Darkness Rising (Ancient Vestiges Book 1)

by Brenden Gardner

  The natural stair ended on a flat outcrop, no more than a couple feet wide. Footing was slick, but the overhang shielded the worst of it. Aerona hugged the rock as she inched across, eyes on her feet. Pebbles broke free and fell some thirty feet below. After a mile, a length of vines brushed her head. It felt like a slithering snake, and was dense enough that the whole realm seemed green.

  The grey rock returned, and revealed an expanse of cave that the vines concealed. Daniel reached just inside the cave mouth where he retrieved flint and kindling, and made a small fire. She retrieved torches along the inside wall, and the cavern seemed dry and well stocked.

  “They had not found this place!” Jaremy exclaimed.

  “Neither the Dalians or Isilians did,” Daniel remarked, leading inside. “This is an old smuggler’s hideaway, miles away from any port town in the Northlands, or was, at any rate. We will lack for comfort, but that is better than dead.”

  It was damp and cold inside, utterly barren, though there were side passages that lead to store houses and sleeping quarters. The ceiling was unusually low; the stalactites not far from Aerona’s head.

  “The north-east passage. That is where we will make for,” Daniel said.

  The passage was narrow and windy, and the air seemed thinner. Near the roof of the cave she espied rodent-like creatures with short leathern wings and piercing eyes. It felt like they took note of her, but upon deciding she was no threat, they withdrew deeper into the dark.

  At least someone does not hunger for my death.

  After a hundred paces, it opened to a wide room with stuffed mattresses on the eastern wall, crates of dry foodstuffs and jugs of water upon the west, and stacks of chopped wood and kindling in the far corner. There was a single table in the middle of the room, damp but sturdy, with low seated chairs all around it.

  “Home,” Aerona muttered.

  “For now, until we can decide what to do,” Daniel announced. “If luck holds, we will have a week before the stores run out. Whatever we decide, we should hole up here, brave the thinner forests, and re-stock.”

  “When you talk sense, you are a little less reprehensible,” Ashleigh said sassily.

  Jaremy doled tasks out: Ashleigh saw to the food and water, Daniel visited some of the other passages for anything usable, whilst Aerona and the Corsair’s right hand would see to a fire—but small.

  Aerona was glad for the diversion, however brief.

  After much sorting and smelling, Ashleigh revealed there would be no more than five days of provisions. Daniel soon returned to report that the other store houses were in bad state, not replenished, and muttered something about dishonour amongst pirates, which Jaremy nodded in agreement with.

  “The rain has started to come down too,” Daniel said more loudly as he took a seat on the rock floor, fanning his hands out to warmth. “Heavy. Now would be a good time to discuss where matters stand. There is much that we do not all know.”

  We do not trust each other, either. What shall we do about that? Aerona kept her silence.

  “Where were you all this time, my lord? Start there,” Jaremy asked as he scooped some dried berries in his mouth.

  “Ashleigh and I crossed the desert.” The sentinel nodded in curt approval. “The Voice told us that she sent a sacred treasure called Gabriel’s Gift to the safekeeping of desert dwellers called the Order. We all know that is what the overlord came for, whatever he claimed his false pretense to be. Whether by itself or with many others, it is at the heart of this conflict. When we arrived, we were taken to this man called Jophiel—their high servitor, whatever that means. He did not have this treasure; and he was bewildered that we would come for it. That’s when he wanted us to seek the Voice.”

  Ashleigh smiled. “Yes. I do not know what he did, but with the fall of Isilia, Sebastien Tiron enraptured my mind with an Animus Stone. I could not think clearly: a voice in my head seemed to direct my thoughts, to what end, I was never sure. Whatever High Servitor Jophiel did, the voice never bothered me again.”

  “That was like Damian,” Aerona offered. “I was by his side long, loved him, before I opposed him. When he discovered the relic, he changed, as if something—or someone—was in his head, directing him.”

  “The Dark Brotherhood,” Daniel said solemnly.

  “Yes, perhaps,” Ashleigh replied.

  “Who?” Jaremy asked.

  “Men in dark cowls who ne’er showed their faces,” Daniel explained. “They appeared before Isilia waged war on Dalia, meeting with Damian in secret. Then, when the light that obliterated Isilia rang out, they came more often. No one here would ever accuse the overlord of subservience and submission, but I watched as they spoke words none would have dared uttered, and Damian acquiesced to every demand.”

  “The Voice must be one of them,” Jaremy offered.

  “The high servitor did not have the stone, so she must still have it,” Ashleigh said. “Faithsworn be cursed, that should have been our destination, Daniel! When she learns we did not fall—”

  “They would have stuck a sword in us the moment we set foot in Dale. I cannot imagine our actions would have changed their minds.”

  “We should have tried,” Ashleigh declared angrily. “What of Trecht?”

  Daniel bristled. “We fled from the royal fleet. Dalia and Trecht allying, even just for the nonce, makes enemies on two fronts. But we cannot just sit here.”

  “This Order,” Aerona mused, shifting. “High Servitor Jophiel. Would he be of help to us?”

  “I will not cross that desert again,” Daniel replied.

  “Nor will I,” Ashleigh added.

  “Dalia or Trecht are the choices that remain to us, then.” Aerona said despondently.

  “Two choices, neither are good,” Ashleigh muttered inaudibly.

  “It is late,” Jaremy declared. “Let us retire and discuss more on the morrow. That storm will not go away, and there is little we can do until then.”

  Aerona waited until the fire burned low, staring into the embers.

  That will last for a time. It must.

  Yet a part of her wanted it to die, so she could linger in the cold. There were no bloodied hands and burning homes in the cold. And no Faceless Shadow either.

  That is the only peace that remains.

  Chapter Three

  At the Mercy of Mother God

  Johnathan opened his eyes in the darkness.

  He smelled the unfinished gruel from the day before. It was thin, barely satiating his hunger. He heard no sound but his own ragged breaths. It was another day, just like the last, and he kept greeting it earlier with each passing morn.

  I must be losing my wits down here.

  In the dark, he reminded himself who he was and why he was here. Ser Johnathan Falenir. Lord Protector of the Theocracy of Dalia, sworn servant of Mother God, though I do not believe. I survived the Calamity and remained my own man. I served the Voice loyally, counseled her, and for that service, sentenced to die in these depths by Father Stephen Francis, Counsel of Faith, Poisoner of Mother God. He thought if he repeated it every day, he would not forget it. I cannot forget. I can never forget.

  He felt the welts along his wrists and ankles. They had burned once; now a sensation that felt normal. The chains never had much slack. The straw pallet he slept on itched terribly.

  He repeated the prayer again. Ser Johnathan Falenir. Lord Protector of the Theocracy of Dalia, sworn servant of Mother God, though I do not believe. I survived the Calamity and remained my own man. I served the Voice loyally, counseled her, and for that service, sentenced to die in these depths by Father Stephen Francis, Counsel of Faith, Poisoner of Mother God.

  He did not know how long it had been. Days blurred into each other; one hour as long as the next. The torch by his cell was lit at dawn, extinguished at dusk. He knew that not all the enemies of the Faith were afforded such treatment. He considered himself lucky.

  Enemy of the Faith…

  Day after day he m
ulled that word: enemy. I am not the enemy. It is that creature that whispers lies into Lutessa’s ear. He did betray her wishes on the precipice of victory, but it had to be done, and she could not have learned of it. E’er since, he obeyed every command she gave, counselled when need arose, and most of all, remained quiet.

  It must be him then. Counsel Stephen Francis. I should have taken his life, even if it meant my own.

  In the dark and loneliness, he nursed hatred through long nights. He resolved if freedom ever came, the priest would lose his six feet under. That seemed so far away.

  Might as well try to grasp a star.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a ruddy glow.

  That is wrong, all of it.

  Every morning someone would come from the left of his prison and light the ensconced torch outside his cell. Occasionally he would see who it was, other times not. The person would always walk past his cell, light another, and then walk past his again.

  “On your feet!”

  The voice was muffled but not far, and he heard the clink of keys and the rough tones of Darvin Rhuart, the chief gaoler. Short and stooped, the man was always heard and rarely seen. Twice Johnathan had seen the gaoler, and each time chief had clubbed one of the skinny undergaolers. “You feed him only what I tell you to, no more!” Darvin would scream as he beat his men bloody. Then those slitted eyes stared contemptuously at Johnathan, as if he was to blame, despite his sullen silence.

  “Let go of me! No, I only want to see her. Take me to—”

  A woman’s voice.

  It soon became no more than muffled noises.

  Must have gagged her.

  He knew who it was; it was a voice he vowed never to forget: Counsel Anastasia, and a renowned first scholar before that.

  Worse, the woman who reared an orphaned Lutessa.

  There was a time when he would have risen and shouted, but those days were past. It would do naught but get him beat.

  I am of no use to her broken.

  “Same as you!”

  Johnathan did not see the torch until Darvin spoke the words. The man seemed to be dressed in coarse, dirty brown linen. Johnathan rose, though not on account of the command.

  Faithsworn. Three of them. He saw the crystalline plate shining in the gloom. They did not wear helms, and he did not know them. The crystal armour they wore disgusted him; he thought they tainted it every step they took. He buried the resentment. Even if he were not weaponless, they fed him only what he needed to survive. No good would come of a fight.

  “Will you be quiet and keep your dignity?” The man who spoke was the shortest of their number, with long black hair, and a stern, implacable face.

  “Aye,” Johnathan intoned, solemnly.

  Darvin did not move. He seemed to await a command.

  “What stays your hand, turnkey? Unlock his fetters.”

  The gaoler grudgingly handled the locks that chained him to the far wall. When they snapped open, Johnathan gently massaged his wrist welts, despite the little good that it did. Darvin pushed him forward, and pain shot up his legs. Though he dared not turn, as it felt like a dagger was about to be thrust through his neck.

  “Keep your eye on him,” Darvin warned. “Traitor will flail to the end.”

  “Should you offer any further advice, then it shall be the last counsel you ever give,” one of the Faithsworn said.

  Darvin grunted and murmured, and kicked over the bucket of night soil over the pallet.

  “Clean that up,” the other Faithsworn said.

  The gaoler did not feign a reply.

  Johnathan felt a certain satisfaction as he followed the Faithsworn out. If it was from a reprise from his cell, or the suspicion he would ne’er see the gaoler again, he did not know. The torch light only illuminated a few feet ahead, just enough not to trip. He kept his eyes on the worn stone path.

  The lead Faithsworn—the short one who talked to him—reminded him of a diminutive lizard from the Isilian wastes. None in his company e’er knew its name, but it was dusky yellow in colour, stood on two feet, herding others of its kind behind it. Normally, they would not bother with anyone, but get too close and it would hiss ferociously and spew out thick blobs of phlegm that burned the skin away. Lost a man to that once.

  He decided to treat his captors as he did the lizard.

  Lizard called for a turn, leading away from where the gaolers ate and drank. At the end of a short hall, well beyond any of the remaining cells, was a narrow, tall door that the Faithsworn unlocked. “Watch the steps,” the short one said to him. “High Priestess wants you alive.”

  Is that her wish, or the worm’s, I wonder?

  Lizard lead him down a curved tunnel for fifty paces before dropping to a steep decline of steps. Then another tunnel, and steps that rose, then fell. One of the Faithsworn had brushed the side of the tunnel, and it dirt and soil fell, not pebbles or mortared stone. At that moment, he knew where he was, and where he was going.

  When the founders of the Faith first constructed their great city, they fortified it from within and without. Tall, thick walls were only as good as the men and women who walked them, they knew, and so they ensured the Voice and paragons of the Faith had a means to flee, should the worse come to pass. That was what these passages were: known only to the Voice, her counsels, and the lord protector: it crisscrossed beneath the city, opening beneath a sheer cliff to a natural harbour hidden from human eyes. Not even the overlord knew of its existence—the ships were hidden in deep coves, and the docks seemed to be no more than long sea rocks piercing the surface.

  Johnathan felt pain shoot up his legs. The Faithsworn kept a brisk pace, never once thinking he had not walked for weeks, if not longer. Remembering how they had treated Anastasia in the dungeons, he thought better than to shorten his strides.

  The phlegm is a taste I could do without.

  “Up! We are not dragging your sorry arse.”

  It came from up ahead. “Stay here,” Lizard announced before he was lost in the darkness below.

  Johnathan was grateful for the rest, though he dared not sit down. He tried to keep a calm when the screams and wailing started. Whatever these knights said was lost to him as he ground his teeth. That only lasted so long. When one of the men behind him made some remark about a stuck pig, he shed a tear. Once I was not so powerless.

  Mercifully the cries stopped, and Lizard returned; he beckoned Johnathan down. Whether by grief or fatigue, he did not move until he was pushed from behind, nearly losing his feet.

  So much for what Lutessa wants.

  He saw Anastasia bruised and beaten, rags bloodied and torn, her right hand against the wall, trudging forward, prodded and pushed from behind.

  Lizard’s phlegm. What you have wrought, Stephen Francis, is beyond forgiveness.

  The path slanted slightly. It seemed to help the older woman. For one who was just beat, Johnathan thought she kept up as good of a pace as to be expected. It was not enough for one of her tailing guards. All that he could do is turn away and forget what his eyes saw.

  Then he saw the light of day.

  Lizard led down a curving rock face to the harbor below. It swooped out and descended about fifty feet with wide, thin walkways carved into the stone. There were no rails or barriers to either side. As if the Faithsworn suspected his thought, they kept him to the middle of the stair.

  He reached a wide surface of uneven rock and stone and saw a raised dais of old wood to his right, surrounded by Faithsworn. Just above their heads stood a lanky man in a red robe, trimmed with green silk and a golden mantle. He did not know what was said, but the man was pointing and laughing.

  Trechtian. They can never withhold their puffed-up arrogance.

  A few more steps and he saw who the man spoke to: her hair ran lengths below her shoulders, face more drawn out, but the pristine whites named her High Priestess Lutessa, the Voice of the Faith.

  And traitor to Mother God.

  Johnathan bore naugh
t but disgust for her, but when they locked eyes she showed only mirth. That stung, and he could not hide his anguish.

  He joined the line on the left-most dock. Anastasia was shoved beside him. He dared not look at her; for he knew that would only give rise to his anger. Instead, he looked at what awaited him. There were no more than twenty bedraggled common folk in the queue; their crimes, he did not dare guess. Up and down the line they were inspected by short, barrel-chested men with green caps, deep brown pants shorn of their full length, and white linens with a golden lion emblazoned on the left shoulder. One man would give a count or description, the other would scribble it on a stretched parchment.

  “We-we are not going to d-die?”

  The Faithsworn had removed the gag, but Anastasia’s voice was weak and stretched. Johnathan did not take his eyes off the counters while he whispered quickly, “As good as dead, where we are going. Hold your tongue.”

  “What do we have ‘ere,” a brusque voice said to his right. “Better stock than the rest of these buggers. Sagging tits, this one. She will hold up, see that she won’t. Born better than the others, huh?”

  Johnathan did not feign an answer, nor did the former counsel.

  “My friend asked you a question,” the other man said, sternly.

  Johnathan saw the men had clubs at their sides, fingers unlatching hooks off their belts.

  “If they will not talk for us then—”

  “Better born, yes,” Johnathan offered up.

  “Put ‘em in the back of the hold. I will have their numbers when we depart.”

  The second man finished scratching the parchment, folded it, and put it in the hand of the other as they walked away.

  “I—” Anastasia said weakly.

  “Do not thank me,” Johnathan replied quietly. “It will get worse.”

  “Wh-what do they mean to do to us?”