by Aaron Bunce
To make matters worse, the walls started to close in around her. The weight of a mile of stone and earth pressed heavily upon her. It made her dizzy. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to see the sky. She was on the verge of losing control.
Eisa lifted her head off of Dombrangr’s shoulder in time to see a door emerge from the shadows, bright light pouring from the space beyond. The door was easily ten times the height of a man. Embossed carvings of strange creatures glistened in golden paint on its pitted surface.
The room beyond the doors looked like an enormous audience chamber. Hundreds of fires raged in ornamental cages, casting the circular chamber in intense light.
Eisa looked up into the towering darkness. Pinpricks of bright light flickered like stars. For a moment, Eisa thought that she was standing beneath the night sky.
Have I been transported to the world above, somehow?
In her despair, Eisa realized that they weren’t stars at all. Instead, they were the strange glowing mushrooms, scattered over the surface of the domed ceiling.
A sweeping stair rose at the room’s center, leading up to a round platform. Long poles extended out of the ground, holding radiant gems aloft.
Eisa felt a tingle run up her spine, and she realized that they were no longer alone. Dark figures scurried in and out of the chamber, flitting through a multitude of side passageways. But they were too far away, and moved too quickly to see properly.
Dombrangr carried her towards the room’s center, a hazy ring of smoke hanging just above eye level. Eisa cringed as she looked down. A sea of skeletal remains covered the ground. Some looked long dead while others still clung to casings of mummified flesh.
Dombrangr wove his way onto the stairs. Skeletons lay sprawled and broken on the steps on either side of her. Death surrounded them on all sides.
Eisa’s heart started to pound as Dombrangr stopped. She fought against him, but he gingerly pried her loose and lowered her to the ground. The stone felt surprisingly cold and damp beneath her feet.
It was not a platform as she had first thought, but a large, dark pit. Shadowy fish drifted lazily just beneath the surface of the water, illuminated by the bluish glow of the radiant gemstones.
Eisa became mesmerized by the shifting, circling forms of the fish, and didn’t immediately notice the throne that towered over the far side of the pool. A kingly statue sat perched upon the seat, a glittering jewel encrusted crown on its head.
The seated figure had a chiseled, ancient looking visage. Its beard was as white as freshly fallen snow and spilled in ratty tatters. One of the figure’s hands draped over the hilt of a magnificent onyx sword. The polished metal caught the firelight and reflected it in dancing pools on her clothes.
Eisa couldn’t help but wonder why Dombrangr would bring her here. She looked to the statue for answers. She didn’t notice that the figures in the room had stopped scurrying and slowly crowded around the base of the pool.
“Of the divine…” Eisa gasped and took an involuntary step backward as the figure on the throne turned its head and looked at her. Alabaster eyelids slid open, revealing bright blue eyes, eyes that looked horribly out of place within the ancient face.
Eisa shuddered as her weight landed on her broken foot. She hopped back with a curse, the piercing eyes still boring into her. She tried to retreat further, tried to back down off the stone lip of the pool, but Dombrangr was there, and with a firm shove pushed her forward again.
“The first…yes, just as it wanted,” the statuesque figure croaked. His voice was dry and rough, as if the weight of centuries of silence had settled over it.
Eisa couldn’t swallow past the lump in her throat. She wanted to scream at the desiccated old man. To demand answers. To demand she be taken home. But now that she faced the one responsible for tearing her life apart, she found that she couldn’t force the words out.
Crystalline blue eyes continued to bore into her, casting their silent judgment. Eisa felt the creatures closing in around her, peeking up and over the lip of the pool, watching her hungrily.
Their eyes were small and close set. She saw thick splotches of mangy fur, and long jagged teeth in gaping mouths. Eisa knew what they were before the word formed in her mind. They were gnarls.
She had never seen one before. But she was raised on the stories of their depravity and brutality. Here she was now, face to face with the monsters from her childhood. She felt like a lamb, eyed by a hungry pack of wolves.
Eisa turned and looked into Dombrangr’s emotionless orbs, desperate to glean some hint of her fate. But there were no answers. His lips curled, exposing row upon row of curving teeth. He grasped her, lifting her bodily into the air.
She struggled, but his grip felt like iron. Her feet flailed pathetically. She dangled for only a moment, and then was falling, tumbling backward towards the black water below.
Eisa broke the surface with a suffocating crash. She kicked and thrashed, trying to ignore the pain in her throbbing foot. The water felt like ice against her skin, burning like a million prodding needles. It felt heavy. It fought against her every movement.
Finally, after several heart-numbing moments, Eisa broke the surface and gasped for breath. Her sputtering sobs hung as a dense fog just over the water. Her teeth started to chatter loudly. But as cold as the water was, the air felt even colder.
The edge of the pool towered all around her, and she could see no stair or ladder leading out. Something splashed in the water, and then she saw them. Dark, swirling shapes moved all around her in the water. She could barely see them. They were there one moment and gone the next.
They moved like ghosts in the radiant light, but several of them were close, and they were coming closer.
“Help me! Let me out of here right now!” Eisa screamed, her lips going numb. But part of her knew that her calls for help were in vain.
* * * *
He watched the ghostly creature from his massive throne. The durjj clung to the side of the pit, but in a moment it was pacing again. The ominous shapes churned in the dark water, converging on the girl like hungry predators.
The gnarls pressed in, attracted by the girl’s increasingly pathetic cries for help. Their bloodthirsty nature had never been more evident.
A haunting glow broke through the murky water, and the girl’s desperate thrashing abruptly went silent. He watched and waited.
He wanted to stand from the painful confines of the stone chair, but he knew he didn’t have the strength. It was all he could do just to rest his hand on the pummel of his wicked sword. It was that weapon that kept the conniving creatures of his underground world in line. They didn’t need to know that he could no longer lift it.
The durjj dropped back over the lip of the pool, his multitude of limbs grasping and clawing at the wet stone. It hovered, pawing at the still water expectantly. He could feel the creature’s anticipation. It infected the air all around them.
He hadn’t felt this alive in a long time, not since before his fall. He could barely remember home, only the bowels of these vile mountains.
In truth, he had resigned himself to death long ago but found it ever so difficult to die. His body had grown weak and frail, damaged by the same power that had also sustained it, the power that resided in his loathsome sword.
He coughed, thinking to speak, but even words proved too heavy to lift. When he thought it was all for naught, the waters started to bubble and churn. The durjj looked up at him. It had an understanding of the power floating in the pool far deeper than any alive. He knew little of the events he had set into motion. Only that the balance was about to shift.
A tawny glow illuminated the murky water as a solitary figure appeared from the murk. The water popped and danced, throwing off clouds of steam as a pale face emerged from the turbulent water.
The sight of her filled him with a peculiar mixture of emotions. He felt fear, excitement, and joy, but also dread. She bobbed in the water, looking up at the host of fa
ces peering down at her. She showed no sign of fear or trepidation.
The durjj climbed along the edge of the pool, its claws digging into the stone like a miner’s pickaxe, rending the very rock itself. It scuttled down until it hung right above her, and with its long, strong arm, scooped the young woman out of the water.
The gnarls scattered to the shadows as the durjj climbed free of the pool. He watched the creature ease the girl gently to the ground. Steam rolled off of her slight body, swirling around her like a cloak formed of mist.
She was speaking, standing so close to the hulking durjj that it became difficult to tell where one ended, and the other began. The hulking white creature backed away a step and shook its head, stamping its fists forcefully into the ground.
The young woman did not shrink away. Instead, she reached up and took the fearsome beast by the jaw and pulled it down to her level. He could hear her speaking to it, her voice drifting around the room, echoing from every corner all at once. The durjj snarled, or it could have been a laugh, he could never really tell. Then it was gone, bounding off into the darkness.
To where? He could only guess.
The girl turned slowly, her gaze falling to him. In the strange glow of the pool’s radiant gems, her eyes sparkled like polished emeralds. Her hair fell like a great black sheet, obscuring half of her face. She walked his way, her gait smooth and her tread silent against the stone. It was then that he fully realized what he had done, the enormity of his accomplishment.
When he had stumbled into this cavern all those winter thaws ago, he had never fathomed the power laid to rest beneath his feet. As the time turned over, his exile wore away at his mind. During the quiet moments, he started to hear the voice.
He hadn’t given it much thought at first. He was mad, after all. He spent most of his life hearing things no one else could. He would come to realize that this voice was different. And the longer he listened, the more captivated he became. The voice, it turned out, wanted the same thing.
What could it hurt? he reasoned.
He felt a thrill course through him as she approached, and his withered body began to shake. He didn’t know if she was going to kill him, or resurrect him. But within his twisted mind, he felt excitement either way.
Part Two
Drawing Shadows
Chapter 5
Roman
Southern Karnell, Harvest time…
Autumn came early to Bardstown. The chill that crept in on the wind spurred changes in the forest and fields, but in the people as well. The first frosts had been many weeks ago however, and the weather gradually warmed since, seemingly just to spite Mother Nature, and the inevitable turn to the cold, harsh of winter.
In Denoril’s earliest seasons, Bardstown had been a place of song and story, a crossroads town known for its taverns. Places frequented by bards and minstrels, who would thrill merchants and travelers with their song stories of deeds long ago.
Back then, merchants traveled the road three out of the four seasons, moving between Daneshall and Bargeron in the south, and the lake cities of Karnell to the north. Goods were plentiful, and there was much gold for the taking.
As the provinces grew, the Earls demanded more in food and goods. Subsequently, farmsteads closed, or stopped selling their foods at market, leaving the merchants less to trade. Eventually, the tax grew as well, and the merchants abandoned the roads south in favor of more profitable routes. Bardstown floundered and faded to an almost forgotten piece of southern Karnell.
Bardstown’s people were simple, hardy folk. They took their responsibilities seriously. Generation after generation, they raised their young to work the soil and coax the most from its potential. It was because of that the people of Bardstown were so close, and never more so than harvest time.
Each harvest, households opened up, and to every man, woman, and child, the needs of the community became singular. They worked together to cut fields, tie, and haul in crops. Many worked long days at the town’s river mill, grinding grains into flour and corn into meal.
There was a saying passed about often: “the utmost need, the winter feed.” It was Frenin, the town Elder’s staple line. He would shuffle his aged body to and fro early each day, moving people around as needed, trying to get every field cleared and ready before the Earl’s men arrived to claim gold, mercantile, and food as tax.
That tax was the primary thought on Roman’s mind that morning. He was sixteen now, and would be facing the tax collector on his own for the first time. A fear inspiring thought. One that had him spending every free moment working feverishly to collect as much coin as he could.
Roman sat in a rickety old chair on the front porch of his small cabin, watching the sunrise. The warm rays of sunlight galvanized the canopy of autumn leaves in resplendent hues of gold, copper, and red. A gentle breeze rustled through the trees, and for the first time since the first frosts, there was a bite to the air.
A light mist still hung reluctantly over the grass, settling in the low spots like a cottony blanket. The beauty of it should have put him at ease, but as much as he loved the change of the season, he couldn’t help but feel unsettled.
Horrible dreams had plagued his sleep of late. The kind that shook him awake and clung to him long after. They were vivid and haunting. And worse, they were never far from his thoughts.
He glanced over to his wooden racks and the pelts left to dry. There weren’t as many as he would like, and they looked so small now that they were all spread out. He began to worry again. He tried to tell himself that there was only so much he could do.
Roman drew in a healthy breath. He smelled wood smoke and pine trees, the wonderful bouquet of fall. Nothing smelled quite like it. It was in those quiet moments that Roman willed his mind to go blank, to focus on the wind in the trees, and bask in the sunrise. In those moments, he sought peace.
Those moments never lasted long, and the troubles of tasks unfinished, his worries, regrets, and things lost forever always worked their way back in. This would be the third winter since his father succumbed to the black fever. He still struggled with the realization that his father was gone.
He remembered his laugh. How his belly would shake and his cheeks go red. He had been a bear of a man, as strong as an ox and graced with a silver tongue. There had been a mysterious side to his father too. He had been secretive at times and closed off about certain things. Without any other family, Roman was left to figure out a great many things on his own.
His thoughts passed back to snowy days. They spent a moon cycle hunting. The tracks were easy to follow in the ankle-high powder, and they returned home with a sled packed to brim with fresh meat and hides. The butcher had been busy for days.
That night, as they warmed themselves by the fireplace, his father had taken a chill. By the following morning his father couldn’t lift himself from bed, and was burning with fever. His sleep was troubled, and he would mumble and crying out, sometimes while wide awake.
Roman, not yet thirteen, tended to him day and night. The final morning his father awoke, and in a moment of clarity took Roman’s hand.
“Roman my dear boy, there are so many things I need to tell you,” he said, his voice weak and trembling. He tried to sit up, but he was too weak.
“There are so many things I have wanted to tell you, Roman, about your mother. It’s complicated,” he said.
Roman had always known only questions about his mother. It frustrated him. He felt incomplete, and without a place. He remembered the excitement of finally learning something about her.
When his father tried to speak again, his words made little sense, and he collapsed on the bed. Roman swallowed down his frustration and tucked him in with another blanket to fight off the cold drafts, and then stoked the fire.
He remembered the walk to the kitchen. The floor was cold against his bare feet. He had crushed up dried mint and lavender to make tea. Roman troubled over many things while he waited for the water to heat. He always
came back to his mother, though, and why his father had always refused to speak of her.
He remembered how tired he had been. He hadn’t slept, instead staying up all night pressing cool rags to his forehead, and jumping at every cough and groan. It had been the warmth of the fireplace and the soothing aroma of mint. He leaned his head against the mantle and closed his eyes.
Roman didn’t know how long he slept, leaning awkwardly against the mantle. He awoke when his knees buckled, and he nearly fell over. As good as it felt to close his eyes he was angry at himself for slipping. The water was boiling, but he fumbled and dropped his father’s favorite mug on the floor. The mug shattered against the cold floor. He could still remember the sound.
He became so upset that he had started to cry and tiptoed through the broken pieces to his father’s room to apologize. His father lay still in his bed, and for the first time since falling ill he looked peaceful.
When Roman approached, he noticed that his skin had gone pale, almost gray. He felt cold to the touch. Roman dropped painfully to his knees next to the bed. He quietly sobbed into the blanket, not moving for a great while.
The guilt still haunted Roman. He blamed himself for falling asleep. He believed that if he had been there, he could have helped him. He could have kept his father alive.
Roman’s last chance to know his mother, and where he came from, was lost. His father’s death devastated the town. They told him to stand tall and be strong, that he was like his father, and he would be okay, but Roman didn’t believe it.
“Good morn, Roman,” a man called from the dirt trail leading up to the house. Roman, who had been gazing absently at the deep orange of the sunrise, waved halfheartedly in reply.
“Good morn to you, Frenin!” he offered finally, running his hands absently through his hair as the old man hobbled up to the house. After his father’s death, the jovial town elder had made a point to keep a close eye on Roman, but none of the attention could replace the parents he longed for.