Darkness Rising (Ancient Vestiges Book 1)

by Brenden Gardner

  “It is about the dead, Counsel. I felt a respite that I know my brother is dead. But the way they looked. It was like they died in some great fear. Just like, just like—”

  Stephen needed to know what was left unsaid. “Like what, child?”

  “An old tale, cold and stale. I should not bother you with it. Likely I would be over thinking it, and I must be content with the answer I found.”

  “I would hear it all the same.”

  The captain took a deep breath, and spoke. “Three, four years past, they say a plague reached the port town of Lakarn, in the south of the islands. The overlord sent his own swords in there, few returned. Men have spoken much of it, and they say what afflicted that town, did so in Isilia, for defying the overlord. Ne’er have I been to Lakarn, but men I trust have, and they tell it true.”

  Some tales are dangerous to know. “Was there aught you saw that indicted the overlord?”

  “It is not for me to say, Counsel.”

  “It is for me to weigh and judge such things. Were there any signs, child?”

  “We kept to the western coasts, north first and then south. There is little by the coasts to the north, the western mountains stretching out above sheer cliffs. The closer to the south we came, the more black sails we saw. Avoided most I did, others, they thought us akin and left us alone. It seemed like the overlord sent out his entire fleet, Counsel.”

  “P’rhaps he feared some foe?”

  “The man is no coward. I have been at sea for years, aye, and I heard tales of this man, before he came into his own. If there would be a foe, he be there hisself, and we would not have come near the land. Yet it seemed to be that those ships were protecting the land as it were. I do not now much of power and those who wield it, but that seems strange to me. Alas, I cannot offer you much more; just my suspicions, such as they are.”

  “You did well, child. May you be blessed in the Light of Mother God.”

  A blood curdling sound broke the air just then, laced with screams of terror.

  What will you do Donell Marst? Are you much a fool as your brother?

  Donnell’s face belied shock, disbelief, and then terror. He did not wait for soothing words and ran off towards camp. The screams were close.

  A fool he is, then.

  The captain had dropped to his knees, muttering, as he looked on at the ring of corpses. The knights had their swords drawn, blood dripping from the blades. One of Donnell’s crew stood before him. Whence the deck hands still drew breath, he seemed like the rest of them. Now he stood tall, proud, and despite the common burlaps the men were forced to wear, he looked regal, and above all, arrogant.

  “Warden,” Stephen said bluntly. “He has confirmed what we feared of the overlord.”

  “Did he?” The man spoke hurriedly. “That will not do.”

  “I spoke of him, yes, as commanded!” Donnell screeched. “I only did as you asked. Counsel, I serve loyally, and you, I was told to pick up that man—and I did. Is that how good service is rewarded now?”

  “Every fool has a purpose,” the Warden said bluntly. “You have served yours.”

  “Mercy. You said I would find Mother God, if I looked. I am looking, looking,” the captain cried disconsolately. “Was it all a lie?”

  “I am a man of the Faith,” Stephen declared, taking a sword from one of the knights. “I speak with the wisdom of Mother God, confer Her good grace. I would not lie to you.” He buried the sword in the captain’s back; the tip of the blade protruding from his chest. “May you find rest in Her warm embrace.”

  “He chose well,” the Warden said.

  Disregarding the Warden, Stephen turned to the knights and said, “Faithsworn. This is but the first step towards a new dawn; there is no hope without sacrifice, and no devotion without purity. See to the bodies, then wait, as you were told. Dusk comes for those who sin. May you be blessed in the Light of Mother God.” He turned and walked west.

  “Is all as it should be?” the Warden asked, catching up.

  “Yes,” Stephen said, navigating through thick, protruding roots, and a dense forest floor. “There is one other survivor. I would heed your will in the matter.”

  The Warden did not feign a reply, but simply smiled.

  The White Walls of Dale soon rose in the distance: near twenty feet, tall with spikes atop them, near impregnable. A Faithsworn stood by the wall, tall, with a long white tabard that covered thick chain mail below. He turned and pushed against the wall, and a small portion of it gave way.

  Another Faithsworn stood sentry on the other side, close against the cathedral. He opened an old oak door, and Stephen passed through, the Warden in tow.

  Upon the near wall hung a single torch and two deep hooded cloaks: deep brown with a black trim. Stephen put one on, and the Warden the other, and descended the steps. The path led to the west, before turning towards the east, ever downward. Stephen kept his eyes on his feet, never quite trusting the steep steps. The Warden spoke seldom, all but once. “The Faithsworn are obedient. Are they mutes, too?”

  “It is their faith that sustains him,” Stephen replied

  “I have found such men to be faithless. Do you trust them?”

  “They serve a god, same as you.”

  “A god you say? The same one you serve? Or has that been ripped from you entirely?”

  “I have dreamt the dream, Warden. A proselyte is here. His will I have fulfilled. It is him that told me of your coming, Warden. I ask for no more. I simply obey, as will they.”

  “Worse than I will dog your heels if they do not.”

  The stair ended and Stephen entered a well-lit chamber with two squat men playing at dice. They looked up, and one stood, unlocking the gate to the gaols, and handed the keys over. As if no one ever entered, the man put the six die in a worn wooden cup and returned to his game.

  As Stephen walked the darkened halls, the smells of the dungeon came in a fury: shite, stink, and urine. He also smelled a tinge of rot and decay.

  Another gone to the embrace of Mother God.

  The light shone into the cells, but he did not look into them.

  Dead, dying, or sinful, they matter not. They have sown their fate.

  The hall gave way to a short set of stairs, as it wound down unto the deeper chambers. Stephen put the torch in the sconce by the door. At the end of the dank passage, a wide chamber opened, and Ser Johnathan Falenir was chained hand and foot to the wall. No one else dwelled in the chamber, but fresh blood dripped from his arms and thighs. Stephen did not need to ask the inquisitor to know that the prisoner had revealed aught of use.

  “Such a wretch should be dead,” the Warden declared. “Was it not commanded of you?”

  “If the Betrayer wished to lose his eyes and ears in the Faith, I would have followed the order, Warden. The Voice has weakened, though she is not lost. The death of the lord protector would lead back to me. All of our work would be undone.”

  “The truth he holds is too dangerous. The overlord is tractable, but not tractable enough. The Shadow will be hard pressed to hold him at bay. If word reaches his ears that one of Ser Elin’s counsels still lives, he would come here. You and you alone would ruin the work of the dark god with such a course.”

  “Without me, Warden, there would be no invasion of the islands, and a drunk-on-power overlord would rule from his seat. Which is worse?”

  The Warden spat. “A mess. Keep him alive, if you will, and ward your secrets. Your gift, as agreed.” Beneath the burlap rags the man had managed to hide a palm shaped stone, glowing red. He handed it over to Stephen. “You are shielded by the dream. This was always meant for the girl who sits atop crystal, but if he must live, he should know where It is.”

  “The Voice can be used for the other purpose, then?”

  “Yes. That is clever. You will serve, and serve well.”

  “Once before, and again, I serve the Lord of Death.”

  The Warden ascended the stairs with the most devious of gr
ins, though he did not take the torch. He seemed less than a man.

  As I will be soon, if I lose myself in this quest.

  The Warden no longer concerned Stephen; he would learn what he could from the disgraced knight, and the proselyte would be sated.

  He pulled his hood down and held the knight by the chin with thumb and forefinger.

  “Lutessa?” the old knight asked groggily.

  “You gave her up when you did not yield the truth.”

  Ser Johnathan’s eyes fluttered, trying to look ahead, to see who it was. “You, I know you.”

  “Yes, you do, Lord Protector.”

  “Ser Geoffrey should not have stopped Ser Elin. I am no fool. I can see more than you think. I have seen her down here, and I saw who was down here with you. That man started it all this madness. You… you… if I am ever free…”

  Stephen did not move to deny it. “You shall ne’er be truly free, but I can end your suffering and pain, bring you back into the Light of Mother God.”

  “I told your cursed inquisitor nothing. Why would I help you?”

  “I had thought you cared for this country. Was I wrong?”

  “I-I love this country. It no longer loves me, yet what can I do in your bloody chains? Ser Elin and I, we tried to do good. That left us with, with, Mother God be good, look at what it left us!”

  “Your failure wrought much, Ser Johnathan. Overlord Damian Dannars is wroth. None remains of who entered that country from this land but you. It is you that he blames, no other. When he sails west and burns this land to the ground, it will be your doing.”

  “I had naught to do with it, and he will not—”

  “He will come. The black sails will unfurl, the Crimson Swords will be unsheathed, and there is naught that stands in his way. What can you do down here? On the field of battle, you could do much.”

  The knight spat. Anger and resentment filled his eyes. Stephen realized the man would not help, not willingly.

  “This all could end,” he said. “You cannot return to your station. You will never serve the Faith again. You never should have. The Voice must have known that you were faithless. A heathen. Heresy your nature. A strong and loyal sword I do not doubt. Yet for all your strength, without an undying love for Mother God, you will do naught but hurt Her children. No, you will not serve the Faith, the Voice, or any servant under the Light.

  “But of a purpose, that I can give you. If you serve me. Not the Faith. Me.”

  “What would you know of serving, traitor?”

  “Do you care so little for your life?”

  “My life is over. I will die with honour.”

  “Men and women call you a liar and craven. You are bereft of honour. The Faith sent you down here. They gave you to me, in front of the whole clergy. It is time that I give report. If you have naught to say, they will burn you like the heretics of old.”

  “And you will know naught. I would end my life before serving you. Leave an old man to die.”

  “To have faced the Darkness, and speak as such.” Stephen tsked as he reached into his pocket, and pulled out the Animus Stone. It glowed and glistened in the dark. “If the soul of all people were not at stake, I may have left you to die. You and I cannot die, not yet. There is much to do. First, let us talk about Gabriel’s Gift. Then we will discuss your new-found purpose.”

  A voice in his head thundered louder than the wails of the wayward knight.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Harpy’s Claws

  Ashleigh could not stop running.

  It was a long, narrow hallway with no doors or windows. She saw but one light that seemed to be running with her. What lay beyond was indistinguishable. She thought it could be a stair, a trap, or a cliff. Somehow, she knew the unknown was but another length in the endless hallway.

  If it comes to an end, I will know. I have to.

  The walls were smooth. It was not rock or mortar; she felt it may have been silver.

  What sorcery is this?

  Such thoughts left her as quickly as they came. She was focused and intent on what lay at the end of the hallway.

  My past is behind me. I cannot look back. Not once.

  Hours seemed to pass and her legs began to ache. She had garbed herself in light fabrics, though her own sword was strapped to her waist.

  No, I cannot stop, not now. I have to keep going.

  On and on she went, pumping her legs. Eyes forward, never straying from what lay ahead. It seemed like hours. Not much longer and she would have to stop.

  I cannot run forever. I just cannot

  Hours passed into hours and she felt her strength sag. She stopped, but the light pressed on, folding into the dark beyond. She saw naught but total darkness.

  If only I was stronger.

  There was nowhere to go back to, only forward. She extended a hand to the right, to feel where the wall had been. There was only emptiness. The wall had been there, she knew. Then she tried the left, and it was emptiness. It was all emptiness.

  “When the Light abandons you, where will you go?” a voice said, distant, but familiar.

  “Where I can,” she replied.

  Then she fell.

  Screams of terror died on her tongue. She was terrified: not of death or deeds undone, but of what she would become, embraced by the Darkness. It was a realm she could not see. The Darkness was all that remained to guide her.

  The realm seemed to stop in place. She no longer fell. Her feet were on the ground, as if they were there the whole time. Darkness seemed to give way to some light. There was a wide chamber all around her, with twelve short balconies, evenly spaced. At the northern end were short, steep steps and a towering throne. A shape was upon it, though it was too dark to make out.

  “Welcome to Mazain. Or rather what is left of it. The Darkness conquers all, even the most ancient.”

  The voice was deep, guttural, and raspy. She could not recall anyone that spoke to her that way. But somehow, someway, she knew it was someone familiar.

  “Who… are you?” she asked. “What… are you doing here?”

  “You and I will be here one day, in this very room. I do not know how or why. It is a haze to me. I have learned much, seen more, but still, the Unseen Realm, it has more questions than answers. A realm where Light combats Darkness, from where all realms are born, so much of their conflict to be sown elsewhere. So must our conflict be.”

  “You have not answered my question.”

  “Truly, I have not. Yet if you are sworn to the Light, and I am the Paragon of Darkness. I have been many things, taken many forms, all in this endless struggle amidst gods and mortals. What shall I be to you? Do you seek one or the other?

  “The truth.”

  “A fragile, countlessly contradicting concept. Truth as defined by one is a fallacy by another. An appearance by an extraordinary being may discard the truth, as you have come to call it. Mortals have never embraced that new truth; they simply sought to defend their own. Repeated over and over. The truth is a concept with no practicality about it at all. A myth that you comfort yourself with. I can show you no such thing.

  “You can show me who you are,” Ashleigh said, pulling Retribution free of its sheath. “I will judge the truth of you, as I see fit.”

  “That is the essence of our diminished realm,” the darkened figure said, rising from the throne. “What we see and hear in the moment, that is the truth that we can grasp. It may be the truth of gods, or the truth of man. It is what we embrace, for good or ill.”

  He stood before her, and a faint light illuminated the figure. The man was tall and broad. A long black cloak billowed behind him, and he wore ash grey armour with a great bird emblazoned upon the chest. His face seemed strong, caring, and familiar.

  Ashleigh knew who he was at once. She did not doubt it.

  “I found you!”

  Then his face changed. Scars crossed his cheeks, his brow mutilated, nose broken and disfigured, lips more like worms. All tha
t remained to him was his eyes, and those were not the eyes of the man she sought.

  “That man is one truth I have grasped close to my chest. Often you have been here, and often you dream of him. I have seen you in the Seen Realm. Never were you bound to any soul. Yet now you are fractured, flailing about in confusion and disarray. You will never find him, not like this.”

  “What did you do with him?!”

  “The myth is all that remains to you.”

  She swung at him, cutting savagely from above and the sides, ne’er thinking of her own defense. Every blow, every furious cut, assailed only the air. The man in ash grey armour, whoever it was, laughed, dodging and evading every assault.

  “Slay me,” Ashleigh said weakly, her steel feeling like some great weight.

  “Even if I were to do that, it would avail you naught. This is the Unseen Realm. It is all ethereal. There is naught that is real. I could not harm you, no more than you can do to me. I simply want to… talk some more. It is long since I last could speak to an Isilian. It seems I have slain them all, except one.”

  “I have no words, not for you.”

  “Howsoever will you escape this place, then?”

  “I—”

  “Pride always comes before a fall. The more prideful, the longer the fall. If a man would rise too high, his fall would bring all he knows down with him. Ne’er forget the lesson of Imperator Argath Diomedes.”

  Ashleigh knew who he was. “You are Kaldred.”

  “I have been called that before. I have many names and many forms. This realm is open only to the dreamers. Do not forget that. With the fall of the imperium, we inch ever closer to the Time of Ascendance. Naught will stop the Lord of Death. There were once many Champions of the Light, and now they dwindle, as your twisted realm falls all around you. You can stay the annihilation, if you but travel to the Land of Beginning and open the Door to Realms. That is where your ill-fated hope resides.”

  “Even if I were willing,” Ashleigh replied scornfully. “I know naught of either.”