Title Page
BENEDICT
Book One
Prophecies and Games
Jackson Bennett
Publisher Information
Benedict
This digital edition published in 2014 by
Acorn Books
www.acornbooks.co.uk
An imprint of
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2014 Jackson Bennett
The right of Jackson Bennett to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The Prophecy Of Dailon
From the Age of Dreams, before the War of Corruption
The king and queen shall rise up,
And smote the land beneath their fires.
From this land, born of lust and need,
From the beast but made of man, shall come their destruction.
Bearing the marks of Volacmir and Volacmon,
And wearing their crowns of fire.
When the fire burns in their heart and the sword of power burns bright in their hand,
The king and queen shall be brought down from the heights.
Prologue
The first star began to glitter in the early night sky, as the twin moons of Janar rose majestically to take their rightful place in the court of the Gods, and to continue their sacred duty of guiding lost souls home to the Heavens.
High in the mountain passes, on a plateau where once the gods of men, long since gone from mortal memories, made their homes and where for eons only the wind dared to trespass, six shadowy figures circled a wind worn rectangular stone altar that sat atop four once perfectly spherical stones, one placed at each corner, and began to chant in a language long gone from the mortal world.
As the tempo and volume of the chanting began to increase, the shadows began to slow in their other worldly precession, seeming to glide to a stop, one on each side of the altar.
Within two mortal heartbeats silence descended on the small gathering, nothing made a sound not even the wind, until a shadow unseen till now, detached itself from the dark recesses created by the antiquated columns that rose from the very bedrock of the earth. The shadow flowed, as if on a cushion of air, towards the waiting altar, and in its arms it carried a limp, naked woman of about sixteen cycles with long flowing flame red hair that would have reached past her waist if she had been able to stand.
As the newly arrived shadow approached the altar, one of the original shadows, which seemed diminished somehow by the presence of this new one, reached out and depressed one of only two inscriptions raised in relief from the rest of the plain unadorned stone. The inscription unreadable by any mortal seemed to resemble a horned beast, the likeness of which had long gone from the memory of man.
As the shadow released the depressed script, six hollow copper needles slowly extended from the flat surface of the stone, then its job done, it flowed back to its place around the altar. The young woman’s limp body was placed on the altar and as her body weight was allowed to come to bear, the needles pierced her skin and her life’s energy began to flow from her body which registered no sign of the pain the needles must have caused.
The blood flowed from the base of the altar and began to pool in a small trench that was carved in the floor of this hallowed place. With the emergence of the first of this liquid the shadows began to chant in the same tongue as before but with a tone that was more pleading and a tempo that was much faster. Above the altar, dark clouds began to coalesce where once there had been only clear sky, and the wind began to blow as if it was trying to erase the scene from the histories of time.
The new shadow raised its arms and began to chant in counter point to the others, its tone demanding rather than pleading. As it started the winds grew fiercer, until the very words were dissipated before they left the darkness that formed them, and if the words could have been heard, they would have been accented by the lightening that was emerging from the angry clouds above.
The woman’s breathing began to slow as her life began to ebb away, until finally it stopped. This was what the shadow was waiting for, for in its hand appeared a dagger of shimmering silver, shaped in the likeness of a beautiful naked woman and a strange beast entwined together as if one, that was plunged into the woman’s heart before it beat for the last time. Silence descended so completely that it was deafening, and in its wake a light of shimmering black, darker than the dead of night, sucking in the light around it, began to shine two hands above the silver dagger. For five heartbeats it was there and was gone, as if it hadn’t been, allowing the sounds of the night to encroach once more.
It was replaced by a small sphere of brilliant light that was fiery red in colour that rapidly expanded until it was as large as a ripe water melon. Once it had reached its full size it began to change, becoming solid. On its surface appeared various features of earth and water. The ball began to rotate and as it did on its surface a small dot of white light began to pulse.
As the shadow watched it was joined by three other pulsating lights that looked like stars twinkling in the night sky.
“It isss done. Sssend word to the armiesss, it beginsss.” Commanded the newest shadow. The sound was pleasant, deep yet comforting, and completely out of place in the surroundings. The six shadows melted into the night leaving their leader alone.
Then another shadow detached itself from the rocks and stood waiting, unmoving.
“Take as many asss you need. Kill them and return the childsss body to me.”
The shadow and the ball of light disappeared as if they were somehow connected.
Now alone the shadow knelt on the ground and lowered its head to the pool of blood that was beginning to congeal in this cold thin air. From the shadows that constituted its head a tongue, like no animals, emerged and began to lap at the fluid. When its thirst had been sated it rose back to its full size, stretched, and began to laugh “Sssoon. Sssoon my foolisssh onesss.” Then removing the carcass from the altar it merged back into the shadows from where it had come.
The wind howled into the void left by the figure as if trying to wipe away the events of this night.
Only moments passed before there appeared a light, just a dot at first that shone with all the brightness of the stars, which grew in length, stretching until the height of a tall man and then expanding to take on the shape as well.
The being that appeared could only have been called a women by any who saw her there, for the beauty of its presence was beyond that which man could dream. The truth was that she was neither man nor woman for her people had long since left behind the need for physical form. She was Voldin, of the race men called Gods.
There were few of her people left in this world.
She wore long flowing robes that touched the floor and radiated the same light as her face. On her chest, in silver, was the half crescent of a waning moon.
She approached the altar with such grace that you would have been hard pressed to tell she had moved. She reached out a delicate hand towards the blood-stained top and from her fingers flowed a web of shinning silver. The web settled on the altar and slowly sank into the top, then disappear
ed. She lowered her hand and touched the surface. As she touched it blackness began to crawl up her arms starting at her fingertips. Pain touched her perfect face and she closed her eyes and began to glow with even more intensity, and then fading back to normal, she erased the blackness from her arm.
She raised her delicate hand to her mouth and paused, thinking.
She spoke in a tongue that would have melted a man’s heart. “They have grown stronger, and bolder to have performed such rights here in their old temple. It may be too late to stop what they have set in motion here today,”
We must still try, for we are bound to them as they are bound to us, for if not for us they would not be. The disembodied voice appeared from the air. The Women nodded her head and vanished in a flash of light.
The wind howled with slightly less ferocity now as if the mere presence of the being had eased its fitful mind. Only slightly.
***
The black and white bird watched the scene unfold, and then when its curiosity had been satisfied it took to the wing in search of something small and shiny.
***
The blood stopped dripping from the severed neck of the chicken the witch had a hold of by the feet. She lay down the carcass on the chopping board, and then took the black bowl that contained the blood and crossed to the ornate oval mirror that hung above the hearth. She had hung it there so that when she evoked its powers her frail body would be warmed by the glowing embers.
Her body wasn’t what it used to be, mind you she, thought; her body hadn’t been what it used to be for more than 500 years.
She dipped the bent and age corrupted index finger of her right hand into the blood and began to scrawl arcane symbols around the outer edge of the mirror. As she worked she mumbled to herself word’s that had no comprehension, save to those familiar with the art of blood magic and there were few if any more familiar than she.
She finished her scrawling then double-checking them; she placed her blood soaked finger onto her forehead and drew the symbol of the eye of vision.
Then she closed her eyes and uttered one of the words of power.
The eye began to glow, as did the symbols on the mirror.
Then the centre of the mirror began to shimmer as if it was made of water that was being gently stirred by the wind. From the centre of this water calmness settled, turning the reflective surface pearl white. The witch kept her eyes shut, for she was linked to the mirror beyond mere sight and she was able to see what transpired there.
A picture began to form.
***
The young man sat on the ground of the grassy hill, his legs crossed in the middle of the ancient ring of Standing Stones, his eyes closed and senses honed to the night. His shoulder length black hair was held from his face by a silver circlet at the centre of which was engraved one of the runes of power. Strength it was called now, its true name and power lost to the past save for the few that still remembered. Across his lap lay his sword, freshly honed in anticipation of the coming fight, a sword crafted by his own hand and the iron from a star.
Up the hill, at the top of which sat the stone circle came what remained of the men of shadow, assassins sent to kill him.
The stones he knew would be where he died, he sensed this in his blood, but with his death he hoped his sister would live.
The image shifted.
The young thief hung his head on his chest and allowed the guards to take the weight of his body. He had no chance of escape no matter how hard he tried, there were guards everywhere. The bruise on his left cheek throbbed in rhythm with his heart and the cut above his right eye lanced with pain as the sweat from his brow mixed with the open wound.
His greed found him in this position, standing before the Red Lord, about to be sentenced to death. All had gone well; he had entered the city undetected slipping past the guards, which had been his first mistake. Then he had entered the lords inner sanctum where he sought the gem of life, a black diamond the size of a mans clenched fist. That had been his second mistake. His last mistake had been not cutting his losses when he was unable to locate the gem; he had instead started to riffle through the lord’s desk and had somehow triggered a trap.
When he spoke the Red Lords voice was deep and oddly comforting. “You dared to sssteal from me?” he asked, his s’s being over pronounced. The young thief said nothing, refusing to even look at the man about to judge him.
“The penalty is death,” the Red lord continued, the words seeming to wrap themselves around his mind.
The Red Lord smiled. “But for you I have other plansss. Throw him back in hisss cell,” and with a wave of his hand he dismissed him.
As they dragged him away his mind grasped what had just been said, he couldn’t believe his luck, he was to live and to live meant a chance at escape. The young thief turned his head to thank the Red Lord, but his attention was now elsewhere. He smiled.
Again the image shifted.
The baby was swaddled in a black sheet, around its face protruded some of the red hair that covered its tiny head. On its forearms wrapped tightly within the sheet were two scars.
Three warriors stood before it, one encased in gold, silver and black. They had rescued the baby from the lands of the werebeast’s where its fate had been to join its mother in death.
They had travelled across vast lands and oceans to keep it safe.
Now the enemy had caught them and from the sky descended four of their flying beasts laden with scores of weremen and shadows.
The three warriors positioned themselves so as to protect their charge, weapons of gleaming silver appearing magically in their hands.
The child was born of prophecy and had to be protected at all costs.
Again the image shifted.
The dragon queen lay asleep in her chamber beneath the mountain. She opened her black eyes as she sensed that blood was about to be spilled, not the normal blood of birth, that she had become accustomed to, but the blood of death violent and painful.
Above her she could sense the warrior sat silently and calm, despite his certain death, amid her web of magic woven between the Standing Stones that had their foundations in the very walls of her prison.
As the sixteen shadows passed over the threshold of the stones, she sensed them and their malevolent evil. She licked her bony maws at the anticipation of the feast to come. For centuries she had been held here, a captive, given just enough sustenance through the births of the puny humans above, to keep her alive yet dormant. But today she was to feast and in doing so gain the strength to break free from her bonds. She stroked the silver colour that adorned her sleek black neck. At last she would have her revenge.
As the blood began to flow her strength surged, her body swelling, then with an audible crack the walls of her prison split from their base to the tip of the exposed stones above.
She closed her eyes and settled down to feast.
***
The witch opened her eyes. She had waited a long time for this.
As she looked into the now clear mirror the symbols of blood smoked, then vanished as did the eye on her forehead. She knew what she had seen would come to pass but when, she did not know. It could be tomorrow or one thousand years from now. She would just have to be patient.
She returned to the chopping board and prepared the chicken. Then she placed the pot into which she had placed it above the fire and sat in her chair thinking.
There was no other choice, she needed to know who the young thief was, she would have to employ more powerful magic’s, but that would have to be another day, now she needed to rest.
She closed her eyes and dreamt of the time of dreams, when the moons of Volar both shone with a silver radiance and there had been no need to evoke the powers of blood.
***
The black and white
bird watched the old witch close her eyes and pass into the realm of dreams, then with its curiosity satisfied it took to the wing in search of something small and shiny.
***
The broad figure was dressed in full plate armour of jet-black with gold patterns depicting scenes of battles that had long past and some that were yet to come to be. His black hair was greying at the temples but what could be seen from the back was thick and healthy.
He was knelt on one knee, arms crossed across his thigh. His breath was laboured and his shoulders rose and fell with the exertions of his lungs.
His attention was on the limp figure that lay before him. It was an old man, older than any he had seen before. Life no longer flowed in his bones, crushed by the many dead men and beasts that now surrounded him.
He had come across him when he still barely lived and had made a promise; it had seemed such an easy thing to promise a dying man. Now he wondered how he would fulfil that promise, for he was an honourable man and his word was his bond. With a deep sigh he raised himself to his feet, and raised his right hand to his forehead.
Pain shot through his skull, like hot needles, over powering, invading his thoughts and blurring his vision. He fell to his knees, barely able to stop himself from falling on his face, images swirling in his mind’s eye.
The pain lasted only a moment and then faded. It had been this way for as long as memory served, and it had served for a very long time. He rose to his feet again. On his head now was a full faced helm of purist black, like the rest of the armour he wore.
He knew who and what was coming and what needed to be done, his memories would see to that.
On the underside of each forearm, was the gold outline of a short sword, patterned on the armour and on the back of his left hand was the outline of a round shield with a swirling design that was too small to make out clearly.
With a flick of his wrists a sword appeared of shining silver in his right hand and on his left arm appeared a shield, round and of the deepest black on which swirled gracefully around the outside, a golden dragon of exquisite beauty and elegance. Where the engravings once were was now left blank.
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