no avoiding it.

  A few tears had been shed on his departure, with the assurance to both children, he would return from serving his “duty to the Kingdom”. The image of his son’s heartbroken face would stay with him, convincing him that the boy was, indeed, still too young to be taken from his home, and family. Whatever the outcome, he would never regret his decision.

  Oran knew the
amulet would guide him, luring him to the portal which would take him to the Elliyan.

  Each of the Five Realms had its own secret doorway. Hidden from the eyes of mortals, they were known to those who wore the amulet, allowing them, and only them, to pass through swiftly, sparing them the long and laborious journey by land.

  Oran owned the title of Overseer of the Southern Realm of Urquille. Tired from centuries of battles, he had craved a normal life. With much persistence, he eventually came to an agreement with the Elliyan, after the Magus’s death: as long as peace continued to house itself within each Realm, he would be allowed to pursue his dream. However, should it be disrupted, he was—bound by duty—to return to them. But Oran had had other plans. The moment life had diminished from their sacred amulets, he simply disappeared from their sights… until now.

  Time will always prevail, he thought, knowing, deep-down, they would catch up with him.

  The sound of his black, steed’s hoofs, coming to a sudden halt, roused him from his thoughts. He looked up at the vast canopy of woodland spread wide before him, its Great Dule and Beech trees towering above, marking the domain of Ellan Moy’s great forest. Nature had certainly taken its course, by the strength of its over-growth, since he had last crossed the Aber hills.

  Signs of the summer blossomed all around him: the trees bulging with the weight of their healthy leaves; and the scent of their foliage, carrying on the gentle breeze. He lifted his head languishing in it, and the freshness of the air, after a recent downpour.

  Oran led his horse along the edge of the forest, searching for a gap wide enough for them to pass through. When he found it, he paused, then looked back at the openness he was about to leave behind, and sighed—reluctant to do so. But, bound by duty, he had to venture on—the growing energy from the amulet, telling him to do so.

  Oran pressed forward, taking in his surroundings as he guided his horse further into the wood’s wild terrain; it had remained undisturbed for years, except for its residential wildlife, skulking about, disturbed by their presence.

  Eventually he located the path that had long succumbed to its natural surroundings. Though its outline was barely noticeable, he knew its route and where it would take him. As they continued along the trail, the trees above and beyond closed in on them, forming a natural arch along the way. They bowed and swayed in the warm breeze, slicing rays of sunshine between their thick branches, while spitting droplets of water at the intruders, from the tips of their sodden leaves.

  Trudging on, Oran could hear the dull rush of the river ahead, its sound increasing, almost thunderous, on their approach. Swollen and brimming with life, it flowed heavily along the left side of the path, beside them, threatening to surge up and over its banks.

  The trail then took them on to a small incline, swerving left. Together, Master and horse continued to follow the “invisible” path—Oran still inhaling the pleasant surroundings, while taking in the busy sounds of nature going about its routine. It momentarily lifted his mood.

  Following the path’s natural curve, the sight of a small ruin—standing alone on a large mound of boulders—came into view, on his right. The stone canopy, its roof held up by ancient pillars, looked down onto the river. How long it had reigned there, he could not say. He had a sense of it watching him as he passed the lonely structure. Looking up onto its balcony, he imagined two, secret lovers clinched in a desperate embrace, while standing on its ancient ground, locked in time. Its ambience was enchanting, and yet a taint of sadness haunted the air, as he sensed the heartbreak of a forbidden love.

  Suddenly his horse jolted, stirring him from his daydream. He looked sharp, leaving behind the ghosts from his thoughts, then sighed, slumping back in the saddle.

  ‘Well, Farrow…’ he began, following the steed’s gaze. ‘There it is.’

  He looked across, seeing the entrance to a large hollow gap, beneath a rising mound of earth. A row of large stones—placed by ancient hands—shaped its arch. Thick, dark-green moss clung to the joins while poison ivy hung in a threatening manner over the entrance. A place to shelter from the elements, or perhaps to hide from the enemy? Who could say? Although small in size, and deceiving, Oran knew its true purpose.

  The sight of it stole away his mood as apprehension seeped in, dominating his senses. He could now feel the warmth of the amulet against his skin, telling him he had almost reached his destination.

  A small, rocky footbridge—his only access to the entrance—peeped above the surface of the river, before its waters parted, to continue on their separate journeys.

  With a sense of defeat, Oran dismounted, leaving Farrow to drink from the fresh water. He left the Albrecht strapped to his saddle, knowing it would be of no use where he was going.

  ‘I don’t intend staying for long,’ he told his horse, making for the bridge, his amulet weighing a little heavier as he drew closer.

  Stepping onto the ancient structure—the link between the mortal’s world and his own—he stopped, when he was suddenly thrown into utter silence, as though all things had ceased to exist. The domain he had just entered had shut out the chimes of nature. Oran lingered, unsure. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw Farrow continuing to quench his thirst, while birds fluttered in and out of the trees, curious to the steed’s presence. He saw a rat scurry from one hiding place to another, as the trees maintained their flowing rhythm. Momentarily caught in the silence, Oran realised he was, again, about to face the world he would have willingly chosen to forget.

  Taking a deep breath, he clenched his fists, his adrenaline rising as he moved closer to the entrance. Another step heightened it more. His heart beat faster, forcing him to stop again. Images of the life he had left behind, in Balloch, consumed him with guilt as the pressure of duty seized him.

  No—I can’t! he retaliated, shaking his head.

  He stepped back, ready to retreat, then felt an unexpected pressure from behind, pressing him forward. Oran called on his great strength to fight against it, but with each effort, came failure, feeding the powerful force. He had to act quickly, before it would take its final hold on him.

  Unwilling, Oran glanced down at his amulet, aware of its rising heat as the seconds raced away. He reached to remove it, then let it go—the stone burning like hot coal. He then grasped the gold chain, its weight now an unbearable strain around his neck. But as he tried to relieve himself of its burden, his ears began to fill with the sound of humming, caused by the surging energy taking over. He cupped his hands over them, attempting to block it out, its power now dragging him, pulling him closer to the entrance.

  Fighting a losing battle, Oran now realised his great strength alone was incapable of defeating it. He felt his resistance waver as it finally lured him in… to the point of surrender.

  Just beyond the bridge, Farrow looked up from the water’s edge, looking for his Master. He was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The impact the Warlock’s body endured, passing through the portal, almost crushed him—the pain causing him so much weakness, it forcing him to his knees. Feeling light-headed, he breathed slowly, waiting for it to subside, while trying to regain his senses. Eventually the amulet lifted its weight, allowing him to rise. Slowly he steadied himself, until a feeling of normality returned, then released a long and retiring moan, knowing his past was about to catch up with him.

  Oran looked around. The impression of a vast open space came to him. Shadowed lines of glowing torches, mounted on walls, threw out soft light towards its interior. At first, he struggled to focus on their setting, letting his eyes adjust. Gradually his surroundings came into view.

  Stretched out, and encircling him from every angle of its far reaches, the Great Hall of Eminence manifested its overwhelming glory to the Warlock, dwarfing him in size against its grandiose scale.

  Looking up, towards its imposing arched roof, it seemed to soar into the heavens and the darkness beyond, such was its height. Below it, huge, lengthy iron-ba
rs crossed from one side to the other, supported by great, white marble columns. Hanging between the vast gaps of each sturdy rod, enormous lanterns looked down on him. Handmade in brass, each one was lavishly decorated in different glorious shades of coloured glass. Emanated by their flickering flames inside, their array of colours threw some light above, distorting the hall’s true height.

  His gaze then fell back on the huge columns. Side by side, they extended down the length of the Great Hall—the black space between each, disappearing like a void into the abyss.

  Where is this place? he thought, then hesitated—noticing the pylons had something in common: an elaborate cartouche carved deeply into the marble. Drawn to one, he approached it with caution, his footsteps echoing through the vastness, then slowing, as he became aware of its meaning. Embossed with onyx, the nomen of a Great Warlock he had once known, stared back at him—their ashes having been interred, deep inside the column. Oran drew his breath, then felt the sadness of guilt wash over him, as he recognised the words:

  ‘Tekkian,’ he whispered, guiding his fingers over his friend’s name. ‘If only I had known,’ he said. ‘How long has it been, my friend?’

  ‘Ten years have passed, since…’

  Oran spun round on hearing the deep, well-spoken voice he still remembered—despite the passing of time—to find himself looking into the wry smile of the Great Warlock, Tuan.

  ‘Welcome, Oran of Urquille,’ he said, his black, deep-set brooding eyes staring back at him.

  Oran tilted his head, in forced acknowledgment.

  Tuan scowled with disgust as his eyes lowered, scrutinising Oran’s choice of clothing, all the while, judging him.

  ‘That can be remedied,’ he mumbled, under his breath.