Into Oblivion (Book 4)

by Shawn E. Crapo

  Slowly, the form of Yin-Kai began to materialize, freed from its metaphorical prison. He was formidable in appearance; a head taller than Kronos, heavily-muscled, and covered in short red-brown fur. His face, though human-like, was apish, with short tusks that protruded upward from his tightly drawn lips. His hair was black, and fell loosely over his broad shoulders, tied occasionally into thin braids. His armor was fashioned of many plates of bronze, accentuated by strips of fine silk, and tied together with belts of the toughest leather.

  When the Firstborn was fully formed, he opened his eyes. They were brown flecked with gold, and full of the wisdom of the ancients. He looked down at his brother, who smiled warmly. Yin-Kai returned the smile, placing his huge hand on top of Kronos’ head and shaking it playfully.

  “Kronos,” Yin-Kai said, his voice rough and beastly. As usual, Kronos said nothing, but placed his hands on Yin-Kai’s face. The two stood silent for a moment while the priests looked on.

  Then, Yin-Kai released his brother and turned to his servants. The ogres bent to one knee, bowing before their lord. The Firstborn looked upon them with pride, glad to see that they had remained faithful. Without their service, he knew, the men of the East may have forgotten their ways. But he knew his priests had maintained his legacy in his absence, and his people would be prepared to join the ongoing battle.

  “Gather your weapons,” Yin-Kai commanded. “We will rally our armies and face this Lifegiver once and for all.”

  The ogres bowed in obedience, and left for the armory. Yin-Kai turned to Kronos.

  “Your people have been freed?” he asked. Kronos nodded. “And the Valkyries? Have they returned?”

  Kronos nodded again.

  “Then let us go, my brother. My people will gladly join this battle.”

  Yin-Kai drew his huge daikatana, holding it across his chest. Kronos held up his hammer in return.

  “For the Great Mother,” Yin-Kai said.

  Garret rested peacefully in the hammock that was stretched between two beautiful oaks. He earned this rest with his recent return to the Great Mother’s bidding. Now his mind was free to wander, and wander it did.

  In his dream, he sat atop a mighty horse, facing a rather large force of Northmen who stood silent and ready. At his side was a beautiful woman dressed in regal armor emblazoned with the symbol of a dove. Her hair was a striking red, like the color of blood, and her eyes were the deep green of tropical seas. Beside her, an older man, dressed in chainmail and a black tunic, sat atop his own mount. He also bore the symbol of the dove.

  Behind the trio, an army of horsemen awaited the command of the woman, who he now realized was their queen; his queen. Why she was here, he did not know.

  “What are your orders, my lady?” the man asked.

  The Queen urged her horse forward a few steps, turning to face the two. “I wish to speak to this Ulrich,” she said. “I hear he is the new Jarl, and that he is an honorable man. What do you think Fergis?”

  Fergis shrugged. “If he is a man of peace, then I would suggest we hear him out. I see no reason to charge.”

  The Queen smiled. “Very good,” she agreed. “Garret, Fergis, join me.”

  With that, she turned toward the Northmen and spurred her horse on, her hair whipping in the wind like flame. Fergis, growling with frustration, followed. Garret took his place beside the Queen, quickening his horse’s pace to match hers.

  Across the field, a large Northman and two other warriors stepped forward to meet them on foot. They all bore their weapons, carrying them in a neutral gesture. They were, however, still formidable in appearance, and Garret knew the entourage would have to be cautious.

  “Keep your hands off your weapons,” the Queen commanded. “We don’t want to alarm them. But be ready.”

  Siobhan held her hand up in greeting as the trio approached the Northmen. Their leader, an impressive young man with large shoulders and an even larger hammer, greeted them with a polite nod. The man next to him was expressionless, yet remained calm and inquisitive.

  “King Ulrich, of the Tribe of the Wolf, I assume,” Siobhan said, turning her horse to the side to view him in a neutral gesture.

  “You assume correctly,” Ulrich replied. “We mean you no harm, I assure you.”

  “Why are you here in my lands?” Siobhan asked. “Our soldiers have clashed in the past. You risk war.”

  Ulrich placed his hammer on the ground before him. His two henchmen did the same.

  “I have come to offer you a truce,” Ulrich stated. “We wish no enmity between our people and yours. We only ask for sanctuary in your lands.”

  “Interesting,” Siobhan said, dismounting her horse and stepping right up to Ulrich to look him in the eye. Ulrich’s partners were impressed, and remained still. Ulrich smiled.

  “As the new Jarl of your tribe,” Siobhan began, “what do you have to offer in return?”

  “We are not only warriors,” Ulrich explained, “but we are fishermen and hunters. We will keep good trade relations with the nearby towns, and offer our weapons in their defense, should the need arise.”

  Siobhan stepped back, looking Ulrich over thoroughly. Garret felt a slight twinge of jealousy, not really understanding why. Fergis noticed, grinning as he watched Garret’s expression.

  “I have no doubt that your men are capable of battle,” she said, walking over to Ulrich’s right-hand man and looking him over as well.

  “And what is your name?” she asked him.

  “Ceor,” the man answered simply.

  “Ceor. Tell me of this man who has taken up the helm of your tribe.”

  Ceor was silent for a moment, looking to his Jarl. Ulrich nodded.

  “Ulrich is my best friend,” Ceor replied. “We have been so since we were children. He is an honorable man, unlike his predecessor. He desires peace, for our children and yours.”

  Siobhan smiled, returning to Ulrich to face him again. “I have the feeling your friend speaks the truth,” she said.

  “Ceor is also an honorable man,” Ulrich said. “He is incapable of speaking anything but the truth.”

  Siobhan nodded, turning to Garret and Fergis, exposing her back to the three Northmen.

  “And what do you think, Garret, Fergis?”

  Fergis cleared his throat. “Our previous tensions never ended in outright battle. The Northmen seem like honorable men.”

  Siobhan turned to Garret. “And you?”

  Garret looked the Northmen over, still feeling that same sense of familiarity. “The lands they occupy are not currently in use. I feel they would not be a burden, and may possibly be an asset in the future. I leave the decision up to you.”

  Siobhan turned back to Ulrich, drawing her sword and holding it straight up in front of her. “Then, by my fathers, I grant you those lands, Ulrich. I give you my oath that you will be safe here and under my protection.”

  “I thank you, my Lady,” Ulrich said. “I also give my oath that we will not be a burden.”

  Siobhan nodded turning to mount her horse. “Then I bid you farewell, Northman,” she said. “And good hunting.”

  With that she spurred her horse into a gallop. Fergis and Garret followed. Strangely, there was a spot of blood on the queen’s back, growing larger as it soaked into the material of her tunic. He briefly thought that she had been attacked by the Northman, but thought better of it. Fergis didn’t seem to notice, though, he too, kept his eyes on the queen.

  His heart sank as he looked down at his side, seeing that his dagger bore the stain of blood; fresh and slowly running down its sheath. Garret gasped.

  The assassin awoke suddenly, struggling for breath. His heart pounded rapidly. The meaning of the dream escaped him, and its participants, though familiar, were unknown to him. He slowly rose, gathering his thoughts and attempting to reach the Great Mother.

  “Who is she?” he asked.

  The Great Mother was silent; but, in his heart, Garret knew that she had heard him.


  Chapter Five

  The edge of the western plateau came into view by early evening. Farouk had made the journey quickly, having used his magic to quicken his pace and make small leaps within his field of view. Belo buzzed after him happily, curious at the condition of the landscape and the complete lack of any life upon it. The Druid had gotten accustomed to his presence, and he had to admit, he enjoyed his company.

  Fully expecting the unexpected, Farouk made no attempts to slow his pace as he reached the cliffs. He knew the sea would not look as it should; there would be no blue surface, no foaming white surf, and no seagulls pecking crabs out of the sand. What he saw, however, was completely shocking.

  The sea was gone.

  A massive, unfathomably deep canyon was in its place, dropping off at the edge of the island’s shelf to the darkness below. As far as his eyes could see, the empty canyon stretched on; deep, deathly, and devoid of any semblance of Earth. It was as if he had reached the end of the world itself. Farouk could only look down in awe; he was speechless.

  Where had the water gone? What had caused it to dry up?

  He wondered if the sea was dry all the way to the sea bed, or if there were, by any chance, small pockets of muddy, salty sludge remaining in the deepest basins.

  “Belo,” he said finally. The homunculus fluttered over to him.

  “Fly out as far as you can,” the Druid said. “See if there is any water anywhere.”

  Belo buzzed about in acknowledgement, then zipped away over the edge.

  The Druid had noticed a ravine a hundred yards away that sloped down to a lagoon. The lagoon itself was dry, of course, and the surrounding slope was covered with the skeletal remains of once beautiful willow-like trees. But what caught his attention as he made his way over to it were the tops of white towers that poked up through the dried canopy. This was the first sign of civilization he had seen since his arrival.

  Though he knew there would be no bustling city around the lagoon, perhaps the remains would give him some clue as to what had happened. He hoped that Belo would find some answers as well.

  The tiny homunculus glided down into the canyon effortlessly. He followed the slope downward until it reached a sharp drop off. There, on the edge, he perched, gazing down into the frightening, dusty void. In the distance, a rumbling sound caught his attention. He dove off his perch, following the rumbling farther down into the dimness. The dust became thicker as he descended, threatening to choke him and obscure his vision completely.

  Hovering at the top of the dust layer, Belo peered into the gloom. He could see nothing, but still heard and felt the rumbling below. It seemed to stretch in a horizontal line back to the distant shore. Hurriedly, he followed.

  As he reached the shelf, he saw the source of the rumbling. A large fissure was slowly opening, its edges crumbling away and falling into the darkness below. Belo flew closer to the shore, seeing the skeletal trees sliding down into the empty sea with an endless amount of dust and rock. The rumbling of the Earth was claiming more of the former shoreline, and what remained was an eroded, stark cliff face.

  Frightened, Belo turned around and started back to find his friend.

  The white towers came into full view as Farouk crested the edge of the ravine. It was larger than he thought; large enough to hold a city the size of Morduin. Along the sloped sides, hundreds of ruined, yet beautiful buildings were nestled. They were all made of the same white stone, cracked and ruined, and constructed of an alien architecture; one that Farouk found elegant and beautiful.

  The tops of all of the towers and smaller buildings were pointed domes, and along the four sides of each structure were windows with pointed arch frames. The windows appeared to be of stained glass; faded and shattered with age, yet still retaining their air of elegance. The Druid was astounded at the city’s beauty and wondered who could have built it.

  And where they had gone…

  Below him was a walkway that led to a balcony overlooking what used to be the lagoon. It was attached to the largest building; one that he assumed was where the ruler of this once great city had sat upon his throne. The building itself was nearly level with the surrounding cliffs, and sported all of the usual features of a royal palace. Its most beautiful feature was the stained glass half tower that was built into what he assumed was the throne room.

  Mustering a small amount of magic, he raised his arms and summoned the ability to levitate down to the walkway. He settled himself onto it gently so as to keep his weight off of it until he could assure its stability. He pressed down with his feet, testing his weight, and tapped with his staff. The stone flooring felt solid.

  He went to the railing that surrounded the walkway, looking down over the edge into the empty lagoon. Surely, when this world was full of life, this would have been a beautiful view. The remains of the surrounding plants and trees indicated a shaded, yet open environment; one that would stay well insulated from the wind and the sun.

  It was then the Druid felt the slightest sign of life. It was a living being, he knew; one that was sentient and emotional. It was a forlorn feeling that Farouk had sensed before. He knew he was feeling the same presence he had felt in the forest with Aeli, Jodocus, and the Rangers.

  As he traversed the rubble that lay strewn about the surface of the walkway, the presence grew stronger. It came from the palace; specifically the larger room that opened onto the balcony with a wide, pointed archway.

  Someone was in there, and he or she was alive.

  The balcony itself was much more ruined than the rest of the walkway. It was heavily cracked, even missing stone in some places. Through the holes, Farouk could see the dusty ground below, and feel the hot winds that blew upward from the desolate sea bed.

  He continued on, hopping over more rubble and cracked tiles until he reached the archway. It was at least twice his height, trimmed in dull, dusty silver, and built of pure white stone that was almost as smooth as ivory. The walls of the palace were more faded and aged; not quite as bright and smooth.

  He stepped through the archway into the throne room, staring up at the high, vaulted ceiling. It was painted with murals that depicted human-like figures that shone brightly against the various backgrounds. They were scenes of beauty and tranquility that filled Farouk’s heart with sadness. Whoever these people were, they had been peaceful and had been at one with the land.

  Surely they were faithful to whatever Firstborn had existed.

  In places, the ceiling had fallen and its stones littered the floor. Some wooden beams lay scattered as well; possibly columns or decorative totems that once stood proudly among the royalty. Whatever the case, the palace was now a mere shadow of its former glory.

  Farouk felt his sadness grow.

  “It was beautiful once,” a voice said from the shadows.

  Farouk turned to the half tower. From this side, it was a cul-de-sac with a perfectly circular dais that protruded into the throne room in a half arc. Atop the three-level platform, in the view of the surrounding stained glass, was a throne. It was high backed, narrow, and carved of what appeared to be a single tree. Behind it, roots and dead branches spread over it like a protective canopy, shielding its occupant with its formerly green beauty.

  There was someone there, seated casually, almost statuesque.

  “It was all beautiful,” the voice continued. Farouk slowly approached; the feeling of sadness growing as he got closer to the being that sat upon the throne.

  “What happened here?” Farouk asked softly, sympathetically.

  The figure rose, allowing its long tunic to fall straight. It was a tall, thin, male, light-skinned, with long white hair that was tied back like Erenoth’s. The man’s tunic was floor length, with alternating white and black layers of silk. Upon his head was a crown of silver adorned with diamonds and onyx. His silver belt, also jeweled, held a long, curved sword similar to a scimitar. It was, however, thinner, and much more elegant.

  “Darkness,” the man answered. “Dark
ness and death.”

  As Farouk approached, the man’s features became more apparent. He did not appear entirely human; but like something more advanced, more pure in spirit.

  “Who are you?” the man asked, slowly walking toward Farouk with cautious steps. “Where is your home?”

  Farouk bowed his head in respect, holding his free hand out in a gesture of peace.

  “My name is Farouk al-Fayid,” he said. “I am a Druid. I am not of this world.”

  The man nodded, looking him over curiously. “Your presence seems familiar to me, yet I do not know what you are. What manner of creature are you?”

  “I am a man,” Farouk replied.

  The man came closer, staring at Farouk’s beard and dark hair. The Druid could see that his eyes were gray and bright, and his ears pointed. Though obviously male, his demeanor was somewhat feminine; graceful and gentle. His features were also less than man-like; more like that of a woman of the Northlands, with whom he had recently been acquainted. Even from a male point of view, Farouk thought, he was beautiful.

  “I have told you my name,” Farouk said. “What is yours?”

  The man-creature cocked his head in thought, as if he had to contemplate the answer. Farouk waited patiently as he struggled to remember.

  “I am sorry, friend,” Farouk said. “I did not mean to trouble you.”

  “My name… My name is… Faeraon.”

  Farouk smiled. “I am pleased to meet you, Faeraon,”

  He held out his hand, drawing a blank stare from Faeraon, who was apparently not familiar with the gesture. Slowly, though, he took Farouk’s hand, grasping it gently.

  “It has been so long since I have spoken to another… entity,” Faeraon said. “I have been alone since my people were taken.”