The two of them ran in a wide circle, hoping to drain the monster’s energy from its huge frame, but there was something unnatural that drove this beast. Cal could hear the sound of the woodcutters approaching, and in an effort to draw them faster, he reached down to sound his horn again, letting go of the reins for just a moment.
It was in that moment that the bear swung. Moa reared to miss the razor sharp claws, sending Cal toppling off her back and onto the forest floor. Cal was dwarfed by the size of the brown bear; it was at least two, maybe three times his own height. Moa ran wildly, almost begging the bear to divert its attention so that Cal could strike, but the bear was not distracted. He stood up on his hind legs and roared loudly, ravenously hungry and ready to make a meal of the young groomsman. Cal prepared to do his worst to the monstrous foe. He took his axe in both hands and began to lift it up into the air.
Then, unwelcome and unforeseen, a hauntingly familiar voice screeched out from the tops of the forest trees.
Calarmindon. Be not afraid.
“No!” screamed Cal “Please, no!”
He froze with his axe caught in mid-swing, immovable once again as the words of the Owele echoed inside his mind.
The large bird of prey descended and perched himself upon the handle of the axe that was held fast in the hands of the statuesque groomsman. His violet eyes fixed their stare defiantly into the green gaze of the demon bear. Somehow, though the beast roared with fury and swung its lethal claws with a wild rage, neither the Owele nor Cal were harmed.
Moa snorted and bayed with fear, stamping her huge hooves in the dirt, mad with desperation, too stubborn and loyal to flee and save herself.
The Owele spoke in words that Cal could not understand. He had never heard a language like this; it was uttered with an unmistakable magic. The rhythm of the cadence was intense and full of wrath; the words fired like the arrows of archers with ruinous accuracy. The bear screamed and flailed, felling trees and uprooting shrubs with his maddened fury.
Cal, still frozen, was helpless to do anything but watch the struggle of power unfold mere paces from his unprotected frame. It was then that a deeper and somehow brighter magic was used. Cal could feel a welling of power, greater in size and severity than anything he had ever felt from an Owele; it came from somewhere or something beyond the strength of the terrible bird of prey.
The brown bear spun wild in circles, swinging at Moa, then at trees. His jaws unfurled in frustrated wrath, revealing rows of yellowed and bloodstained teeth as he bathed Cal in his noxious breath. The nightmarish tone of his enraged screams resounded throughout the forest.
The Owele spoke but one last word, and the green eyes of the demon bear flickered. He blinked them once, twice, three times … and then the evil color faded. The bear sat back down on all four legs, and the Owele flew swiftly to the branches above.
Just then the woodcutters arrived to see Cal, with axe in hand, standing over the mangled and bloodied body of Yasen’s horse. Among them were Goran and Oskar, who looked completely enraged at the sight of their friend and leader crushed under Filip’s lifeless frame.
The men were screaming at the top of their lungs as they charged with axes swinging. The bear roared in protest at the onslaught of assailants. One of the woodcutters let loose his axe, throwing it with all his might at the bear. It flew and found brief purchase in the left shoulder of the beast. A pained wail rang loud and long. The men charged again, swinging their trusted blades at the brown monster. The two made contact, but not one breath later the great bear sent the men sailing hard, crashing and breaking their bodies against the very trees they spent a lifetime harvesting.
The men pulled at Yasen’s body, hurriedly cutting away the leather straps that held him stubbornly to the saddle. Frantic and desperate were the deeds of these men as they tried to save their hero, their captain, from the hungry evils of this cursed place. Once Yasen’s body was finally freed and out from under his lifeless steed, the men carried him away as fast as they could to the waiting timber carts.
Others stood brave, willing the bear to turn and run, to leave their fallen comrades alone. Goran grabbed Cal’s arm, saying, “Come on, man, we must get out of here now!”
But Cal could not move. Though Goran was strong and desperate, the hold of the Owele would not allow him to budge.
Goran screamed again amidst the roars of the bear. “We must go, now!”
Cal could not respond, he could not signal his friend or explain his frozen state. A single tear fell down his cheek as he thought about Yasen’s bloodied body, about the men losing their hero, and about those who had died just to recover a corpse.
Oskar yelled out, “Leave him! If he will not come then his fate is in his own hands! I will not become another meal for this monster!”
“What about the horse?” another woodcutter called.
“That horse is mad! Leave her, maybe the bear will eat her and not one of us!” Oskar yelled in response.
And so the woodcutters gathered what wounded they could carry and brought them to the timber carts. They were laid alongside their fallen hero in one of the smaller carts and rushed as fast as the mules could pull them back to the encampment, straight to the tent of the healers.
Cal stood frozen and alone, surrounded by the bloody carnage of the bear attack. The bear still howled out his anguished roar, but he did not come near Cal. In fact, it looked to Cal as if the bear was beginning to retreat into the shadowy forest; somehow the volume of its rage and hunger had all but faded into a quiet, fearful anger.
Cal’s mind was racing as he tried to make sense of all that had just happened there in the clearing of the forest. He knew the evil, green eyes of the bear were the same eyes of the shadow cats.
But what about the Owele? What sort of magic forces the green-eyed evil to just … fade away like that?
Moa paced between the retreating bear and her statue of a rider, ready if the need arose to defend him once again. She was a black wall of motherly protection, and was bent on letting none pass.
You really are like a mother, aren’t you, Moa? I am not sure if you are brave or mad, or maybe even both … but I thank you, nonetheless, he thought.
She turned and faced him, meeting his gaze with her worried eyes while slowing her anxious pacing, and he knew in that moment that somehow she knew how he felt. For a moment Cal relaxed, feeling as safe as one possibly can in a bloodied, frozen state in the middle of the darkening forest with a hungry monster of a bear just out of sight. He breathed as deep as his stone-like frame would allow, but even as the air filled his lungs, a new fear crept into his thoughts, infiltrating his momentary peace with a sense of foreboding.
He had never been to this part of the forest before, had never encountered a demon bear the size of a watchtower before, and yet all of this felt too familiar to him.
Moa came close to him now and did her best to help him get free. She nudged and licked, and even tried to push him over, but it was of no use. Cal remained frozen, his axe still in hand. A sinking realization crashed into the forefront of Cal’s mind, and the last remains of peace fled the moment. He knew why he had the eerie sense of the familiar.
The nightmares that had haunted him for months had taken place in this exact clearing.
As he tried to wrap his mind around what this could mean, the strangeness of the moment took another turn. One after another, Oweles began to descend from the tops of the trees, where they had apparently been watching, or maybe even orchestrating the day’s events. He could not move his body, but his eyes flew wildly back and forth as he did his best to count the massive birds of prey. There were at least twenty that he could see, not counting the ones behind him. Cal’s heart began to pound wild.
Scores of violet eyes encircled the fearful and frozen man.
What do you want with me? he screamed without a sound. What did I ever do to deserve this?
He was about to give himself fully over to panic, when he noticed something com
pletely out of place for this terrifying moment. Moa was not pacing back and forth. She was not rearing up on her hind legs, and she was not snorting wildly as she attacked the birds of prey. Rather, she was doing the exact opposite. What caught Cal’s attention was that his horse, his protective mother of a horse, was grazing on the ferns and foliage found inside the tightening circle of Oweles as if she had not a care in the world.
Dumbfounded, Cal thought to himself, Just what in the damnable dark is going on here?
Chapter Sixteen
The days had been darker for Michael since his closest friend had been sent to the North in search of restitution. It seemed to him that Cal had taken a bit of his unusual yet unmistakable brightness along with him on his journey northward.
Michael both loved and hated the hopeful and expectant way Cal would look at the world. He loved it, because for the moments he allowed himself to indulge in the Poetic fantasies of Cal’s mind, he too would forget the gravity that this greying world had on him. He hated it because, as he often would tell Cal, it was just not reality and it certainly wasn’t going to fix anything.
He and Cal would sit in the grazing fields, watching over the city’s horses, and Cal would tell him of the stories of hope and light that his parents had once instilled into him. Michael’s parents had never been much for stories and Poets; his father was a practical sort of man, given mostly to hard work and frugality.
“Your mind is a sharpened tool, boy,” he would say to Michael. “You know what happens when you take a sharpened axe and play with it in the mud don’t you? You dull it!”
His mother was not quite as committed to the way of the flint. She and Cal’s mother had been sisters, and there was a time when she had trifled with thoughts of hope and dreams of light. But when Michael’s aunt and uncle had been found slain in the outlying fields to the west of the city, the tiny, hopeful fire that his mother once carried had been fully extinguished from her eyes.
He would still get small glimpses of her brightness here and there. Michael could remember hearing her sing the most beautiful melodies while she did the washing. He never knew what they meant, but he knew they came from somewhere other than this, from something brighter and more colorful than the grey world she chose to live in. Her songs were never on purpose and never deliberately sung in the company of anyone else. In truth, her music was more like a lament than a song, a mourning of a beauty stolen, or perhaps abandoned.
Nonetheless, Michael was raised in the way of the flint, and Cal was taught the forgotten words of the exiled Poets. The two seemed to be opposites in so many ways; even their appearances were a stark contrast. Michael was dark-haired and light-skinned, while Cal was of light hair and olive skin. Opposites or not, there was indeed a love between the two that was not often found among the people of Haven in these shadowy days.
Cal’s favorite story to tell was of King Illium the light-seeker. Many a day the two of them would weave stories, pondering and speculating what had happened to the King, when he would return, and if he had ever found the light that was prophesied.
As Michael went about his morning’s business, he allowed his mind to linger on the stories Cal used to tell. His hands were busy grooming and saddling the horses for the scouting party, but his thoughts were of King Illium the light-seeker.
Michael laughed to himself as he thought of Cal’s most favorite part. He could almost hear his friend’s voice reciting his imagined tale. “And then the ship Wilderness landed on the shores of the Western Wreath. King Illium and his brave men leapt into the cold waters of the Dark Sea on the shores of the new land. They kneeled in awe and reverence, holding their tired hands over their hearts as the shining city of the new light lay resplendent before them.”
That part always made Michael roll his eyes and laugh, for Cal could not seem to tell his version of this fantasy without excitedly acting out the imagined movements of the king.
“I miss you, brother,” Michael said out loud, still grooming the large chestnut gelding they called Timber. “No one has time for stories these days … not since the branch fell off the damned tree four years too early.”
Michael stopped his brushing. He stared off into nothing and said, “The whole world is going mad with fear.”
Timber turned and bumped Michael in the chest with his head, nickering playfully. “Oh, I’m sorry … you still have time I guess,” Michael said with laughter in his voice as he went back to grooming the brown horse.
The only good part about Cal’s departure to the cutter camps was that Michael had found favor with the master groomsman. With Cal gone, Michael had been given extra privileges and extra assignments alike. Truth be told though, as much as Michael was a competent groomsman in his own right, most of what he had learned about the horses came from watching Cal with them. This education of sorts is what gained him the attention of the master groomsman. Today, once he finished readying the horses for the cavalry, he had been tasked on a special assignment. He was to be sent to the Citadel to make ready the carriage horses of the Priest King.
In the seventy-three years since the Kingdom of Haven last had a true King, the bright sheen of nobility had been replaced by the joyless air of piety. Rising to power on the winds of fear bellowed by the panic, the Priests had assumed supreme rule over the greying city of former glory. Before most of Haven’s citizens had even noticed, the Priests had taken residence in the Citadel as stewards and regents of the kingdom.
Their brotherhood was led by one named Jhames, known by most as the “Priest King”. When time and timber became the sole obsession of the Kingdom of Haven, slaves were voluntarily made in exchange for not much more than a little kindling. His reign was largely unopposed as long as there was fear and timber enough to feed the people’s allegiance.
This assignment, to serve and transport the Priest King Jhames, was a trickier sort of honor than one might expect. In days past, this was the ultimate vote of confidence for a young groomsman, as there was no more important or honorable duty in the field than to tend to the steeds of their great leader. However, in recent weeks, a darker madness had colored the mind and mood of the Priest King. Michael, though honored by the recommendation, knew full well that he had been given the assignment mostly because the master groomsman did not, in fact, want it for himself.
He was able to put his concerns away for the moment, allowing himself to revel in a bit of excitement at such a task. He had never been inside the Capital, let alone into the courts of the Citadel, and he was eager to be as close as he possibly could get to the great and hallowed burning tree.
Michael made his way across the stable yard towards the royal equerry, eager to begin the task of making one of the royal carriages ready. Two older carriage horses, a beautiful silver color coating their well-fed frames, had been given the task of ferrying the Priest King while he toured the boroughs in an effort to speak peace to the fears of Haven’s frightened citizens.
People were more than ready to hear from their Priest King; they were ravenous for some kind of word, some kind of sign that this was not a surprise to the Priests and that soon things would somehow turn out to be all right. Letters of demands had been flooding the Citadel, and frightened mobs of people gathered daily at the entrance to the Kings’ Bridge. The Capital guard was beginning to have a difficult time quelling the frightened citizens, and it had become quite obvious to all that it was time to hear from the Citadel.
Jhames, who was supremely confident in his teachings and dogmatic in his adherence to them, was becoming uncharacteristically unnerved by this unexpected turn of events. His council, along with a few of his aides and Arborists, had been meeting in the great court for the last two days. The men had poured over the ancient books and scrolls, they had searched the almanacs and daily reports from the last seventy-three years, but they had not uncovered any other break in the trends of the falling branches.
The Arborists were assaulted with question after impossible question, for they too
had been searching for answers since the very first branch fell. Now, gathered here in the midst of this holy council, these experts were as dumbfounded as the rest.
Up until now, the huge branches had been consumed at a rate of one every seven years; the pattern had gone unmoved and unchanged since the very first felling. The Priests had made great efforts of preparation and had stockpiled vast amounts of timber in the treasuries of the Capital, all under the assumption that the great darkening was predictable. But now the trend had been abruptly broken. Panic swirled and tempers rose as the council clamored for some semblance of understanding.
“What could this mean?” said a councilman.
“Can we expect a new pattern? Will the remaining two branches fall at a rate of one every three years now?”
“What have we done to anger the THREE who is SEVEN? That is why this has happened like it has!” argued another advisor. “We must make amends!”
Jhames sat in his stone seat, which was positioned in the center of the court, facing the emptied throne of the missing King Illium. He wondered what indeed had gone wrong. How could he have failed both Haven and the THREE who is SEVEN?
Speculation continued to muddy up the room, and soon Priests and advisors alike were pointing fingers, ready to assign blame to something or someone. Chancellor Chaiphus, the personal aide and confidante of Jhames, broke the chaos with the lifting of three fingers. The voices of the speculating council slowly quieted and the storm subsided for the moment as each one of them waited in submission for Chaiphus to speak.
“My fellow councilmen, perhaps we are seeing this all wrong. Perhaps this is a warning and not a punishment.” His aged hand rested back down upon his lap as he leaned back in his chair, observing the reaction to his words.
The council looked at each other, some of them beginning to whisper, while others let the gravity of the words have their full effect.
The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) Page 13