Darkness Rising (Ancient Vestiges Book 1)

by Brenden Gardner

  North of the symbols were a pair of towering stone doors that fronted an immense cylindrical chamber, stretching nearly to the walls, and high above the city.

  Twin sets of stone stairs appeared upon either side cylindrical chamber. They rose steeply, broken by flat platforms that gave way to tall, narrow doors, warded by words of power, passed only by Reuven and his brothers. In days of an imperial audience, he would take the left stair and enter halfway up. Today I come as a supplicant.

  “He awaits you, Elder Reuven,” the tallest of four Deathsworn announced as he neared the door. They were donned in plate from head to toe with a slight reddish tinge, a black and red tabard draped across their chests, and ten-foot halberds were in raised hands. “Your stave-sword, if you will.”

  Reuven unhooked the long, smoothed weapon attached to the back of his belt. It was worked and polished to look like teak, a slight, barely noticeable depression at its centre. When depressed, the edges would open and twin-sided blades upon jut from either side—four inches wide, but thin, and razor-edged. Handing it over, Reuven said, “My father has not feared my blade before.”

  “Much has changed, Elder.”

  I have seen the change. It seems none in Edren are free from my brother’s venom.

  He entered the chamber, and Emperor Archelaus sat lazily upon his tall, ornate stone throne: it perched atop a dais with three wide, tall steps. Mazain’s Lord Sovereign was dressed in a robe of rich sable with a deep red trim, almost crimson. His deep brown hair reached down past his shoulders, with only the slightest hint of grey at the ends. His great sword was not bared, though the richly embroidered scabbard that once housed it leaned lazily against the base of the dais. The runic glows were lighter, hiding half of Archelaus’ face in shadows. Reuven halted a few feet from the throne, pulled his robes back and kneeled in subservience, eyes upon the cold stone floor, speaking with grace and honour. “I have returned at your summons, my emperor.”

  “Rise and speak. I would hear of the Deathsworn from the wastes.”

  Reuven stood, fists behind his back, looking into the judgmental gaze of the lord sovereign. “They were last in the city of Isil with Amos and I, bearing their burdens. Whence word reached me that their narthecal had not returned, I scoured the wastes, searched every town, sifted through every ashen corpse. I was at a loss. When I returned to Isil and retread the barren ground, I was unnerved to learn that Imperator Argath Diomedes’ library had been spared the worst of the destruction.”

  “How? They do not possess such knowledge. We would learn of it if they had.”

  “Someone had been to Isil and taught them the use of our wards.” Reuven knew who that someone was, but kept it to himself. “They kept records of their efforts and industry. Lord Sovereign, they did more than mine the mountains, they burrowed into them, and found the resting place of an Animus Stone—its keeper dead for many years. The passwords and symbolism, the fonts of power that secured the vaults, they knew our ways. All of them.”

  Emperor Archelaus’ face did not stir. “Language can be learnt. Talos will recode them. The keepers will be reminded and replenished. It has been overlong since we purged them. This will prove opportune.”

  “What of the discovery of the stones?”

  “They had been found before, must you think it overly important for them to be found again? The fools will re-seal them before long, as we did, long ago. As it is, four remained sealed, and one is forever out of reach.” The emperor waved a dismissive hand and frowned. “This does not account for your missing men.”

  Reuven shook his head. “No. In the depths of the northern mountains, near where the Spherule of Cognizance rested, in a place the Isilians called Dead Rock, we found the Deathsworn.” He paused a moment but the emperor did not stir. “Their stave-swords were bloodied. Some were cut across the neck, others were pinned by them. No other tracks. They skewered each other.

  “Their faces, they—” Reuven struggled to hold himself together. They were mine. Men and women I had trained since youth. They deserved better. “They were distorted, in fear and terror, just like those in Isil and Lakarn. They were supposed to be warded from that. Some fell sorcery is at work.”

  “What else?”

  The indifference and dismissal horrified him.

  How long have you known this, father? Did you weep for them? Why are you not alarmed? These were my men—not yours. I should have been informed. “Beneath them, writ in their own blood, were the words, ‘He hath come.” His words trailed off near the end, broken into sullen silence

  “Why does it concern you, Reuven?”

  Reuven balled his fists to contain his temperament. “Those men do not fall as they did, nor do they turn on each other. Their instructions were to bring the bodies of Ser Elin Durand, Lord Commander Rafael Azail, and Lord Aleksander Avrill here, to Edren. In the months that followed, I discover them deep in the mountains, their blood used as pigments in some cruel jape. What is not concerning, Father!? Why has it taken months to reach my ears?!”

  Emperor Archelaus furrowed his brow and leaned forward, discontent palpable in his small-set eyes. “You do not know your place, Reuven.”

  Reuven wanted to say much, though he knew it would be fruitless.

  “Your men failed in their task,” the emperor began. “Those three Adtier would have lead their people out of darkness. No longer would Jophiel’s servitors have been necessary, nor our overseers that came before them. Instead, they continue to believe in the Time of Ascendance, as if they could ever hope to grasp such a thing. That is all that writing is. Scribbles of madmen who think they know much. It will pass: such is the history of those lands.”

  The Time of Ascendance and the Eternal Conflict. Is that what my brother intends? “I have others news,” Reuven declared.

  “You may share it,” Emperor Archelaus proclaimed, sitting back on his throne, right hand beneath his chin.

  “The same message was writ on the side of the Overlord’s Seat.”

  “And the people of Lanan?”

  The venom courses deeply in your veins. Open your eyes to see. “Dead. The stones buried beneath their islands are gone, but that did not rent their home asunder.”

  “You are sure?”

  “They were not seared. They were mutilated and splayed; torn apart like meat for the kennels. No, it was not a spherule.”

  The memory of Lanan was still fresh in Reuven’s mind, like a scab that had just begun to heal. There was no mercy or survivors. Streets were rivers of blood and bone and gore. Wars of yesteryear were kinder to the flesh. It was as if the entire city had committed some unforgiveable sin, and that the realm must take note or risk the same upon their hearth and home. Worst of all, done under your watchful eye, Father.

  “The stones are gone,” the emperor said flatly, as if it was the only matter of consequence.

  Sullenly Reuven said, “I believe Adreyu Marcanas took one to Trecht. As for the others, there is no trace. Stolen or sunk, one is as likely as the other.”

  “King Marcus Marcanas nearly brought the realm to ruins once,” Emperor Archelaus replied sternly. “His issue cannot be allowed to do the same. Trecht is too important, and must be brought to heel. They must be reminded what they swore long ago. Find my daughter. She will retrieve the spherule, and discover what you cannot.”

  What do you fear in the Marcanas children, Father? “Is that wise?”

  The emperor stared back solemnly. “You may leave. I have much to consider.”

  Reuven did not feign to leave.

  “I dismissed you, Reuven.”

  Now, before it is too late. “I have not said all that is on my mind.”

  “I know what it is that you would say. Not all words may be spoken, not all who are worthy be summoned to all councils. Whatever suspicions you may hold of your brother, you may drop. His actions are my will.”

  “If you only knew—”

  “His actions are my will!” the emperor boomed as he stood in fr
ont of his ornate throne, and took heavy steps towards Reuven. “Get out. Find my daughter. Retrieve the stone.”

  Reuven left with the knowledge of what defiance of the emperor meant to more men and women than he dared recall. The guards at the door handed back the stave-sword; his escort approached from the distance.

  “Yeuil,” Reuven called out to the tall, ungainly woman. “I need a score of the nimblest and fiercest swords you can find. We leave in an hour.” She bowed her head and walked down the eastern halls.

  “Dach.” A broad-shouldered man stepped forward. “Maps and sketches of the Trechtian mainland.” He bowed his head and went down the western halls.

  “Prepare the narthecal,” Reuven barked at those who remained. “We return for Aerona Harkan.”

  Chapter Seven

  The Price of Faith

  Dominic looked upon the city of his birth.

  The iron gates were battered and torn apart, the walls were blackened char where they stood at all, caked blood choked the streets, and homes were no more than ruins. When he glimpsed Zelen’s cathedral to the west of the city, a wordless fury came upon him. There was little else that he expected, but the shining white walls of the Faith’s bastions were all that stood between destruction and salvation. Walls could be built again, homes resettled, but he thought there was never a crueler blow than the loss of hope.

  Fathers Augustus and Buchanan stood beside him, staring at the ruination. They know—we all know—that all that we hold sacred will be like my home if we do not act.

  Cloaked in grey, Dominic hid the shimmering white robes of the Dalian priesthood underneath, not wanting to reveal himself for the northward journey. Counsel Stephen Francis’ Faithsworn had swarmed the grasslands and every gate and border. Dominic found it taxing to move without their knowing, but when posed as a beggar or a road weary traveler, he seemed to escape notice. Upon reaching Zelen’s walls, he felt relief, but alertness: caution had brought him to this moment, and needless haste would undo it all.

  “In the ruins of his sin will our church be built,” Dominic intoned to the other priests, his gaze never leaving the cathedral.

  “Long have we spent pleading with the Voice to turn from this path,” Father Buchanan intoned. “If she will not walk it, then we must walk it for her,”

  “For all the dead,” Father Augustus began. “For all who believe in the Light of Mother God. Our hearts must be free of regret and sorrow.”

  “As one,” Dominic pronounced. “We do Her work.”

  The cathedral lay ahead. Trudging forward, he averted his eyes from the side of the path, covering his mouth with the scratchy grey cloth. He climbed steps that were once made of the finest marble, now seeming to be no more than common mortar still numbered seventeen exactly, and a gaping maw looked back where once towering, gilded doors had stood. Father Buchanan softly recited words that every man and woman of Zelen had known, once writ upon the wood: “The light of our life may darken, but that of faith is a brilliance that cannot be dulled. Let faith lead your life, and never will you stray from the Light.”

  “It is a time for faith long unseen,” Dominic declared gruffly, shouldering into the church.

  The far corners were piles of rubble, and lean, hungry vultures perched upon the smashed through openings. Arched pillars that ran up and across above were broken and torn; the debris had ripped apart the long pews of marble. Statuettes and relics of the Faith were strewn and trampled, and the stained glass behind the dais was shattered into a thousand pieces. All that remained whole was a fifteen-foot monument to Mother God seated behind the dais.

  With Father Buchanan to the left, and Father Augustus the right, Dominic knelt in prayer before the deity, and mouthed reverences of sanctity and devotion with eyes closed. For all that I have done, and all that I will do, please forgive me, oh Mother God. Please forgive my brothers and sisters who join with me. This darkness must be lifted. The children must not be born into this depravity.

  He opened his eyes and heard a mechanical grating sound as the deictic monument slid from its spot, revealing a square opening no more than five feet wide, and a hempen rope ladder hung from the inside.

  “Our congregation awaits,” Father Augustus declared solemnly.

  Dominic descended first. The drop was dark, with only a ruddy glower to light the way. He felt for the rung beneath him before he dared drop his foot. After nearly fifty feet, he touched the earthen floor. There were torches ensconced further down the hall. He took one and awaited the other priests.

  The path down slanted slightly, with dead and grasping roots protruding from the walls. He had chosen this path—not to escape—but to seek the deeper refuge. In the reports he had read, the fallen knight used the path to trap and trick the Isilians as the city was razed. He thought it fitting that from the ashes of his home, the Faith will rise again: stronger and more vivacious than ever before. No longer to hide, but to reveal ourselves in the Light of Mother God. A place where we will stand strong, unafraid of the tide that comes for us.

  After nearly a hundred paces, he buried the torch into an iron encasement, and he bathed in light as a great chamber opened before him: plain but marble wrought walls that towered high above, with long, curving benches that near every spot filled with white robed priests and the hemmed long clothes of stewards and scholars. All their eyes turned towards him as he walked to a plain dais at the far end. Taking a moment to survey who had come, he saw many who believed in the cause. Whether that was from his actions or the Voice’s disregard for the immutable souls, it hardly seemed to matter. Some who attended he recognized, while others were unknown to him, save that they were brothers and sisters joined by the Light of Mother God. They all looked to him, and the two men who were as close to brothers as he would ever have.

  Fathers Augustus and Buchanan joined with me long before this all began, when Lutessa, that slip of a girl rose too high, and revealed the darkness in her soul. We have labored to misbegotten ends, but not all in vain. We were three, and now we are hundreds. Hundreds will become thousands. The Light of Mother God will return to Dalia, and so end all this chaos.

  “Brothers and sisters!” Dominic called out deep and bellowing. “You have answered the call of Mother God: a call that has been long unheard in our hallowed halls. In the years of our founding, the first Voice—Justine the Indomitable, who was true and strong and noble—it was she that heard the words that forged our holy kingdom: our bastion of hope and salvation. Not since the First Wars have our people suffered or wanted: for hundreds of years we were safe and protected. The Voices of old—Marilynne, Lindsey, Kirstein, and Gloria—they warded us from Darkness, averted war and famine from our hearts. Much we have done to revere their memories, but much has been left undone.

  “I must speak principally of High Priestess Gloria, brothers and sisters, our last true Voice. A woman I had known all my life, who was a trusted friend to me, in a time when I was lost and scared. A friend to all. Lutessa, Anastasia, and Stephen Francis would have you believe that no culprit could be found for the cruelest of murders. The murder that brings us here today. A murder most gruesome, unsolved, and brushed aside. A murder that I put at the feet of Lutessa!”

  The crowd murmured—little of it dissent—though his own heart ached at the words. The day that Gloria was found dead in her chambers never left him; nor did the years dull the pain or sorrow. At the side of her lifeless body, he swore justice and vengeance. Little good that it has done o’er these long years.

  Since the holy magisters ceased their inquiries, there was no end to suspects within and without the country, yet the heathen who had taken the life of Mother God’s muse was still alive, and in his opinion, in power. Yet to accuse the Voice of such an act was bold. He knew that need pressed him here, as if he walked above a nest of vipers. If matters went awry, it would mean joining her soon with deeds undone.

  “Who stood to gain for the passing of our most revered Voice?” Dominic continued. “Who more t
han an orphan, sheltered by a scholar, unable to have issue herself, a woman so lustful for power, to place a puppet upon the throne to pull her strings? Pay heed to who rose in her ascent! Lutessa’s own childhood friend rose at her side, and an uncouth heretic upon the other! A once flame served as her sword arm, who defiled the very halls that we gather under, and when darkness gathered in the hearts of the Isilians, it was he who wrought a greater darkness to us, plunging our people into wars that we should have had no part in. All to wield power of the faithful in twisted, perverse ways.

  “Are these the actions of servants of Mother God? No! Would my trusted friend have walked us down this road? No! Ambition is a cruel and terrible thing, my friends, and it is Lutessa who knows no greater sin.

  “Does the Mother Above wish for us to wage war, sacrifice our own for the sake of Darkness? We were taught to fear Sariel! We tell our children to flee from his influence; from the tendrils of his long, unholy reach! Lutessa invited Him into our halls. It began with the death of High Priestess Gloria. Where shall it end?!”

  “It shall end with us!” a voice cried out from the rear of the hall.

  “It shall end with us!” Dominic repeated, and the entire hall shouted the same. Men and women clapped their hands together, beating their feet against the ground. Dominic let it pass for a time, before raising his right hand in a fist, begging for quiet.

  “My brothers and I—,” Dominic glanced to his left and right, his oldest friends nodding their assent. “We have wasted much speech on the orphan, and to others with power and influence. Our voices fell upon deaf ears. How could we have moved creatures of Darkness, of Sariel’s twisted will? It is He, our Immortal Enemy, that brought ambition to our church. It is He that moves against us even now. It is He that awarded us with Counsel Stephen Francis and the Faithsworn! We must stop them!”