Eclipsing the Darkness (The Dragon Chronicles Book 5)

by Shawn E. Crapo

  Jodocus was silent. Though disappointed, he knew she was correct. He was not meant to die in a senseless battle. He was here to do much more. He would be needed when the Great Mother went into her healing sleep.

  “Yes, mama,” he said, finally.

  “Try to get some sleep,” Aeli said. “The moorcat will keep watch.”

  “Yes, he will,” Jodocus replied. But he knew that somewhere in the forest, someone else was watching, too.

  Torak rested in the makeshift hammock he had hung between the branches of a tall pine tree. He gazed at the sunrise, his hands folded comfortably behind his head. Despite the upcoming battle, in which he would secretly participate, he felt relaxed and content. It was possibly a side effect of doing good, he thought. He had spent most of his life doing evil things, and now his repentance had begun to fill his soul with warmth and hope.

  Whatever the outcome of his new life, he knew that he would eventually return to the arms of the Great Mother.

  He smiled as he thought of how peaceful an existence that would be. Perhaps she would allow him to return someday in the future, as someone else. Maybe even someone fully human. Whatever the case, he would accept it, no matter what. He was at peace and there was nothing that could take that away.

  The chirping of a mother bird bringing food to her hatchlings caught his attention. He glanced over to the next tree, grinning as he watched the small blue creature regurgitate food into the tiny mouths that impatiently gaped open. Soon, another adult landed on the branch next to her and joined the mother bird in her song. Torak almost felt the bond between the two birds, as if he was feeling it himself. It was a beautiful feeling, as if he was in the presence of his own soul mate.

  The thought suddenly saddened him. Never in his life had he felt that bond with anyone. The closest thing he had ever come to it was the brief platonic meeting with the young druid, Jodocus. To the shaman, the boy seemed like someone who could be his friend. He knew Jodocus would live for an unimaginably long time, so the possibility of the two of them being friends, even best friends, was definitely strong.

  He would like to have a friend.

  Perhaps the moorcat would see him as a friend; maybe even Traegus. But, he knew, despite the druid Farouk’s great wisdom, the former Jindala would only remember Torak as Tyrus the Blackhearted. That saddened him greatly. And Aeli knew his past as well, as Allora had told her everything she knew. Neither of them would ever look upon him with anything but contempt; perhaps even hate.

  And what of the king and his knights? Would they accept him as a shaman in this land? Or would they hunt him down like an animal?

  “An animal?”

  The voice startled Torak, and he jerked with surprise, nearly falling out of his hammock. He looked around desperately, seeing the Keeper floating above a nearby branch.

  “Sorry about that,” the Keeper said. “That would have been a rather unfortunate end for you.”

  “I was just resting for the battle,” Torak said.

  “Good, good. I am very impressed and gladdened to see that you wish to help the people of this island. It is why I brought you back.”

  “They are good people,” Torak said, sadly. “And I respect them. I do not wish to see them harmed.”

  The Keeper settled down onto the branch, his ethereal form looking odd in such a position. “If you help them,” he began, “there is the possibility that they will see you. Though there are a few of them that will accept you the way you are, I do not wish the others to know your true identity.”

  “There is nothing that can be done about that.”

  “Oh?” the Keeper asked. “I can do anything, my son. Did you forget?”

  Torak shifted nervously in his hammock, not sure as to what the Keeper meant.

  “Come down to the ground with me.”

  The Keeper disappeared, rematerializing on the ground below. Torak swung out of his hammock, gathering his furs and staff and climbing down as fast as he could. When he reached the forest floor, he stood looking down at the Keeper.

  “Despite your small stature, you are still taller than I,” the Keeper said. “That is amusing. But we must change your appearance a bit in order for you to blend in.”

  “What do you mean?” Torak asked.

  “Well,” the Keeper said, gesturing at Torak’s body. “This is no good.”

  Torak stood silent. The Keeper chuckled.

  Then, the divine being raised his hands again, spreading his fingers to allow sparkling blue-black threads of power to leak out and wrap themselves around Torak’s body. The shaman gulped and groaned as mild pains shot through his limbs. He could feel his joints crackling, and his skin tingling. Even the hair on his face began to itch and burn. Somehow, the Keeper appeared to grow shorter, as if he were shrinking. But, Torak realized that it was he who was growing.

  Torak was now as tall as a normal man, less hairy, and less animal-like. He reached up to feel his face, which was now smoother and less bumpy. He no longer had the brow ridges of his former self, his teeth were smaller, and his chin was larger. And that chin, to his great amusement, was covered in a fine, black beard. He smiled, then realized he was now naked.

  He reached down to cover himself.

  The Keeper spun his hands in the air in a dramatic fashion, and plucked a sheet of ethereal matter from nowhere. He folded it, unfolded it, and wove it into a fancy robe. It was shimmering blue, with shining black and gold symbols that were quite obviously the language of the elite mages of the world.

  The Keeper fluffed it, held it before him, and nodded his approval. He then handed the robe to Torak, who gladly donned it. When he finished, the Keeper handed him a pair of black boots with shining steel buckles and rough soles. They were perfect for romping through the forest and over the rocks. He pulled them on excitedly.

  “Take a look at yourself,” the Keeper said, causing a mirror to materialize before him.

  Torak looked at his image, smiling as he saw his straight black hair, blue eyes, and fine, fine beard. He really loved the beard. He laughed out loud as he stared, drawing a chuckle from the Keeper himself.

  “Alright, handsome,” the Keeper said, waving the mirror away. “That’s enough.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Torak said. “I will bear this new likeness with humility.”

  “Good,” the Keeper replied. “Do not let your appearance get in the way of your soul. You remember what happened the last time you were made handsome?”

  Torak lowered his face in shame. “Yes, I do.”

  “You are no longer Tyrus the Blackhearted,” the Keeper said. “And you are no longer Torak, shaman of the Steppe. You are now Torak, Son of the Moon, Keeper of the Forest. You will serve the king, and you will assist the rangers and the Druaga in their efforts to keep the lands safe. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Father,” Torak replied.

  “I need you to keep your promise to always protect this land. You will watch over all of the kings that may rule this land in the future. You will guide them, advise them, and teach them the ways of the Dragon. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “The world will change with the rebalancing. This land will grow larger, as will all others. One day, the tribes of Eirenoch will return with their new king, and you will ensure that they will always rule. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  The Keeper held his fists together, closing his black eyes and calling on the powers of the Earth. As he pulled his fists apart, a beautifully crafted sword appeared between them. It bore a gleaming steel blade, a golden cross-guard, and a black leather grip. The blade was straight, engraved with druidic symbols, and seemed to be made of two different kinds of steel. The Keeper held the sword out to Torak, who took it with trembling hands.

  “This sword shall be the sword of kings. Keep it in a safe place. When you meet the future king, he will bear it against his enemies and retake the island for his tribe. Do you understand?”


  “No.”

  The Keeper chuckled. “Forgive me, my son, but I sometimes get ahead of myself. You will know these things when they come to pass. For now, you must find a place to take up residence. Every elite needs a tower.”

  “I do not have a tower.”

  “Correct,” the Keeper said. “That is why you must build one.”

  “Where?”

  “Do I have to spell out everything? Go east, toward Faerbane. There is an abandoned mine there located within the crater of an ancient meteorite impact. The divine power is strong there. Build your tower there. I will give you the ability to create whatever architecture you wish simply by picturing it in your mind.”

  Torak nodded. “What of the upcoming battle?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the Keeper said. “You will need to hurry. I would suggest teleporting to the mines.”

  Torak nodded in understanding… somewhat.

  Frustrated, the Keeper snapped his fingers.

  Torak disappeared.

  “Good luck, my son.” the Keeper said.

  Chapter Twelve

  Fierce winds blasted stinging sand into Eamon’s face as he stumbled through the chaotic battle. Though the sky was clouded with the sand storm, a strange glow was cast over the battlefield by a brilliant beam of light that shot up from the Great Pyramid’s apex. All around, the sounds of men’s screams and the clanking of steel on steel assaulted the king’s ears.

  He struggled to strike with the Serpent’s Tongue, but the close quarters of the battle prevented any formidable swings. Shoving his way through, he sought an opening where he could attack effectively. Friend and foe alike stood in his way, and he shouldered through with aggressive grunts.

  The Jindala and their allies had completely surrounded the armies of the kings, penetrating their ranks and cutting them off from one another. To the millions of enemies, the allied forces seemed like a mere annoyance.

  The outlook was grim.

  Suddenly, a fierce pain shot through Eamon’s side. He turned to bat away the weapon that had pierced him, seeing the scowl of the Jindala spearman that wielded it. He thrust the Serpent’s Tongue toward his enemy, piercing the man’s chest and pushing him back into the chaos. The king grasped his bleeding wound, crying out in pain as the silence bore in.

  As his vision blurred, the sounds of battle died out, replaced by the loud pounding of his heart. He began to feel the effect of blood loss as he stumbled on. The enemies around him seemed to ignore him, letting him pass unfettered. He looked around, tracers obscuring his vision. His breath quickened, as did his heart, causing him more pain and loss of blood.

  Through the haze, he saw his knights. They were separated for the most part, fighting off the slew of enemies that mobbed them like flies. Angen and Brianna fought back to back, wearily fending off their attackers with increasing fatigue. He saw the brutish knight pushed back, blood spraying from a massive chest wound. Eamon’s eyes widened as he saw Angen fall into Brianna, and then she herself skewered with a spear.

  “No!” Eamon cried, desperately clawing his way toward him.

  Wrothgaar appeared near him, staggering through the melee with his hand clutching his neck. Blood squirted from between his fingers, telling the king that the Northman’s throat had been cut. He went to Wrothgaar, his heart heavy, and cradled him as he fell.

  As he knelt next to his best friend, he saw Azim’s body. The knight had been run through and was lying face up; his eyes glazed over and blood covering his face. Eamon let Wrothgaar slump to the ground, and crawled toward Azim, as if through a thick cloud of solid sand.

  “Azim,” he whispered.

  As he stood and rushed toward his fallen friend, he was knocked over by a falling body. He recognized the dragon armor on the dead man, and turned him over to see his face.

  Daryth.

  “Father!” Eamon shouted to the sky. “Help us!”

  Through clouded eyes, he saw the growing piles of bodies. Among them, Ulrich crouched on his knees, staring blankly at the sky. Slowly, the Jarl fell forward into the sand, reaching forward as if to grasp an invisible hand. Behind him, the bodies of Jadhav and Brynn lay prone, their eyes dead and filled with sand.

  Eamon’s vision blurred again, and he felt himself falling. He knew that he had lost too much blood. He was dying. Before his eyes he saw his mother appear; regal and beautiful as ever. She looked down at him as he lay on the sand, her face frozen in sorrow.

  “Mother,” he struggled to whisper. “I am coming.”

  Siobhan smiled warmly, but her eyes were saddened. Tears welled up in them as Eamon’s vision faded.

  “I love you, Eamon,” she said.

  Then, all was black.

  Eamon shot up in his bed, screaming. He clutched his heart, drawing in deep breaths as it pounded painfully. As he opened his eyes, the familiar sight of his makeshift bedchamber relieved his fear. All was quiet. There were no enemies. There was no storm.

  Dream, he thought.

  “Are you alright?” a pleasant voice asked from the shadows.

  He shuddered, looking around to find the source. Allora moved out of the shadows, approaching his bed, her face saddened and concerned.

  Eamon closed his eyes, allowing his head to stop spinning and his heart to slow. He nodded, catching his breath. “I’m alright,” he said.

  He felt Allora sit on the edge of the bed. Her hand stroked his hair, and her warmth comforted him as he sensed it growing around him. He leaned toward her, resting his head on her bosom. She cradled him lovingly, leaning her face against his head.

  “Your dreams are haunting,” she said. “As they have been since your mother was killed.”

  He nodded silently.

  “She was your world,” Allora continued. “And her death has clouded your mind.”

  “I must not be distracted,” Eamon said. “I must focus. But it is difficult.”

  “Be still, Eamon,” she said, kissing the top of his head. “You are burdened with too many things.”

  Eamon sighed, opening his eyes and looking up at her. She was beautiful, he thought. So beautiful. Her eyes, like Siobhan’s, were deep green. Her hair was crimson, as well. The warmth that came from her presence was that of the queen, too. Eamon’s heart pounded as he stared into her eyes. It was a feeling he had never experienced.

  “I am here for you,” she whispered. “For whatever you need.”

  Eamon closed his eyes again, his mind settling as the horror of the dream faded.

  Soon, he was asleep once more.

  The morning sun brought the familiar desert heat back; a stark contrast to the frigid temperatures that plagued the soldiers the night before. Eamon squinted as he made his way to the top of the wall on the east side of the fortress. There, the kings had gathered with their soldiers to witness the coming of the Alvar. Thousands of men took positions along the walls, on the rooftops, and in the open sand outside the fortress to watch the spectacle.

  Mekembe nodded to Eamon as he stopped next to him. Eamon returned the gesture, his heart still aching from the night before. He briefly looked around to find Allora, who stood below, next to Faeraon, a short distance from the wall. In the distance, Traegus shuffled his way through the sand, moving to a safe distance at which to open the portal.

  All eyes were upon the wizard as he prepared his spell.

  “He seems to be a little awkward in his step,” Mekembe remarked as he saw the wizard stumble in the sand.

  “He’s not used to sand, I suppose,” Eamon replied.

  Hamal chuckled. “It’s very hard to get used to unless you’ve spent your life in it,” he said.

  “I would like to see him traverse snow,” Cannuck said, grinning. “Farouk did it fairly well, as I recall.”

  “I hate sand,” Jadhav added. “I miss the jungles of my land.”

  “As do I,” Mekembe said. “There is nothing like the smell of the jungle after a good rain.”

  “Watch,” Ulrich said. “Something
is happening.”

  Traegus paused when he reached a wide, flat area of the sand. Here, the dunes were mostly level, creating a good surface for the Alvar to arrive. It would also be a good place to transport the entire army forward when the time was right.

  Still facing away from the fortress, he raised his hands into the air, his staff gripped tightly in his left hand. After chanting his spell, he lowered his staff, making an imaginary line in the sand before him. The sand puffed upward as if a long pole had been dropped on it. Traegus smiled.

  Then, planting his staff in the sand, he raised his palms upward, beckoning the rift to open upward. A bright light appeared along the line, growing larger as the portal increased in height. He could hear the gasps of surprise and awe among the soldiers behind him.

  “Come now,” he said. “Join us, my friends.”

  The portal opened fully, shooting out rays of light and a fog of mist from Eirenoch. He could see the forest and the blue sky of his homeland, and the massive army of Alvar warriors waiting patiently in formation. He smiled and nodded in acknowledgement.

  “Welcome!” he said.

  Eamon watched in awe as the army of Alvar stepped through the portal. Below, Faeraon went forward to greet them, followed by Allora and Farouk. The Alvar were divine in appearance; tall, golden-haired, and armored with gleaming plates of magical steel and blue silk. They carried long spears, curved swords, and formidable bows.

  “I have never seen anything like them,” Mekembe said. “They are like the spirits of the forest.”

  Eamon nodded. “They will surely strike fear into the hearts of the Jindala.”

  “And the Lifegiver himself,” Cannuck added. “They are just as noble as the stories of the north have said. I am truly in awe.”

  “They don’t look so tough,” Ulrich joked. “I could take them.”

  Eamon chuckled. “I do not doubt that, Ulrich,” he said, playing along. “Come, let us go meet them.”

  “Welcome to Khem!” Traegus said, as the two thousand Alvar stood before him. “As you can plainly tell, it is quite hot here. But fear not, Farouk and I will ensure that your journey is pleasant, or at least, bearable.”