Darkness Rising (Ancient Vestiges Book 1)

by Brenden Gardner

  My adoptive mother and mentor. I need you more than ever.

  The priestess looked at up, unsmiling, but Lutessa had seen it long enough to know what it meant: be strong.

  To the right of the throne sat a man she had only known for a moon’s turn, though trusted as much as a fostered brother: Counsel Stephen Francis. He was a big man, tall and balding, but spoke with warmth and wisdom. The man was a pillar: brimming with knowledge of the Faith, and a sense of politic to know what must be done.

  A faithful friend. I raised you amid much dissent, yet on this day I shall not regret it.

  Lutessa stood in front of the Crystal Throne and pronounced, “Let this council convene. May all who speak be guided by Gabriel’s wisdom, blessed by the Light of Mother God.”

  “Blessed be Her faith in us,” the crowd intoned.

  “Much has transgressed,” she began, deep and steady. “The scholars, stewards, and priests of the Faith have learned much, and questioned even more. I have opened the doors of the upper levels of the Cathedral of the Faith, to the very heart of the Faith itself. It is here that I wish for all people of the Faith to know of what has come to pass, and for you to ask what you will; to decide what is the future of our holy realm.

  “Nine months past the Faith armed a hero of near memory: the man you have come to revile. We entrusted with him the task of repelling the eastern invaders, and restoring the peace of Mother God. Ser Elin asked much of us, yet he drove the Isilian Imperium out of our lands.

  “It was not without cost. Our Northlands were ravaged, lifeless now as it was when our knights took them from our aggressors. Not a man or woman in this chamber was not hurt and angered by the imperium, and the man who gave the order. Ser Elin would soon send a bird asking for the fleet to be dispatched, and land upon the shores of our enemy. Heavy were our hearts, knowing it was no simple task.

  “That was when we lost all word. Ships there were, few that were not harried by the pirates. We risked much, leaving ourselves defenseless against their will. A price that we all soon paid: none here need to be reminded of the ravages that plagued these walls and the faithful that died; all in the name of some desperate search for what was not there, not that night. Then that light came down days later; we all saw it. Some thought it the Light of Mother God come to our aid, but since news has come forth, little and less our hopes were for that truth.

  “We have since learned that no one survived that light. Brick and mortar, flesh and blood. Isilia is gone: a barren wasteland bereft of love and life. Every knight, archer, pikeman, and sailor that we sent across the sea is dead.

  “We now stand defenseless against the Southern Nations, and our old foes to the west. I have led us down a ruinous path, and our very survival is in question. This is the crossroads to which we stand. Much must be decided. I would hear your voices.

  “What swords remain to us?!” one man shouted.

  “Who will defend us?” a woman screamed.

  “Trecht! We must appeal to the old kingdom!” another said.

  There were a hundred other queries, thousands of them. It was a living cacophony.

  “The clergy will speak!” The voice was loud and booming. Counsel Stephen stood commandingly. “You will listen and ask in turn.”

  “I will speak first, then,” a middle-aged priest had said from the western tiers. The counsel nodded towards him, and sat down while he spoke. “In the last war, Ser Elin had committed atrocities on our own soil. It was murder of women and children, defiling the houses of Mother God. A fate that should have been met with death, yet excommunication was granted to him out of kindness. He was since returned to service, and another atrocity committed, and him the centre of it. Is it no surprise that the faithful were butchered and shortly after an entire country is destroyed? My fellows and I wish to know why he was given power to sacrifice Dalians once again, and why, in light of this, how you are fit to lead the Faith?”

  The crowd was silent. Lutessa felt every eye crawl over her. “You speak truth. The matter was discussed in this hall, and I decreed that the lord protector should deign his fate—”

  “Who is dead by Ser Elin’s treachery!” a man shouted.

  “Enough!” Counsel Stephen bellowed. “Learn your place or be without it.”

  “Though I granted him that power,” she continued. “It seems I was wrong in that. Yet when we were besieged it seemed the only recourse.”

  “Tell that to those families who have no remains to bury!” a woman shouted from the back of the crowd.

  “What of my sons and daughters? Easy to say when their voices no longer ring loud,” another had said.

  Her counsel of faith had risen again, bellowing out for peace, but for all the deepness of it, it was just another voice in a deafening sound. These men and women were leaders of the city; upstanding citizens, merchant lords, and elder tradesfolk. They could put no thought to their futures, only their grief. As if they were the only ones lost in it, a voice whispered. The chaos of the moment grinded her down.

  “What would you have had me do!”

  Not a sound echoed in the Chamber of Judgment. She stood at the edge of the throne, gripping hard against the side. “The Northlands were not ravaged in our reprisal, but in our inaction. Men and women and children were slain for no reason than their birth. Our knights were thinning, and their bones became mountains. Death was all around us, suffocating us, and before long, no one would have drawn breath.

  “Shall I leave the only walls I have ever known? My brothers and sisters of the Faith? Is that penance for my own judgments? Will that bring your dead back to life?

  “Ser Elin, no, I never wanted this. No, I wanted his head, but where would be if not for him? Our city would be rubble, our faith ashes, and all of us buried beneath the ground. So, tell me: what would you have done? What course would you have followed? Would the Faith still stand under your guidance?”

  No answer came.

  “I weep for the lost. Of friends, of teachers, of men and women and children. We only weep for a sword in that man’s hand; for what he did in Isil. Mourn your dead, grieve for them, but do not lose yourself in it.”

  “If I may, High Priestess.”

  She looked to the west. The man who spoke was of the stewards, middle-aged, squat, with thin locks of hair. “Any may speak, blessed by Mother God.”

  “I was one who leant their voice to the execution of Ser Elin when he was brought before you. I was convinced that any outcome without his death would not end well. I was wrong in that. We were all wrong. We truly are grief-stricken, lost in sorrow, and we cannot go on like this. Moreover, we wish only for the truth. I believe truth can be our armor: the means to embolden strong swords, build stout ships, and protect all that we hold dear.”

  There were many rumblings, shouts, and agreements. The steward raised his right hand for silence.

  “Is this not what the overlord commanded for his own people? It is said that the Southern Nations has sent ships to the east. Would it be best if we but did the same?”

  “The Nations hold sway over the sea,” Counsel Anastasia declared solemnly. They are another danger all on their own. Who would risk such a voyage?”

  “I would.”

  The crowd parted and a tall, burly man walked forth. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, his coat was a dull white and his trousers a darkened grey.

  “Say your words,” Counsel Stephen said.

  “If it please the Voice and the Faith, I am the captain of the merchant ship Damsel. Oft have I been to the port of Lanan and beyond. My vessel is known to the pirates, and my crew comes from Dale itself. If the theocracy fears reprisal, let ‘em send my boys. I can sail smuggler colours easy as I do the whites of the Faith. I will have answers, and words knights could feign get.”

  “Why would you risk your own life so?” Counsel Anastasia asked.

  “My brother, Counsel, he was a knight. Ser Tomas his name was. Good lad, not like his brother. He wanted to serve, and served t
o his death. I owe it to our mother to see the truth of it. It is all I wish fer, and all we want.”

  The truth is hard and cruel, boy. I have spent weeks weeping because of it. But perhaps it is what we need amidst this storm.

  “I will send word to the Dockmaster,” Lutessa replied. “You will have all that you require. Men and women from the Faith will go as well. To learn the truth, for one and all. For the man you loved, for the brothers and sisters we all loved. Then a new day will dawn for us.”

  “Truth!” a woman shouted.

  “At last we will know,” another added.

  “The Light will rise again!” a third declared.

  Shouts echoed in agreement. Lutessa noticed the sullen faces of priests and priestesses among the western tiers. Fathers Dominic, Buchanan, and Augustus sat in the middle, their arms crossed, glaring.

  You must contend with me for longer, fathers.

  Amongst the jubilation, heavy footsteps ascended the stairs. Lady Tiffany put a hand on Lutessa’s shoulder and whispered, “A petitioner who claims to be of the knighthood, though he looked it not.”

  Fear took hold of Lutessa, but curiosity piqued as well.

  “Ser Harbert,” Lutessa said aloud. “Bring forth the petitioner. We will hear his account.”

  The doors swung open, and a disheveled man entered. The crowd parted as he walked, and the men and women stared towards him. He walked with a limp, eyes darting about, and he shielded his face from the early afternoon sun. It was not until he stopped at the foot of the Crystal Throne that Lutessa could see that he was old, and scraps of boiled leather hung from his chest. His face was worn and scarred, and his brown hair long and tussled.

  “Your words?” Counsel Stephen asked.

  “I saw him in the Light, our prophet, and he told me much. Not for your ears, only hers. It is to her I owe, our Voice.”

  I know him.

  “I am—”

  “I know who you are, Counsel of Faith. We met not long ago. Fast have you risen whence so many others have fallen. Fool I was for not staying Ser Geoffrey’s blade. Stand before me and I will remedy that.

  “Seize him,” the counsel commanded.

  The Faith Templar shouldered forward, swords drawn.

  “Ser Johnathan Falenir. Have you returned to us?” Lutessa asked.

  “I have, High Priestess. Fair time we spoke in private.”

  The noise was soon deafening, though her eyes never left the old knight. No words were exchanged, but she knew he had seen what few others had.

  ‘Tis a miracle through the blessed Light of Mother God.

  Chapter Four

  The Sentinel

  Ashleigh looked down at the broken bodies.

  “I do what must be done.”

  Blood puddled on the darkened marble, dripping from the edge of her sword. She followed Rafael through the hallway and into the Mountain. The Black Guard dead behind.

  It must be done.

  Upon the lofty Mountain’s Summit, Imperator Argath Diomedes was clad in blackened armour; his own steel bared, proud and vain. Shadows swirled at his feet, and along his famed bastard sword Deliverance. When he spoke, his voice was deep and guttural, visceral and cunning. “They are at our doors, Lord Commander, and here you stand in defiance.”

  “Release my sovereign, Lord Kaldred,” Rafael declared.

  “You dare give commands to me? You are disgraced, defeated, inept. You are the cause of my fall. You have destroyed my imperium. Beg like a dog for my mercy, and give not commands.”

  “I will not ask again.”

  “You dare commit treason before the Mountain? All you have was gifted by my will. Did the woman poison your mind with discontent? Or is it some voice in your deluded mind? Speak and kneel and defend, Lord Commander.”

  “If you will not release him,” Rafael spoke, bloodied sword pointed towards the imperator. “Then I will free him myself!”

  “Ungrateful rat.”

  Imperator Argath leapt from the Mountain, death in his hand, and the sound of cold steel rang throughout the chamber. He moved with speed of a man a third of his age. His steel met Rafael’s; the two men pushed against each other.

  Ashleigh saw a malicious contempt in the eyes of the possessed sovereign; a hatred that bored into Rafael. She flanked the imperator, and cut at his hamstring. He recoiled, turned, and cut at her savagely. She stood and cut back, but his strength was too much, and she was sent skidding through the arced benches.

  “Behind you, Ashleigh!”

  She whipped her head around and saw armoured men slick with blood and torn faces rise from the ground, sword in hand, stumbling forward. She wiped the blood off her lip and charged the undead remnants of the Black Guard. She hewed their heads and arms, stealing the returned life from them.

  Her battle fever surged and naught else existed. The sword was part of her body: an extension of her arm. The muscles in her arms flared and burned. Legions were sent for her, and she cut them all down, never taking more than a scratch.

  It was a moat of blood as limbs floating along the surface. The blade in her hand was coated in red from hilt to tip. She gathered herself and turned towards the Mountain, and saw that Rafael struggled with the imperator.

  How did he have such strength? The Black Storm is long from his fighting days. He is an old, done man.

  The stone does much, a voice in her head said. Do you see it my dear?

  “Who—what?” Ashleigh asked, swiveling her head, suspecting the dead had spoken. “Show yourself.”

  Soon it will choose you as it chose them. Look at them, do not move. See near their breast? It glows ever brighter. It is merging with their souls; the closer to the amalgamation, the stronger they become. Not long now and it will devour them both.

  “I must stop it.”

  Can you stop the rising of the sun, the turns of the moon? These things are beyond you. They weave the Great Fate, and you will too. Just a little longer and…

  She felt Rafael’s eyes. He was on his knees when she looked upon him, the tip of steel upon his throat. It was not the imperator who held the blade. The man was tall, armoured in darkened plate mail, and hooded.

  “He is mine.”

  The words were on the edge of hearing. Tears welled in her eyes while she ran towards Rafael. The realm suddenly exploded in a surge of light. It burned and…

  “Rafael!”

  Ashleigh opened her eyes and swiftly drew Retribution from the bed side. There was no throne, no dark marble, no voice, or legions of the dead. It was a squat, round chamber with the first fingers of sunlight drifting in through the slim windows. She tossed the sheets off, wrapped herself in a thick woolen cloak, and looked out towards the city below.

  It was all a dream.

  The chambers were halfway up the western tower that fronted the castle. It was drafty and damp, with two small beds against the eastern wall; there were modest furnishings to the south, while caricatures of island vistas adorned the walls. Though the servants had called them guest quarters, she thought it a gaol. The only door out was guarded, and the outer walls were sheer. Escape would mean death by steel or rising rock.

  If I have not been in the wild, I have been a prisoner. I will not be held against my will for much longer.

  She watched the denizens scuttle to and fro. Most walked low, hands against their heads, as they made their way to docks, shops, and distant farmlands to the west.

  If I only had such comforts.

  It was a month gone, and a day did not pass when she did not mourn for her lost country. She did it in secret: behind closed doors or beneath blankets. She held onto strength tightly. Whatever doubt roiled inside, she held onto strength.

  No one can learn what I feel in my heart.

  The grief followed into dreams; the same dream, but different. In those moments, she stood beside Rafael as counsel, as knight, as lover, or squire. They would be in the Dalian Northlands, in the very heart of Isil, near the Desert of Death; and
in strange places she had never been before. There was never much of those places she recalled, just bits and pieces: snow clad plains, ruins of stone buildings, halls of metal and steel. No matter where they were, he was always there.

  Rafael.

  The man was a hard commander. He had to be. Isilia was a wasteland for as long as she could remember. Scorched was the way her mother described it. There was a time, her mother had told her, when the land was green and growing; the mountains tipped with snow in place of ash. “That was long ago, and we must remember. If not us, then who? One day the spring will come, but until then, we must be hard; or wither and die in the wasteland.”

  Rafael must have been told the same.

  When Ashleigh first met him, he was fierce, yet not cruel. A taskmaster to those who served him, but gracious in his rewards. A man whom you wanted to serve, and serve well. To die for. He took a naive girl and turned her into a hardened warrior.

  “Is it really so simple as that?” Ashleigh asked him once. “Will spring come, life thrive in the waste? It is always so dead and decrepit.”

  “No, but it is what I must believe. The imperator often speaks of a new dawn and the truth our forebears hid. One day, he says, it will be unearthed from the mountains, and spring will come as it must.”

  “I have seen the imperator from afar. Is he like they say?”

  Rafael laughed. “Like and unlike, as most things are. He is wise and learned—spends more time now in libraries than training yards. He looks ahead, yet not too far. If there is an answer, he will find it.”

  “If there is no answer?”

  “There must be. We were never meant to live like this.”

  Hope never came, though, and now I must live in these nightmares.

  Every dream ended with such a stone searing all the realm. Sometimes Rafael would die first, and she would have to watch. Other times she died with him, arms entwined. Then, rarely, they would watch from afar as the realm was swallowed in that burning light, and only they survived the calamity.