Darkness Rising (Ancient Vestiges Book 1)

by Brenden Gardner

  Lord Eldred did not stop.

  “We cannot reach him, brother,” the first boy said sadly. “You know what we must do.”

  “I am scared, brother. I do not know if, if I can.”

  “You must Joshua. Father—he is scared. He needs us. He needs you.”

  The name struck Aerona suddenly: Joshua. Joshua Durand. His dead children. They are alive, no, they came from the Darkness. He brought the Darkness to his children? Is that why?

  A voice entered her mind. You must not stand in our way, Aerona Harkan, Harpy, Bringer of Dawn.

  It was the voice of the first boy, though his lips did not move, and the words resonated.

  You are still mine enemy, the boy continued. Sariel’s will has been twisted by Kaldred. If left unchecked, the dark god will die. We cannot allow that to pass. Trust to Amos. Trust him, Aerona.

  A grey nimbus appeared around Joshua as he stepped closer to Lord Eldred, cutting through the Darkness. The boy rested his hand on the daemon’s right chest plate. The grey light seemed to surge as it ensconced the lad who spoke, as he placed a hand on the left chest plate; the skin was blemished, blackened, and veined.

  “It is not the Age of Malevolence!” Lord Eldred screamed. His eyes darted to and fro. “Return to the Unseen Realm!”

  “Kaldred must—” Joshua stammered. “Kaldred must die Father!”

  Lord Eldred howled in pain as the Spherule of Pyre lay in the boy’s small hand; his whole body was taken in a prescient red glower.

  “Return it!” Lord Eldred shouted.

  “He will not. Nor shall I,” Timothy declared as he ripped the Spherule of Dominion from the plate and the lad was bathed in a ruddy yellow glow.

  “The Phoenix must rise from the ashes!” Lord Eldred wailed. “This plane is sick, dying! Salvation must come!”

  “Not by your hand,” a dry, cracked voice said and an ethereal visage of an old, but proud man appeared; he clasped a crystal that emitted a green glow. “That will be left to us, not a dark god. ‘A gift freely given, willingly taken, is life anew, and not a slayer of spirit.’ Those were your words to me —were they not?—before the wars of blood? It shall be by our will, not yours.”

  “It is the children that we serve, and the Light of Mother God,” another announced as a visage of a portly priest in long flowing robes appeared; he clutched a crystal that glowed piercingly white. “We have stumbled, but never did we lose the Light. By its strength shall we be reborn, not your endless Darkness.”

  “I will bloody my own sword with your blood, heh, will not let you pierce my skin again.” Damian. He stands beside me again. His visage clutched a crystal of a maroon hue. “Islanders do not give in so quickly.”

  The tendrils of shadow at Aerona’s feet sagged, and she kicked them away; she could move her body again. The elder man before her eyes could only be Imperator Argath Diomedes, and the priest, Counsel Stephen Francis. Men slain by Lord Eldred; with Animus Stones close to their breast, weakening the dark god. The Heart of the Sand still fluttered, its Light growing brighter, but still swamped by the Darkness.

  “Unseal the gaol!” Lord Eldred shouted, though quieter and less resonant. “Dead men cannot stop this.”

  “No, but I can.”

  A proud man with long black hair and straight, teak robes appeared. He clutched a blue crystal. Aerona had never seem the man before, but she did not trust him.

  “Amos!” Lord Eldred screamed. “Restore the Animus Stones! The Time of Ascendance has come again! The Herald, your chosen vestige has need of you. I have need of you. What we have long striven for is at hand. These mortals cannot stop this.”

  “No,” Amos replied curtly, and Lord Eldred seemed to shrink. “It is what you have striven for. I once believed as you did, but I long saw the foolishness in your quest. Once, we served you. Now you shall serve us.”

  “Traitor! Traitor! Traitor! You will burn! You will all burn!”

  “With what power, Lord Eldred?” High Servitor Jophiel asked as he appeared opposite of Amos, holding aloft a clear crystal. “Darkness that cannot become one with the Light has no place in our realm.”

  Amidst Lord Eldred’s terrifying screams, the Animus Stone’s resonated—red, yellow, green, white, maroon, and blue—and they merged into the clear crystal that the high servitor possessed.

  “Aerona,” he began, his voice pushing aside the screams, the wails, and the churning Darkness that still persevered. “This is the choice your father fated you to make, though he has long forgotten. Amos and I sought a realm as it was before the Animus Stones—or to destroy Darkness forever. Open your heart to the Artifact, embrace its power in the Heart of the Sand, and make your decision.”

  Aerona clasped the Heart of the Sand against her breast, closed her eyes, and as the Artifact churned the powers of Darkness into the stone, it seemed to change: where it was once clear but for the orange and red hue of the swirling sand, there were tendrils of Darkness being etched into the hard surface.

  The Darkness still pushed against her, stripping away her strength, but she knew what to do.

  She stared into the listless eyes of Lord Eldred, blood weeping eyes fading to a dull glower, like a faded sun, and she said, “Lord Kaldred is at an end. Ser Elin will come.”

  Her whole vision filled with a blinding light: Darkness and Light interwoven, tearing apart the power that came to bear; it eviscerated the visages, searing the children, and she heard the tortuous wail of Lord Eldred. Through the illumination, the unbridled power of the Heart of the Sand ripped the daemon apart, but he still held firm. The daemon moved to speak, though Aerona did not hear him. Amid a burst of power, Lord Eldred burst into flames.

  “Elin!”

  In the surging power of Light and Darkness, Aerona saw a discoloured and scarred inhuman face, raging against the twisting and obliterating power that she unleashed. Wordless, the darkened face spoke to her, warning her, of what, she did not know, before it faded as the realm formed into nothingness.

  Time did not seem to pass at all in that strange realm of non-existence. She walked forward, but saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. What is this place?

  Then she ran, scared. Nothingness lead to nothingness.

  “…the Guardians are at war, and their power descended to those who are not ready,” a strange, soft voice said suddenly, and Aerona stopped to listen. “Their ambivalence cannot go unpunished. Should they rise—”

  “Ascension is by our will, not theirs,” another voice responded, stronger. “Nor can they be punished. He is far too powerful. We had foreseen this, and yet we did not act: why?”

  “Prophecy, what else?” A third voice suggested. “Creation must be dismantled, and only by the Transcendent’s will can that be done.”

  “We cannot let them rise!” the second voice shouted. “We cannot hide this, not from the Council. When they learn what we have given to the Guardians—”

  “Leave the Council to me,” the third voice said quietly. “The planes will be crossed soon, and so our gaols will shatter. A little longer—”

  “They have strayed and his life is at risk,” the first voice insisted.

  “The new god will not…” the voice faded to nothingness, as the whole of the realm.

  What is going on?

  “Return and play your role, child.”

  Nothingness gave way to the wastelands. Aerona lifted herself from the dirt, though her body screamed in pain. The Heart of the Sand was clasped in her hand, though dulled and dormant. Ser Elin barely moved; his cloak and cowl was singed off, his grey armour blackened and dented, and all signs of the Phoenix gone. Long streaks of char ripped across his face: his lips were burnt off, and his eyes faded to a dull brown.

  “Amos!”

  Aerona turned her head, and saw that Reuven had his stave sword out, and legions of Deathsworn behind him. He stepped past Aerona without regard, and lifted Amos up by his throat. “Do you think this will beg his forgiveness? You brought discord here.
I should do what he was too cowardly to do!”

  “He must be warded,” Amos muttered weakly. “It is not past. Brother, you do—”

  “Reuven, he but speaks the truth,” High Servitor Jophiel plead. “There is much to do—”

  “You will be held to account, same as him!” Reuven shouted. “This is the end of all this!”

  Aerona wanted to talk to the First Born, but she heard one voice that rose above all the rest, and it was not a First Born. “A-Aerona… do not… t-trust… him.”

  Aerona crawled to Ser Elin, put her mouth close to his ear. “Do not speak. It is over. All of this. It is over.”

  “No,” Ser Elin said weakly. “It is not… it has…”

  Blood splattered on Ser Elin’s face. She looked down, and two feet of steel protruded from her gut. It twisted inside her, before it came out, and she collapsed, rolling onto her back. Looking upward, her life’s blood dripped from the blade that Reuven held. Then, he reached down.

  She felt a part of her rip away when Reuven took the crystal that he once entrusted to her. The pain of treachery led to thoughts of anger, and what the master of the Deathsworn had always intended.

  The First Born never left the Darkness.

  “Father awaits you,” Reuven growled.

  Epilogue

  Subservience

  Archelaus had watched from the Gardens.

  His heart quavered as his daughter was nearly taken from him. Aerona was strong; stronger than he hoped she could be. It was by her strength that this long-awaited day could come to pass. He held on to hope as he watched the powers of Creation collide, and held firm when Sariel nearly swallowed all the realm.

  Archelaus knew that Amos would turn from the dark god, and that Jophiel would reveal his true allegiance. It took much to convince Reuven of the need to wait, observe, and manipulate from the shadows. Archelaus knew they would all see the wisdom of his judgment; and the cruelty that must be shown to the Adtier.

  Archelaus heard the crunch of boots from behind, and he turned to see Reuven wander through the path. The Deathsworn were dragging Aerona Harkan and Kaldred Durand. The Bringer of Dusk looked more like a charred shell. The Bringer of Dawn seemed a lifeless husk with weak, dragging arms, eyes dulled and dark. Humbled, disgraced, and defeated, they were thrown at his feet, hands grasping thin reeds.

  “Leave us, all of you,” Archelaus commanded, not feigning to look at even his daughter, though his heart swelled. The Deathsworn turned at the order, though Reuven remained. “You have it?”

  Reuven stepped over the Bringers, took a knee, and held aloft the Heart of the Sand: its sand churned like a storm, veins of Darkness throbbing from within. Archelaus took it, and felt the power to mend and destroy, of life and death, of strength and kindness. He suddenly knew that Vindication—the sword he once forged of Light and Darkness—was but a hollow imitation of this power. What my children needed millennia ago will be delivered to them now.

  “You have done well, Reuven. The conflict nears its end. Trecht and Dalia remain. Bring them to heel—or discover among them who will be tractable.”

  “King Tristifer will serve us as he once did. The woman,” Reuven spat. “Will prove troublesome. I am told that the clergy and magistrates fear her power. War may have ended, but her authority and dominion have never been stronger. Dalia will not fall easily.”

  “Break her, if you must.”

  “By your will, it shall be done.”

  “Leave us. There is much I must discuss the Bringers.”

  Wordless, Reuven rose and left the Gardens; it was an obeisance that he had rarely been shown before.

  The reeds rustled as Kaldred stirred; his eyes filled with rage. “Sariel will return, Emperor Archelaus! When he does, you will fall just as you did before.”

  “Then why am I still here, Bringer of Dusk?” Archelaus declared, placing his boot on Kaldred’s back. He could hear the bones crack. “Your dark god could not slay me before; he shall not do it ever. Not with His power in mine hands!”

  “Father,” Aerona cried out weakly, looking towards him. “Elin, he is still in there. Fighting. Hurting. No, do not wound him.”

  “Elin is dead. Naught will bring him back. Kaldred is all that remains.”

  “There is good that resides within him.”

  Archelaus lifted his foot and walked to Aerona, looking down upon her. “Amos slew Elin. It is what began this descent to madness. When he chose the vestige, I had to choose mine. You are no more the Harpy than he is that man.”

  “I will,” the Kaldred began weakly. “I will never serve you. There is only Sariel!”

  “Much must be undone,” Archelaus mused solemnly, giving no heed to the veiled threat. “We do not live in a realm of gods, but of mortals. The Time of Ascendance shall ne’er come to pass again. No rebirth, no salvation. This is our plane; and we shall live or die with it, whatever our choices are. You will see to that end, if I am to suffer you to live.”

  “I am—”

  Archelaus smiled as the Heart of the Sand burst with power. He felt the power suffuse him, and succumbed to the sable nimbus of Darkness and Light that formed around him. Many voices churned in his head, and they spoke with his voice. “Subservience is the fate of the Bringers. Sariel’s essence remains in you, Kaldred, and Lucretia’s in yours, Aerona. No longer are we play things of the gods. You will serve or you shall be made to!”

  Aerona was suffused in Light and Kaldred in Darkness. They rose from the ground; their screams of pain were deafening. Archelaus felt an unfathomable force push against him, but the reborn Heart of the Sand was too strong, and his own will too fortuitous. Even the gods shall kneel in subservience!

  “When the war comes, you shall fall!” Archelaus boomed.

  Bodies wracked in pain, the essence of the patron deities surged through their chosen vestiges; the voices echoing through his skull.

  “There is no will but that of the Transcendent!” he declared.

  A piercing wail filled his ears—the last moan of broken souls that stretched until it was silenced suddenly; the power faded from them, and the Bringers fell to the ground. Their darkened eyes looked and searched, staring piteously towards Archelaus. He placed the Heart of the Sand into the folds of his robes, and stared down at the mortal vestiges. Then they kneeled. They kneeled in subservience; and Archelaus knew that godhood had passed down.

  We are the gods now.

  Archelaus lingered long after the Bringers had left. The realm below and above was calm, serene, and peaceful. He thought it a harmony that humankind had long been bereft of.

  “Much must be done,” Archelaus mused aloud. “The Council will not leave us be, not ‘til the end of time. Even now they must stir in their halls, milling and debating. When discussion ends and they seek to remedy—”

  “You did not run then. You will not run now.”

  The voice chilled him.

  “Come out,” Archelaus commanded.

  Amos sauntered from the shadow of a great oak tree, cloaked, his rheumy yellowed eyes darkened, but piercing. “We must have our forged sword in hand.”

  Archelaus paid the claim no heed. “How long have you been there, Amos?”

  “Not long. I trust they are more than sufficient?”

  “They are not tractable, as we suspected,” Archelaus sighed. “There is much to be risked for your gambit. A risk I would not have taken!”

  “Your fears are unfounded. The god’s power is at your breast, and the bringers bound to your will. Ascendance is the dream of fools. We dream of Transcendence; it will be our shield against the Council.”

  “Ascendance,” Archelaus chewed the word. “Sariel’s great folly, and his doom against us. How long do we have?”

  “You would ask me?” Amos giggled. “I have long since been without his counsel. Summon the tactician if you wish to know the mind of the dark god—or why not ask him yourself?”

  Archelaus grunted, unamused. “Altier and Adtier will no
longer scrape to the whims of gods.”

  “No, no, we will not,” Amos replied slyly. “Of gods and mortals we shall create: filled with knowledge of what we have. Those children will do what we could not: break the bonds that bind us!”

  “You are sure of this path, then? It must come to this?”

  “Oh yes, oh yes,” Amos laughed. “Sariel over stepped Himself, Lucretia too cowardly, and Xavier did naught whilst we forged our weapon.” Amos stood at the edge, then. “Yet for all the power mongering, they all wanted the same thing. What we want: the heavens to fall, Creation re-writ. Now their godhood is yours. Transcend, Father. Transcend and give to your children the power we need.”

  Archelaus did not know how or why, but the Heart of the Sand was in his hand once again; its power emanating, he basked in its essence. “Whence the Council moves against us, I will give to you what you so desire.”

  Amos grinned sardonically. “And so our bonds shall shatter; and so the Chains of Fate are broken.”

  Ancient Vestiges

  Chains of Fate

  Fall 2017

  The story does not end with the Bringers humbled, and the power of Light and Darkness in the hands of Emperor Archelaus.

  There is still a blood debt between Dalia and Trecht, and neither High Priestess Lutessa nor King Tristifer will soon forget it. Though Reuven remained loyal to the emperor, his disdain for Amos still roils. The Council— who spoke to Aerona amidst the fury of the Light—play a dangerous game; the great conflict on the mortal plane is but a small part of it. Ser Elin, Lord Kaldred, or Lord Eldred—they will all vie for control of the mortal vestige, and what that portends will be rife with consequences. Ser Johnathan was imbued with a strength beyond his understanding, and that will leave Daniel and Ashleigh reeling.

  It will be a tale of gods and mortals.

  And the breaking of the Chains of Fate.