Darkness Rising (Ancient Vestiges Book 1)

by Brenden Gardner

  “Yet the strength of the First Born did not diminish at my loss. We pushed the fleeting shadow back into the mountains, and sealed him by turning the Animus Stones against Him, scattering the remnants to the far corners of the realm. Sariel would not come again, not while they were hidden.

  “This Lord Eldred. I do not know from whence he came. I know far less than what I did. My own immortality is slipping as his power rises. Alas, he has all the stones, and we are powerless to stop him,” her father paused for what seemed like an eternity. “Sariel has waited and waited, recovering his strength. The Heart of the Sand is gone, and so is any hope of victory. Fear presses on us all, Aerona: inescapable, encompassing. Against Him, we will all be consumed, whether we cower in our homes, or face him in the wastelands.”

  Aerona wanted to reveal the Heart of the Sand to her father, and implore that all hope was not lost. That the Bringer of Dawn could still fight. Reuven told her not to do this. That her father had changed far too much. That a fear had scarred the once proud emperor, and not even hope could save him.

  But we still need his strength. “I learned much on the islands father,” she said. “Not just from Amos, but Damian Dannars, a brute, but a man who I gave my heart to. He never believed in meekness nor fear. He believed that an honourable death meant more than cowering at home, wishing for the enemy to go away. Stand and fight, Father. If we must die, let us die with sword in hand.”

  Her father shook his head. “You have not listened to a word I spoke. None can stand against Sariel. This realm will be covered in Darkness.”

  This is not enough. There is something more. “How did you turn His power against Him, Father?

  “It will not avail you, daughter.”

  “I wish to know.”

  The silence was long, almost unbearable. Aerona mouthed the demand, but then her father spoke. “I attuned myself to the umbral essence of the stones. I forged a weapon in Darkness and Light.”

  “And sealed him with his own power.”

  Her father nodded and fell silent.

  “Why did you summon me?” Aerona asked after a while.

  “I wish to die with my daughter.”

  The doors behind her opened, letting in faint rays of light. She saw the fraying robes that her father wore—all regality was stripped from him; he was just an old, done man. Her arms were suddenly gripped by two Deathsworn. “Come,” one of them said.

  “What would you have me do?!” Aerona screamed.

  Her father’s voice was faint and fleeting, but she understood it. “Reuven will take you to the Gardens. We will all watch the end together.”

  The doors shut behind her, and all she could think about was the shell of a man her father had become.

  For the first time in ten years, she shed tears for her father.

  Chapter Eighteen

  His Last Act

  Lutessa watched the last light of day from her solar window.

  The orange glower looked like a descending inferno, and the early evening gloom seemed to portend a burnt realm closing in on her. The Mother’s Pilgrim forewarned of war with the kingdom to the north, and though it had yet to come, intuition told her this fragile peace was nearly at its end. Days, not weeks, and the fires of war would sear all she strove to protect.

  And so another bloody chapter in our history will be writ. My own legacy—that of chaos and discord. Yet there is still some good I can, no, must do.

  She no longer contended with heretics or misguided zealots. The Blessed Three had not been seen in the city for months. The Faithsworn charged with learning their fate returned with scraps, no more knowledge than she had surmised herself. Counsel Stephen Francis—the vilest heretic that the theocracy had seen in all its history—had to have known their fate. Lutessa dismissed that thought; it did not truly matter. Fathers Dominic, Augustus, Buchanan and Stephen were dead and gone. She was finally free to excise the will of Mother God.

  Then why do I tremble at what is to come?

  She knew her trepidations had no cause. The hidden shipyards constructed the first score of war galleys and dromonds. The Faithsworn assured her that they were seaworthy. Sadly, it was not enough, not yet.

  The Faithsworn were a matter she saw to herself. Their ranks had swelled under Ser Jarl Yanif. The old garrisons of the knights housed them by the thousands; the sound of steel and the throng of arrows was heard day and night in their training yards. She thought premonitions of war came to them as much as it did her.

  Ser Jarl suddenly barged into her solar unannounced, brow soaked with sweat, stone faced and miserable. He spoke in the rough, direct tone that she had grown accustomed to. “A missive, High Priestess. The kingly bugger over reaches himself.”

  Lutessa turned, took the wrapped parchment, and examined the seal closely. It bore the insignia of Trecht’s great lion, crouched on hind legs, sharp fangs and longer claws. The wax was a deep yellow, almost golden. Fingering the wax, she said, “No envoys or princes. This does not bode well.”

  “Our swords are drawn, eager for their blood,” Ser Jarl replied gruffly.

  Lutessa looked towards the commandant with discontent. “Where is the courier?”

  “Below. He expects a reply.”

  “We shall give him one.” She sighed, expecting her premonition to come true. Sitting down, she broke the seal, and read the words.

  High Priestess Lutessa, Voice of the Dalian Faith,

  Long had I thought the days of madness between our people would be over. My brothers and I believed that our father was the sole provocateur of conflict. For all chaos that he unleashed, it is naught compared to the deeds I place at your feet.

  Prince Adreyu Marcanas—my dear brother—is dead. In his dying breath, he spoke of a foe: Counsel Stephen Francis. I do not know how or why you sent him once again to our city. I do not care to learn it. The Faith must bleed for this grievance.

  Our truce is over. My brother asked you for the remainder of the God Stones. I no longer ask. I shall take them.

  For my brother. For my people. For my country.

  Dalia will burn.

  King Tristifer Marcanas, Sovereign Son of the Kingdom of Trecht, Blood of the Lion

  “It has come,” Lutessa said aloud, handing the parchment to Ser Jarl. The knight read it slowly; anger and confusion were his only expressions. “The Mother’s Pilgrim demanded his death. We buried him. How is it that he committed this act?”

  “Naught but lies, High Priestess,” Ser Jarl replied dismissively. “The Cleaver Prince will land on our shores and lead their knights as he did seven years ago. Let him arrive to Trechtian blood and bared steel!”

  “We have more pressing concerns,” she did not care for the fate of a single Trechtian when thousands of Dalians would lose their lives in a bloody campaign. “Who else knows of these words?”

  “None. The man was held at the gate ‘til I arrived. My knights know better than to allow Trechtian scum to speak their poison.”

  “I want them questioned, Ser Jarl. I will not have any whispers spreading through this city. The people have gone through enough. We will spare them the worst of this until they must face it. You will make sure of that.”

  “My knights are—”

  “Every knight, every priest, every subject who saw or heard about this man. No exceptions. They all will be questioned and secluded.”

  She could tell the man was reluctant, even angry. There was much that the commandant did not understand. A ruler’s sensibilities for one.

  Ser Jarl clenched, but eventually nodded in acquiesance.

  “I want the people harboured in Dale,” Lutessa continued. “Empty all of the cities. There will be no more needless losses.”

  “I would place sword and spear in the hands of every man and boy. Trecht has been unbloodied for near seven years now. We have not.”

  Lutessa could not help but see the dead bodies in white robes piled up in Zelen’s cathedral. Elin’s sin had never left her, not for a mome
nt. “The boys—”

  Ser Jarl crossed his burly arms before he spoke, and frustration laced every word. “We have need of every sword, shield, and spear. I fought these bastards when last they came. Ser Elin Durand and Lord Commander Rafael Azail are dead. Isil and Lanan are smoking ruins. We stand alone. We all stand together—or meet their fate!”

  His speech was cold and improper, but there was truth to Ser Jarl’s words that Lutessa could not gainsay. The commandant deigned to include her in council far more than before, and she was not prepared to risk that privilege. “You shall have all who are strong enough.” She paused and rifled through considerations. “Where will our foes beach us?”

  The commandant leaned back against the wall. “Not even Prince Adreyu knows our strength at sea. Still, the man is not a fool. I doubt he would sail south, so close to our shores. Like before, they will make landfall in the Northlands. Jakon is as like a spot as any. He will make camp and push south. I would meet him on those fields, push him back before he can do more than settle. Our fleet should sail up the coast, and cut the bastard off from his homeland.”

  Lutessa thought it sensible enough, though she knew precious little of strategy. “If they do sail down the coasts, Ser Jarl?”

  The big man laughed heartily. “We will smash them if they make the attempt!”

  With what? “Days, Commandant. Give me that.”

  Ser Jarl gave her no more than a curt nod before barging out of her solar, screaming orders at the Faithsworn in the hall.

  Lutessa knew it would not be long before the entire city knew that the time for steel and blood had come again; but times of peace were precious and fleeting, and she would not deny the faithful of that. For she knew all of Dalia would be huddled within the White Walls of the Faith, cowering and frightened; and she resolved that no more homes would burn, and there would be no more marauders placing steel along their necks. The Mother’s Pilgrim guides us through the murky mire.

  She suddenly felt the warmth and chill of Gabriel’s Gift suffuse her body. She had kept the stone near her breast, deep inside a sewed pocket. The Mother’s Pilgrim spoke to her when she least expected—it was important to be there when the spirit had words. There was also the undeniable feeling of life and trust that flowed through her body, as if her existence before the stone was meaningless and drab. Gabriel’s Gift was the guardian she always needed.

  You know what must be done, the Mother’s Pilgrim whispered in her head. All that you have done, the sacrifices you have made, have led to this moment. Face it without fear, dread or despair. Look to your people. You will know where you must walk.

  She pushed away from her desk and returned to her solar window. The orange glower had all but faded. Early evening gloom had touched the walls of the Cathedral of Light. Faithsworn upon the parapets walked with a torch in one hand, the other on the hilt of their swords. She believed that even if they all came together, the burning light would still be consumed by the oncoming dark. There is only one who knows the answer I seek. Of what is to come. I will walk to her.

  She wrapped a white overcoat around her shoulders, did the silver buttons up, and shouldered out the door. The Faithsworn outside the door were not the same as when Ser Jarl entered earlier. When they called to her, their voices were unfamiliar.

  “You need not escort me for prayer,” Lutessa responded kindly. “See that none enters. I will receive no more guests today.”

  The Faithsworn gave only the most cursory of nods.

  Lutessa quickly bound down the curving stone stair to the Hall of Faith. It was dark and near empty, save for a few serving men who took to lighting the ensconced torches. If they noticed their monarch bundling past them, they never stirred. Lutessa quickly went down the left stair, near halfway to the Chamber of Judgment, choosing not to stare upon the murals covered in evening’s shadow.

  The high-ceilinged Hall of Prayer opened before her: the fluted pillars held aloft the weight of the Faith that her mind was always intent upon. The pews were filled with petitioners with heads bowed, though no priest stood upon the dais. She looked towards the stained-glass windows and saw the immense marble statue of Mother God erected before it, looking down upon her and those who sought prayer. Give them the strength that you give me, and the resolve to see it through.

  After a moment’s reflection, she scurried across the hall, and descended the library stairs.

  She exited the stair on the fourth underground floor. There were younger scholars and priests with their noses deep in leather bound books; stacks were piled around them, as if they sought to fortify themselves in their own little realm. She pushed through the towering book shelves, weaving in and out to reach the far wall near the southern end. Most of the tomes were writ by scholars whose surnames began with ‘S’, all but one: a Marcus Hakh, who authored Of Stone and Mortar of the Mountain: The Styles and Form of Imperial Wonders.’ Our only treatise of Mount Cimmerii, the impenetrable heart of the imperium, even in the devastation. Whence the Darkness came from.

  Lutessa pulled the book out. Silently and methodically the bookshelf shifted to her left, leaving open a cavernous passage further below. She placed the book back on the shelf, and walked through.

  Stephen Francis walked down here once, tempted by madness. I am not him. I never will be him. I seek Light, where he sought only Darkness. She reached into her robes and withdrew Gabriel’s Gift. It illuminated brilliantly, as if it was just past noon, and the crypt below faced the open sky unafraid. Thick cobwebs and tiny spiders scuttled above as she took each hesitant step, and hollow echoes rung off the walls.

  She arrived at the crypt and saw rows of tombs lining the dark, cold stone floor. Seeking the north-west corner of the room, she laid her bare hands upon Justine the Indomitable’s resting place, but not for the first time. Centuries past, Gabriel’s Gift had been lodged in the sword that carved out her home; untouched, unheard, until need pressed her to remove it.

  “Trecht is not an end, only a beginning,” Lutessa muttered softly. “I have followed the will of the Mother’s Pilgrim, as you once heeded Gabriel. We face the same foe. Can we truly stand against the dark will that the heretics serve? Where did you find such strength?”

  “In Mother God’s Light.”

  Lutessa turned around, hiding Gabriel’s Gift beneath the folds of her robe, fearing a Faithsworn still loyal to their fallen master had followed her. She cursed the lack of a dagger, and crept backwards slowly.

  “The Lutessa I knew would never run.”

  Layers of fabric did not dull the illumination from her breast. She was not sure if what formed before her was an intense burst of Light from Mother God, or some trick of her mind. It began to dull, and there was a tall, slender woman in a pressed red dress trimmed by small weaves of ivy. She saw warmth in the face that stared back, framed by long blonde hair.

  “You—you are dead,” Lutessa muttered. “They buried you not far from here. I prayed every day.”

  “Yet you did not lower me into the ground.”

  Lutessa never did. She never said the last good-bye to her oldest friend. No reason seemed to matter. “I did not.”

  “You were scared.”

  “I was Rachel. I was scared. I still am. How are you—how are you alive?”

  Rachel shook her head despondently. “It does not matter. Our Faith is in peril, and not even Justine could protect it.”

  Lutessa’s head was swirling—so much was incomprehensible. She wanted no more than to spring at her oldest friend, and remain in a warm embrace while the realm caved in all ‘round. Yet she knew that was not what Rachel wanted. “We will fend off Trecht.”

  “It will not end there,” Rachel said, though sorrow laced every word. “There will always be another war monger that will seize the crown. Successive imperators understood this. You and I, we understood this. It all changed with the arrival of the Faceless Shadow.”

  Like a forgotten secret dislodged by a trinket, Lutessa recalled the vision fr
om Truftan Monastery: of Imperator Argath Diomedes and Overlord Damian Dannars sitting upon their thrones, waiting for her. They warned of the stones and Lord Kaldred; of the poison and doom the daemon wrought; that she had to do what they could not. Lutessa had accepted the gift from the Faceless Shadow—their warnings be cursed, just as they did.

  My story is not theirs. The Faithsworn shall live up to their name. “He is not our enemy.”

  “He has twisted even you, Lu,” Rachel declared softly. “I felt the Darkness here. We must act before it swallows us whole.”

  “No! It is not Darkness, but Light! The Mother’s Pilgrim has showed me the path. Once Trecht is gone—”

  “It is not too late to preserve our Faith. Is that not what we fought for? Lutessa, I can do what you cannot.”

  You always were my strength. My pillar. My hope. Why do you betray me now? “You—you are lost, Rachel.”

  “Stephen Francis was corrupted by the Darkness, and these Faithsworn are naught but minions of that evil. They may have slain the vile man for you, but they are no less catspaws of our true enemy.”

  “Without them we would be crushed by the Marcanas brothers,” Lutessa protested, furthering a defiance that she never thought was within her.

  “No, Lutessa. With them, our Faith will fall. When Trecht is thrown back, there will be naught stopping Ser Jarl Yanif from taking Gabriel’s Gift from you; he will gift the last stone Lord Kaldred needs. Do not let him do that.”

  Lutessa panicked. Lord Kaldred had altered the stone; the daemon instructed her to bind the Faithsworn to her will. She did not recall doing much, but the warmth and chill of Gabriel’s Gift was unmistakable. A presence that once only heralded by the Mother’s Pilgrim. It dawned upon her that it was never Her will, but that of the Darkness flowing through her.

  “The Mother’s Pilgrim—”

  “An illusion created by Lord Kaldred. No others had seen or heard him speak to you, nor the words you spoke? Did you not wonder at that Lutessa? The Mother’s Pilgrim is no more than a delusion in your mind. This is a war that Lord Kaldred wants, that the daemon needs. When it is over, none will stand in his way. All the powers brought low. If we but deny him the one thing he searches for, the Faithsworn will be stayed, until such a time when we can strike.”