“Sure,” said the other, his back to Stylinor as he was more intent on loading the wagon then his companion. “But if it isn’t a cloud of weather, well, then, what is it?”
“Smoke, most say,” the other replied, “and thick it is too! I saw it just the other day, climbing over the valley it was, and blacker than nighttime shadows!”
“Fire in the valley?” the other stopped loading and stood facing his fellow with a block of wood still in his hand.
“Fire it is,” said the golden bearded one, “or I’m a tree!”
Their talk broke into chuckles and mumbles as they both took part in the loading, and Stylinor passed them by as he now hurried to get to his house before the sun was fully set behind the tree covered hill behind him, and now leaving the glade of pinewood and oak behind him, Stylinor saw something in the distant south. There rose the forbidding cloud of black billowing smoke that the golden bearded lumberjack had indicated.
“Fire in the south,” Stylinor whispered to himself as he slowed his jog until he was at a complete stop on the road.
A strange feeling came over him as he looked upon the rising smoke. He was not entirely afraid, but more curious as his actions tended to be. With the sky darkening at the close of the day, the black smoke seemed even more mysterious and forbidding, seeming to morph into strange shapes in the sky; sometimes a face, sometimes a hand, while other times it seemed to explode and puff out in all directions like a mushroom.
Stylinor knew that he couldn’t waste too much time watching the display before him. He needed to get back to his families cabin to be sure all was how it should be there, and get his rest for tomorrows hard work. But, for unknown reasons, he found it very difficult to pull his eyes from the fascinating dark clouds. When he at last did take his eyes from off it and forced himself to run the last distance down the road to his home, he had to rub his eyes clear, having stared unblinking into the depths of that smoky haze.
He saw his home, one of the very few that had been built by their owners this far away from either city, and saw a candle burning quietly in one of the open windows. The sun had set, and on by one the stars appeared overhead as Stylinor came to the doorstep of his family’s cabin. Smoke rolled out of the chimney, indicating that dinner had probably already been made, and that only increased Stylinor’s longing to get inside and beside the warm fire.
As Stylinor came upon the threshold of his families small homestead, he heard the sound of his mothers voice call to him through the window, and he stifled a smile as she always seemed to know when exactly he was to step upon the porch. He took the challenge as any young boy his age would, and tried to be as silent as possible to creep upon his home without his mother knowing, but somehow, in some unknown way, she always knew where he was.
“Sty, be sure to remove your boots before coming inside,” she said from wherever she was. “Wouldn’t be good to track mud across the carpet, now would it?”
Without reply, Stylinor slipped off his boots at the door and slid them aside. He pushed the door inward as he stepped within the warm cottage and was welcomed by the warm orange glow of the fire burning in the hearth. His mother was busying herself beside the fireplace, where over the blaze was strung a pot of steaming broth. She looked up from her work and across the room to where Stylinor stood in the doorway, her brown hair pulled back and tied behind her head to keep from getting in their dinner.
“Do shut the door, it is quite chilly, especially at this time of night,” she said to him before turning back to stirring the steaming pot.
Stylinor closed the door behind him with a soft click of the latch. He thought to close the shudders to the window, but then figured that they had been left open for good reason, and decided to leave it until told to do so.
After attempting to stand beside the heat of the fire to warm his frosty hands, and succeeding only in being waved away by his mother, Stylinor found himself standing in the middle of the room, rubbing his hands to warm them on his own. He then noticed his father sitting at the table to the far left of the house, deeply concentrating as he chiseled with practiced hands the shape of a what was the beginning of a wolfs head.
“What might that be,” Stylinor asked as he moved to sit down across the table from his father. The table was constructed of pure wood, carved and shaped by the same hand and chisel that worked upon the small block. And when rubbing a palm across its surface, one would find it completely smooth and free of splinters. Such was the craftsmanship of Gryl. And such was the skill that Stylinor Grylson hoped to one day accomplish.
“This, my most curious son, is the work of fine art,” mumbled the man, half aware that he was even speaking through. So deep was his concentration.
“Your father has been at that thing all day,” mother said behind him through her stirs. “It’ll take a lifetime for it to ever be finished, and already half of his has been wasted.”
“Nonsense,” said Gryl in defense, though he kept his eyes fixed upon his steady hands working at the wood. “I’ve been splitting wood all morning. Not until now have I set to work at this. Found this chip in our wood stock I did.”
“Splitting wood!” exclaimed Stylinor in disbelief. “But ye said that ye were too tired to work this day. I could have used your arms in felling that tree and chopping it into courters.”
“And weary I was,” Gryl replied, “for felling timbers that is.” With that he cut a slender piece of wood from the block, adding more shape to the appearance of a wolf’s ear.
Stylinor stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest as he sat back in his chair, eyeing his youthful father skeptically. He shook his head as he began laughing to himself, and Gryl glanced up from his work for a brief second to inspect his son, but that was all he needed for his exclamation.
“Sty, you’re covered in mud! Take off your coat before you make a mess!”
Stylinor’s laughter only increased.
Chapter 2
Victims of Darkness
“Neth’tek Vulzdagg is his name,” said Tisla, a captain of a small force of The Followers. “He is an interesting one, to those who have paid close enough attention to his tactics in combat. When he spars with the others, there is a certain rage about his stance, his technique, and, more noticeably, his eyes. Some call it the intensity of an enraged warrior.”
“What makes him so passionate?” asked her trusted companion and soldier, Vexor Hulmir.
Tisla shrugged nonchalantly, eyeing the young fighter as he sat quietly with the others. The other Followers talked amongst one another, laughing at each other’s’ malicious remarks of the days burning. But Neth’tek was quiet, staring at his clasped hands, a cold look in his eyes.
“The Urden’Dagg has told me that he is a special thing,” Tisla said, “For what reasons, I know not. But I do know that I have noticed something strange about this child. Something seems misplaced about him, as if he doesn’t fit together in this scheme against the surface world. However, the Urden’Dagg has said to trust, and I do as the Urden’Dagg commands.”
Vexor sighed at her side, inhaling deeply before exhaling a vapor of steam. “I know not what to make of it. But I feel a familiarity with this young warrior.”
“Vexor,” Tisla said, turning a sharp eye on him, “I know your feelings, you have shared them with me countless times, but I do not ask for them now. You hate our cause. You despise our people. Remember, Vexor, these people of this surface world have done us wrong. They deserve what we do to them.”
“Do they?” Vexor demanded.
“They are the victims of the darkness they have created.”
“Are they?” Vexor said, “Or is this the darkness that we have created ourselves?”
“We created no darkness,” Tisla replied firmly. “We were cursed with it, and now we must retake what was taken from us.”
“It is impossible to conquer light with shadow,” Vexor told her. “We will gain nothing.”
Tisla turned away from him, focusing he
r eyes back on Neth’tek as he looked sidelong at the others of the company. There was no anger as he looked at them, but a shade of remorse shown in his face as he watched them all, and she frowned curiously at the warrior. “Perhaps he does share the same opinions of the world as you,” she said, looking away back to Vexor.
But Vexor was no longer at her side. Only a quick survey around showed her pessimistic companion standing a short distance away from the camp, alone. His purple spider-silk cowl was pulled over his head, covering his stark white hair from the sickly gleam of the moon through the smoky air. He did this often, and would leave even while the captains and commanders met with the chief commander to plan their next routine. Only Tisla knew why he always separated himself from the others.
Vexor Hulmir doubted the cause for which he and his kinsmen marched across the face of the world, torches in hand as they burned away the beauty that the dwellers of the place they called home. It was to be their home when the scavenging was done, and they all said that it was to be a great place where all their power might increase beyond what it could have in the underworld. Vexor cared little or nothing for the gaining of the world. All that the troubled fighter wanted was a lasting peace where he and Tisla might live until their lives expired.
“Enough fighting for power and survival,” Vexor told the distant horizon of smoke and orange flame.
The earth at his feet was charred to crisps of nothing, all destroyed by his hand and the hands of those he commanded. If he had no hope for his future he would have driven the point of his knife into his own heart, ending the tormented days of his long life, once beneath the world and now intended for the surface. What beauty would be left for him and Tisla when their burning was through? So far Vexor was seeing nothing, only smoke and flame, but he did not let that destroy his future hopes.
Tisla approached his side quietly, and stood watching the smoky air with him. The glow of the fire in the distance would have been beautiful to their eyes had it not been intended to destroy the world they were to live in.
“You should rest,” Tisla told the unblinking stare of Vexor. “The night is still young, and in the morning we march upon the people of this world.”
“I will find no rest here,” Vexor replied quietly. “Not while a torch is in my hand.”
Tisla did not speak after that, though she remained at his side the rest of that waiting period. They waited for the time when they would again spread their flames across the land.
Chapter 3
Council of the King
“Fire in the Westland’s – what more could their possibly be to convince us of danger? We’ve seen such clouds before, and we who have seen them remember well what follows,” the sentinel of the western watch tower was saying, as he stood in the center of the audience hall of king Drelus. “It is not the weather of the world, nor the clumsiness of trolls or horgs or any other monster we might think of. Look in the scripts of our histories and there you will find plenty of such strange happenings recorded by the heralds of the past.”
The sentinel had been going on for some time, explaining all that the messenger owl had relayed to him earlier that morning. Apparently a fume of smoke had been seen massing in the Westland’s near the base of the Bolgin Mountains, and the tower guard watching those lands had taken it as an ill omen of bad times to come. Many would agree with that logic, Drelus knew, for he too was beginning to understand the possible dangers that could follow such occurrences. He was an experienced king, and had ruled the realm for many generations of Adian nobility.
However, king Drelus did not understand what might be causing such fumes to arise and cast shadows of doubt over the hearts of his people. The Adya’s were well in wisdom and understanding of many things. They were the first races to ever walk the surface of Aldabaar, and in all the times following there never had been such happenings that so deeply disturbed them as of now. Drelus was beginning to wonder whether the news of trouble disturbed him more then the fears and doubts that began to arise in the hearts of his people.
Some unseen power lingers in our midst, the king contemplated as he stroked his chin. He let his gaze wander from the speaker standing before him to the faces of those participating as audience, listening to the words which were relayed to their king. The councilors in the chamber, all dressed in splendid attire, shifted uneasily as they whispered among one another with troubled expressions that deepened the kings own troubling thoughts.
Studying their expressions and motions and the way they held their gaze upon the speaker and one another in concerned glances, only confirmed to the king that they were afraid. But what it was that they feared, the king could not guess, nor did he think they knew themselves either. But they were afraid, that much was understood. And surprisingly to himself, Drelus felt his own fears rising.
The chamber fell silent as one among the councilors stepped forward to speak; glancing at his king to be sure it was an appropriate time. Drelus nodded to the Adian’s questioning look, and the councilor began.
“You speak of accounts recorded in our histories relating to such dangers as this; but what of our histories might you be referencing to? The only account of similar times as this, that I can recall, is of the coming of the black demon that named itself the striker of doom. I do indeed speak only of Doomstriker, the terror of these Westland’s.”
At the mention of the demon of doom, the councilors in the room began to whisper once again to one another, and a few broke out in exclamations of, “Muari be beloved!” and clasped their hands together as if in prayer to the Beloved.
Drelus waved his arms over his head and called for silence, so that their could be order in his hall as before, and then turned to the speaker in the center of the room who had taken a step backwards in shock of the Adian’s claim.
“There will be no mention of that name in these halls,” said Drelus in a stern voice. “But, guardian of the south and of the west, if it is the black demon that you make mention of, then speak plainly for us all to understand.”
“I make no reference to that accursed creature of darkness,” the speaker said in a low voice, and the audience cringed at the name as it sent cold shivers up each of their backs; and the speaker, too, shuddered when referencing to it.
“No,” continued the speaker, shaking the idea out of his mindset. “I speak only of shadows unknown to even our scholars of today. I do not know for certain what it is that causes such disturbance in our lands. However, in my studies of late I have come to know that during the dark days of The Lingering Shadow, our people faced similar disturbances as of ours today. For is it not recorded in those records that a shadow was upon the land, and that the people fell into a state of saddened thought from which they feared they could not turn from? I say to you that such was a people faced with fears and doubts similar to ours, and I say to you that it is in these records of our history that answers are to be found.”
Without seeing the nods of the councilors in the chamber, Drelus knew that they agreed with the sentinels’ judgment on the matter. And with eyes now shut the king took in a deep breath, contemplating the reasoning of the sentinel; though Drelus knew that his words would not be enough to satisfy the suspicions of some in the room and in the city outside. But if this was not enough for the king to grasp, then he feared that he would grasp at nothing until all was lost to the confusion that was slowly taking its hold upon his kingdom.
Opening his eyes back upon the sentinel, Drelus nodded his indulgence, and the sentinel returned to him a respectful bow before sweeping back and out of the chamber.
“This meeting is adjourned until further notice,” Drelus announced to those remaining in the audience hall.
The councilors turned to go their separate ways, many chattering amongst each other as they went on the meeting and the words of the sentinel, while others went silently away to their private studies to perhaps research the things of which the sentinel had spoken of. Whatever each individual did after the conferenc
e, the king did not know or care to find out.
Drelus walked slowly and wearily back to his marble throne, set three steps up from where he had been standing. When he at last he relaxed himself into its form, Drelus motioned to an Adian guard.
“Bring me my son,” he said to the guard, and the guard bowed in acknowledgment before turning to fulfill his king’s request.
Rubbing a palm across his forehead the king sighed apprehensively as the regular debate repeated itself in his mind. What had he to do to keep his country under control? What power was granted unto him to allow enough protection from whatever was threatening his people? Perhaps the sentinel had struck a true mark in his observations, and was correct in assuming that there was no enemy to be feared except for the enemy within each of the peoples’ own hearts and minds. The fume to the west may be simply a test of the people’s will power, sent by the Beloved himself. If so, then Drelus feared for his people; praying that they would be strong enough to withstand the panicked feelings that might arise.
But Drelus feared the imperfect mind more then the sword wielded by a physical foe – which could actually be defeated.
“Muari be beloved,” Drelus whispered to the hall that was now emptied of the councilors.
Approaching footsteps drew the king’s attention away from his thoughts as someone entered the hall from a side passage. Turning his head wearily to the side, Drelus saw his only son and heir to the throne of the Silver City.
Duoreod came to stand at the bottom of the three stairs, his right foot placed upon the first step as he swept back his grey cloak and bowed before his father and king.
“You sent for me,” said Duoreod as he rose from his bow, and fixed his grey eyes upon his father.
Drelus quietly smiled as he looked upon his son. The young Adian’s hair was golden, like unto them all, and his skin fair and seeming to give off a faint light, like unto them all. He wore robes of white over which was his cloak of grey, and buckled to his hip was a short scimitar of silvery metal.
War of Shadow and Light: Part Three of the Redemption Cycle Page 2