Prophecy of Darkness

by Stella Howard

  She rolled out of her bedding and glancing over at the two sleeping girls, reached for the wood that Gabrielle had set aside for the morning fire. Gabrielle, as always, was a picture of innocent peace, her face open and untroubled in rest, her tousled blond hair falling gently across her brow. Alesandra also looked innocent, although her child’s face seemed somehow taut, her skin too pale, as if she worried even while she slept.

  How strange it would be, to have such a powerful gift—and for one so young, the burden must be heavy. Xena could relate to feeling different, but fighting better than most men wasn’t cause for the kind of ostracism that Alesandra had suffered, and would suffer. There were many who cursed the name of Xena, and with good cause—but it was a hatred for deeds done. Alesandra was feared and cast out simply for being herself, for using her visions to promote change.

  It wasn’t always easy for Xena to keep a positive view of her fellow man, as there was much ignorance in the world and often innocents suffered for it—but if she had completely lacked hope, there would have been no point in her trying to change anything. She knew that the essence of her life now was the effort to keep the scales of good and evil more fairly balanced, for everyone. She could hope for no better, as most people clutched their ignorance to themselves, their narrow-mindedness a kind of shield. But helping others to see their potential—to help someone like Alesandra learn that she was strong, and that the ignorance of others could be overcome—this was a way for Xena to promote change for the better without even lifting her sword . . .

  She smiled to herself, stacked the kindling into a pyramid shape, and reached for her flint. In the early mornings, her mind liked to try and get at the meanings of life. She knew she wasn’t a philosopher; she wasn’t witless either, but she believed that it was all a game in a way. There were those better suited to deep philosophical thought than she . . . more patient than she would ever be in the confines of the human mind. There was a part of her that strove to conquer injustice in a more physical way, and she could not deny it. The great scholars perhaps did not possess her drive to keep moving, to use action sometimes instead of words.

  Enough with the depth, and on to the first battle of the day . . .

  Trying to get Gabrielle to wake up without having to dump cold water on her—a combat experience almost every morning. She started the fire, feeling strangely peaceful with the task, then turned to where Gabrielle slept.

  “Gabrielle,” she whispered, then repeated, louder, “Gabrielle.”

  Gabrielle rolled her head to one side and mumbled in her sleep. She said something that sounded a lot like “oofmasna-gluh.” Bright and alert, as always.

  Xena crept closer, grinning. “Hey,” she said softly, “I’ve made you a nice breakfast. It’s all ready.”

  “Mmm?” Gabrielle was half-awake now, a dreamy, hopeful smile on her lips.

  “Yes,” said Xena. “We’re having toasted grubs with cold, heavily congealed root jelly. Think of those little creatures, wriggling through the cold jelly—”

  Gabrielle sat up, rubbing at her eyes. “Wha— Are you serious? That’s . . . that’s disgusting.”

  “Well, then, since you’re awake, why don’t you tend to breakfast?” Xena smiled prettily.

  Gabrielle scowled at her, stretching her arms over her head and yawning at the same time. “Gee, what a good idea,” she said, heavy on the sarcasm. Toasted grubs? With Xena’s cooking, one could never be too sure; Gabrielle would be delighted to make something—anything, as long as she got to cook it.

  At the sound of their voices, Alesandra opened her eyes and sat up groggily. “Hi.”

  Xena smiled at her. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

  Alesandra nodded, smiling back wearily. She turned to Gabrielle, who rummaged through their food pack. “Can I do anything to help?”

  Gabrielle shook her head. “Not unless you can lay eggs. It looks like dried pork and brown nuts, unless Xena wants to go hunting.”

  She turned to her warrior friend, frowning. “We didn’t get much from the woodfolk. Do you know if there are any villages farther south?”

  Xena shrugged. “I can’t imagine why there wouldn’t be, although we have enough dried goods to last over a week, even without my hunting. I’m sure we’ll find somewhere to re-stock before we run very low.”

  Alesandra had already started to roll up her bedding. “Yes, there is a place—I can’t remember the name, but Otus used to trade things there for metals and cloth, things the woodfolk couldn’t make. He never took me with him, but I’m pretty sure it’s only a week away, maybe less.”

  “Great,” said Xena, nodding. Although the hunting was plentiful now, they would need to have more dried goods for later; stories had it that the land near Avernus was a barren place, the woods there desolate and lifeless.

  There was no need to tell her companions that; last night’s conversation had made Xena realize that although Alesandra might be a prophet of high order, she was still young enough to accept legends and half-truths with an open heart—at least at night. They would reach Avernus in only a couple of weeks and find out what it was really like, worrying about it beforehand would not change anything.

  Besides, Xena knew that, in spite of herself, she would worry enough for all of them.

  The next few days were uneventful, falling into a simple pattern: sleep, travel, break for lunch and then go on until the sun dropped low in the sky. The weather was good, the rains of late spring already past, the air filled with the breath of blossoming new life. Their supplies were running low, but Xena noted that the road they traveled on was improving—a sure sign that they were nearing a populated area.

  Gabrielle and Alesandra struck up quite a friendship as they traveled, the younger girl obviously looking up to Gabrielle as a real woman of the world. Gabrielle was happy in the role and enjoyed reciting tales of her and Xena’s quests and journeys, along with her own wealth of heroic adventure stories.

  Alesandra was thrilled by the attention, and Xena was glad to see that Gabrielle had broken through the girl’s initial shyness about herself. Although, thought Xena grimly, if she had to hear the story of Prometheus one more time, she was going to have to stuff her ears with moss it was Alesandra’s favorite, and she begged to hear the tale of the fire-giver as often as Gabrielle would tell it. Coaxing Gabrielle to speak was no hard task, either . . .

  By late afternoon on the sixth day after leaving the woodfolk, they had reached the outskirts of the village. At first, there were only a few scraggly gardens to signify the community’s nearness, the weedy patches rich with the smell of manure and guarded stiffly by poorly dressed scarecrows.

  As they got closer, they started to pass small, ramshackle huts where dirty children stopped their outdoor games to gaze up at their passing with wide, silent eyes. Gabrielle smiled and waved at some of them, but the children were obviously unaccustomed to seeing strangers; most ran inside or just stood there, as if struck dumb by the sight of other human beings.

  Xena was used to such a response, particularly from adults. The sight of her armor and weapons usually drew wary looks from the small-town people she encountered—not to mention that there were no other women warriors traveling the land, at least not that she’d heard lately. Xena’s reputation as a bloodthirsty fighter often preceded her. Opinions took longer to change than it had taken her to change her ways, she knew; her name was tainted by a long and warlike past. She could only hope that someday the name Xena could be spoken without fear or disgust . . .

  The first true community building that they passed was a temple of some sort, although Xena couldn’t tell who it was devoted to. Xena had never chosen an allegiance to any god or goddess herself, but then she’d always found it hard to put too much faith in something for which there was no tangible proof. She had never been able to decide if that was a fault or an attribute . . .

  When t
hey passed a second, and then a third, shrine, still without reaching the heart of the town, Xena started to feel a bit uneasy. The most populated of cities were overrun with temples, true—but from the looks of things, this was not a thriving community. As far as she knew, there weren’t any cities in this region big enough to support so many temples.

  “Alesandra, are you sure you don’t remember the name of this . . . village?”

  The child, still riding in front of her, shook her head and then craned her neck around to look at Xena. “Actually, maybe I do—it’s . . . um . . . Osterus? Or Oserus, or something like that.”

  Familiar sounding . . . “Osetus?”

  Alesandra smiled, nodding. “Yes, that’s it!” Xena felt even more uneasy, although she wasn’t sure why. She could see the buildings of the town now, coming into view—a stable, more houses, and yet another temple. Not much of a village, really, as small and dusty as many she’d passed through. A widening in the road and a scattering of shabby wood or stone structures . . . What was it? She’d heard of Osetus, something about it, but she couldn’t quite place the story. Gabrielle had stopped to pick a few daisies growing alongside the road, and hadn’t heard their conversation; Xena called back to her.

  “Gabrielle, have you ever heard of Osetus?”

  She hurried to catch up, smiling, and reached up to tuck one of the small flowers into Alesandra’s hair. “Osetus? It seems like—yeah, that’s in one of my stories! It’s that town in the south somewhere, where everyone is very religious—all the people there are into some kind of nature worship, and they’re strictly anti-magic—prophecy, fortune-telling, all of it. I’m pretty sure that’s the place where they used to burn witches; you know, ‘Anyone who casts spells is unnatural’ that kind of thing. Why?”

  Xena brought Argo to a sharp stop, but too late; they were on the main road of the town, and at least a dozen people had stopped in the street, watching them with distrustful eyes.

  They had reached Osetus, and if the people here found out who Alesandra was, they’d try to kill all three of them.

  Chapter 8

  He’d found it.

  It was amazing, unbelievable—seemingly impossible—that in only six months of searching, Telius had discovered what his father had spent his whole life looking for. Not just a spell, but the spell, the incantation that could conceivably end the threat of evil forever.

  Telius was in his room, pacing, too excited even to sit down. His mind was buzzing with the possibilities—a new hope for all the people in the world, a new foundation to build upon; redemption for lost souls, all striving to amend their evils. If it worked, and he saw no reason why it shouldn’t, the oppressed souls of the dead would be released from Hades, free to work toward a better way . . .

  He stopped walking and grinned to himself, realizing that he was thinking too far ahead. Once again, his gaze was drawn to the desk at the foot of his bed where the book lay open, its pages yellowed with age.

  Open to the page that would change the fate of humanity.

  He sat down on the wooden stool in front of the book, searching for the phrase that had first alerted him to the importance of the spell.

  Ah, there it was! He spoke the words aloud, marveling over the sound of them. “If these things be done at moon’s full light, the Path be opened—and at that Path be a Creature most Foul, that keeps the tortured from Peace. That Beast will be undone with the last of the Words, leaving Freedom for all Souls beyond . . .”

  Telius couldn’t seem to stop grinning. He read the words again, silently, probably for the fiftieth time in the last hour. It was so simple—the “Path” was surely the entrance to Hades, which was said to be a long, shadowy hall. And the “Creature” was almost certainly Cerebrus, the guardian of the entrance, a three-headed dog that kept the souls inside; he’d always heard from Father that Cerebrus probably couldn’t be killed, but here it was, a spell so simple that a child could complete it.

  To kill the oppressor of souls! The Bain name would be written and sung about for generations to come—Telius Bain, the savior of mankind! If only his father were here to claim his rightful share of glory, to see the miracle that he had worked so hard to achieve . . .

  His grin faded a bit. Truly, Martus Bain was the name that should be remembered; without him, none of this would be possible. Telius wouldn’t have known anything about spells or magic if his father hadn’t taught him—and just because it was he who had finally found the right incantation, that didn’t make his father’s search any less important.

  Telius frowned, wondering how his father could have missed this book. He had found it at the bottom of a huge stack in one of the spare bedrooms; it hadn’t been hidden or anything. The name on the dusty tome had caught his eye: A History of Nether, a title that meant it obviously had something to do with the Underworld . . .

  On the other hand, there were so many books and scrolls in the castle that no one man could possibly read them all, even in ten lifetimes; perhaps his father had simply never gotten around to the books in that room. Martus Bain had been a collector of all kinds of books, and had accumulated hundreds of them by himself—but there had been thousands already here when he moved in, an unheard of number for a single collection. Few kings kept more than a few hundred.

  The history of the castle was somewhat mysterious, no one knew exactly when it had been built, or how long it had been unoccupied before the Bains moved in. Martus had often tried to ferret out its origins, but had never had much luck—all they ever knew as fact was that a great sorcerer by the name of Trajen had lived here more than two centuries before, and that many of the books had been his. Martus had thought that it was Trajen who cast the spell over the castle, to keep the inhabitants safe and free from nightmares. Trajen may have been the builder, too, or at least the architect of the strange traps and mechanisms that kept unwelcome intruders from sneaking in. The many complex and built-in devices certainly seemed magical, although there was no way to be sure—but whoever had created them, or the castle itself, Martus had always marveled at the incredible efficiency and had taught his son to appreciate the complex design . . .

  Telius sighed, wishing once again that his father were here. It didn’t seem right, Father dying just months before this book was found! There had been so many hopes through the years, so many promises that had turned out to be falsely made—spells and rituals that had seemed like answers but had failed. Martus had tried scores of magical rites to try and stem the flow of evil in the world, and all to no avail. And now, here it was—as obvious as words on a page, and Martus Bain wasn’t there to read them. It didn’t seem fair.

  Ah, but life is not fair! Telius heard the words in his head that his father had so often spoken, usually with a gentle smile. To expect fairness from life is like expecting water from stone!

  Telius smiled himself, and felt his spirits lift as he looked down at the spell again. Life wasn’t fair, but sometimes it was just—Martus was gone, but his legacy had carried on, and had come to fruition through his only son.

  The ritual really was amazingly easy. The caster of the spell was supposed to light nine candles in a circle around himself, then draw another, smaller circle inside of it, directly in front of the hidden gateway. There he would stand and recite some magical words in a variety of different languages, and the gate would become visible.

  Telius didn’t quite understand that part. If the gate was behind the wall, how could it suddenly be seen? He figured that it was some kind of dissolving spell. Magic was a strange practice, indeed.

  Cerebrus would be at this visible entrance, and all Telius had to do was say three words to “undo” the creature. He scanned the list until he found them—“Sacritil, Zeniphous, Amithese.” He didn’t recognize the language, but then, he had a long way to go before he’d be as learned as his father was; Martus probably would have known where they were from . . .

  Teli
us stood and walked to the small window set into the wall, squinting out into the courtyard against the afternoon light. The moon would not be up for hours yet, but he believed that it was still less than half-full. If only it were later in its course! He didn’t know how he would rest or eat or even think properly, knowing that he held the key to the future—and that he couldn’t use it for another fortnight.

  Again, his father’s voice in his mind, a lesson that had always been a hard one for Telius to learn: Patience, my son, patience. All things come to pass, in their own time.

  Telius sighed, and sat down on the edge of his bed, staring at the length of the shadows cast in the yard outside—as if looking hard enough might make them grow faster. If wishes were dreams, beggars would ride . . .

  Eventually, he lay back and closed his eyes, exhausted from the adrenaline that had coursed through his veins since he’d found the book early that morning. And in spite of his certainty that sleep wouldn’t come, he faded into a deep and peaceful rest, where dreams of glory and praise embraced him with warm and loving arms; and where his father stood beside him, smiling proudly at the son who had brought peace to the world.

  Chapter 9

  Before any of the townspeople of Osetus drew near, Xena leaned closer to Alesandra and whispered in her ear.

  “Don’t say anything, just follow my lead.”

  She sat back up in the saddle and darted a bright smile at Gabrielle as one of the men broke away from the others and approached them.

  “It would appear that we’re in Osetus, Gabrielle! How fortunate to happen upon such a pleasant village while traveling to find Alesandra’s kinfolk, don’t you think?” Please, take the hint . . .

  Gabrielle looked confused for only a split second before she smiled back. “Yes, it is fortunate! I’ve heard stories about the kindness of the people here; in fact, I once met a woman who lived in Osetus for a while, I can’t remember her name but I think—”