Dark Sahale

by Sam Ferguson

  Erik shook his head. Once, he had thought he knew exactly who he was. He was the young hero that had fought to save the Middle Kingdom. He was The Champion of Truth. He was the defender of the weak, in the same knightly tradition as Master Lepkin. But now, he was not so sure. It wasn’t just the strange tendencies or the impulses to lash out either. There were the nightmares, and the increasing sense of insecurity they brought with them.

  This was why he had felt that he and Minrielle Arkyn had needed to travel separately for a while. Nolan had only gotten the brunt of Erik’s fevered dreams once, but Lady Arkyn… Erik shook his head. Even now the thought of rearing against her whenever she tried to wake him from his nightmares caused him pain and great shame. Though the two had grown quite close in the three years they had traveled together after leaving the boundaries of the Middle Kingdom, it was better this way. Once, he had given her a promise ring, intending to marry her once they returned to the Middle Kingdom and could have a ceremony surrounded by their friends, but he had to find a way to tame himself first.

  Lady Arkyn had not been easily persuaded to leave him on his own. But, as time went along and his nightmares seemed to worsen, becoming more frequent and often eliciting dangerous reactions from Erik, even she had to admit that time apart might be beneficial for Erik to help calm his inner self. She had mentioned finding a particular grove of trees in one of the southern forests. It was supposed to be an old elven holy site that would help with such things. The last time they had spoken, Erik promised to find that grove and set things right, and reaffirmed his wish to marry her if she would have him back afterward.

  She had told him to be quick, so their time apart would be short.

  He was working on that as quickly as he could, but he never found the grove of trees. An orc settlement had overrun the site, and Erik was forced to try and find an alternative method to subdue his inner demons. Their time apart was already far more than he would have ever expected. It had been four years almost to the day that he and Lady Arkyn had parted ways.

  Since then, in addition to his introspection and meditations, he sought for peace by helping those he could, offering whatever services others might need that he could provide. Most villages in this region were quick to turn him away, too afraid of strangers to even let him in and take a chance. Had they only realized that he was sahale, and thus able to turn into a dragon at will, they likely would have all died of fright on the spot.

  He did find some areas where he was more than a little useful, but those quests had been bloody, and did little for his inner demons. He had fought against a horde of Tarthuns that had come down from the Eastern Wilds in search of new, undefended territories to sack. Once, he had even found himself taken in by a tribe of orcs for several months while he united with them to fight a common enemy. That experience had opened his eyes significantly. To see and learn about those he had fought so hard against at Ten Forts only a few years prior had been enlightening to say the least. It also led him to a new method of caging his demons. For, as he now understood the orcs to be of no less value than humans, he discovered that he was able to extend mercy to other foes he encountered. He learned that by simply keeping this merciful approach to any battle, he was better able to keep his own lust for battle quieted, and chain those inner, darker tendencies more successfully than his biological father and grandfather seemed capable of.

  Erik tried to shake the doubts from his mind. It was nearly supper time, but the day’s meditations had not gone as well as he had hoped. Instead of clearing his thoughts, he found himself bombarded by everything that he felt was wrong with himself. Still, never one to give up easily, he took a deep breath of cold air and closed his eyes as a gust of wind picked up and blew a drift of snow into his face. He cleared his mind and focused only on the scent of the clean air, and the coolness it brought with it. He remained there for nearly another hour before he finally managed to shirk the doubts and fears that had kept him awake the night before.

  A bell chimed in the distance. It was faint, but Erik knew that it signaled supper was ready.

  Erik stood up, grabbing his sword on the way, and then stretched. He wasn’t wearing his armor, just a tunic and a pair of pants. He removed his pants and shirt and wrapped them around the sword. He tied the bundle together with the straps on the scabbard, and then he hurled the sword out over the edge of the drop off.

  With a mighty yell and a wide smile, Erik leapt off after the twirling weapon. He closed his eyes as the light enveloped him when he called upon his dragon blood. His bones stretched and strengthened. His muscles, tight and already firm and larger than most men, grew and thickened. From his back sprouted a pair of magnificent wings. The leathery skin stretched from the bones and caught the air. His tail shot out behind him and gave him perfect balance as he let out a thunderous roar and blew a ball of fire out into the open air.

  No longer was he in his human form. Erik had once again taken to wing.

  He angled downward and soared with amazing speed.

  Erik caught the falling sword with ease and sailed toward the bluff where the monastery stood. With expert precision he tilted his wings up at the last moment, catching the air and flying upward, narrowly avoiding slamming into the top of the bluff. He hovered over the bluff just ten feet off the ground, and then he dropped his sword and returned to his human form, completing the transformation just before falling to the ground.

  He pulled his pants on first. Then he slipped the tunic over his head and arms.

  “You are getting faster,” Shermin said with a humble nod.

  Erik smiled at the monk. “Practice makes perfect,” he said.

  Shermin held up a finger and arched a brow. “Perfect practice makes perfect,” Shermin said.

  Erik smiled wider. It sounded like something Master Lepkin would have said during one of Erik’s many sparring lessons.

  As the two walked into the towering monastery, Erik wondered how Master Lepkin was faring. He knew that Lepkin and Dimwater had had a child, but he had not seen them since Fort Drake, and that was many years ago. Erik had still been in his teens then. He was now twenty-three. Lepkin’s son would be five or six now, if Erik remembered his birthday correctly. He cast a wistful glance to the north, and then disappeared behind the impossibly heavy oak door.

  He could smell mutton stew even before he arrived in the dining hall.

  Seven places were set, one for each of the six monks who permanently resided in the monastery, and one for him. The other monks that worked the lower grounds with Nolan, ate on their own until they were invited to the table once it was perceived by others that their wisdom and knowledge was sufficient.

  Erik sat at the head of the table, as Shermin had insisted since discovering that Erik was sahale.

  Once they were all seated, Shermin led the group in prayer. Each of the monks bowed their heads and folded their hands in front of them. Erik did likewise.

  “All-Father, we thank thee for the life thou hast bestowed upon us. We thank thee for the knowledge that thou hast provided for us. We thank thee for the wisdom that thou hast planted within us. Guide us as we seek the higher truths. Teach us as we seek to understand. Protect us as we seek thy will. Amen.”

  “Amen,” all of the other monks said in unison. Erik remained politely silent. To him, Icadion and the other Old Gods still seemed quite distant. History told him that the Old Gods had abandoned Terramyr centuries before, and that Demi-gods now ruled in their places. He wasn’t about to stomp on the religion of those he was staying with, but he wasn’t too keen on joining them either.

  They all dug in with their spoons, eager to taste the meal that Derian, the best cook among them, had created for their lunch. Derian was relatively new to the monastery, and hailed from a village two hundred miles to the east. He had come seeking knowledge from the monastery, and had wound up staying on. Fortunately for all of the monks, Derian had been an aspiring chef working at a small inn before his arrival. To hear Shermin talk ab
out it, the monk would explain that Derian’s arrival had changed the way they ate in much the same way that spring brings flowers and trees into bloom.

  Apparently, none of the other monks could make anything to speak of.

  Derian was especially pleased today, as he should have been. Erik had eaten mutton stew on many occasions prior to this. It was a dish that was extremely easy to turn into swill with tough meat. Derian, on the other hand, had created a savory masterpiece with delicious, tender chunks of meat set in a garlic broth among carrots, celery, and onion. It was by far the best mutton dish he had ever tasted. Despite their vows to give up greed and gluttony, the large pot that could have easily fed thirty people was entirely consumed by the seven of them, another testament to Derian’s skills.

  After supper, Erik retired to his chamber, which had previously been an office for transcribing manuscripts, and stared out the window. It had started to snow again, and the dark gray clouds did not look as though they would be emptied any time soon. The young man went to his bed and pulled a leather bound journal out from underneath. He opened it to write inside, but found himself sitting and staring at it blankly for several minutes. The monks had encouraged him to record his travels, and use the journal not only as an accounting of each day’s activities, but as a supplement to his daily meditations. Shermin promised it would endow him with additional wisdom and insight, and help him take note of his progress as he wrestled with the less desirable traits within himself. So far, despite having been at the monastery for several months, Erik had four pages.

  Everything he had done in his life prior to arriving at the monastery had taken three pages worth of space. That included his impression of the orphanage he lived in as a small child, the time he spent with Trenton and Raisa Lokton, his loving and departed adoptive parents, as well as recounting the war against Tu’luh and his travels since leaving the Middle Kingdom.

  There were more details he could write, he knew, but the exercise made him uncomfortable. He doubted anyone would ever believe half of the things he had claimed to have done, and he himself needed no reminders. How could he ever forget what he had been through? Janik’s betrayal. The blood feud with House Cedreau that claimed the lives of Lord Cedreau, his youngest son, and Erik’s father. The battles he had won, with Master Lepkin and Lady Dimwater at his side every step of the way. Al and Jaleal too. Master Orres’ self-sacrifice, and the joining of forces with legends like Peren, Gorin, and Lady Arkyn. No. He didn’t need to write it all down in a book. The images, sounds, and smells were with him every day now. It was all a part of him. Even if the human part of him could forget, he was not entirely human. He was, after all, sahale. He had met face to face with Hiasyntar’Kulai, the Father of the Ancients and progenitor of all dragon kin upon the face of Terramyr. More than that, he had ridden the great dragon through the clouds. He had studied in the palace of the Immortal Mystic. He had seen and done things that even most dragons could not claim to have done.

  And all of that was accomplished before he had even reached the age of maturity according to the customs of the Middle Kingdom.

  Perhaps that was why there was only one page written after the account of those other things. What did he have to write about now that could ever compare with what he had already done?

  He blinked at the blank page and sighed. “I’ll try again tomorrow,” he said as he slipped the book back under the bed. Erik moved to the desk and pulled a large, brown leather book out of a drawer.

  It was an archaic text, with many phrasings that were nigh impossible to decipher. Still, the prize of knowledge that it dangled before Erik was too great not to strive for. The book was written about the Four Horsemen, compiled by a strange group of hermit wizards known only as the Cult of Zammin. Shermin was certain that the Cult of Zammin knew how to call the Four Horsemen down to Terramyr, which made Erik wonder whether they might also know a way to defeat them.

  As was evident from just the previous night, Erik could never rid his mind of the vision which the treacherous Red Dragon had conveyed to his mind so long ago in the secret chamber below Valtuu Temple. After all these years, Erik could still see the images as clearly as the day Tu’luh had shown them to him, and not just during the night either. If Erik closed his eyes and focused even to a small degree, his mind would see the terrible images in full detail. There was nothing he could do to escape them.

  It was a horrible, nightmarish peek at the future.

  At the time Tu’luh had shown him the vision, Erik had been told that it was meaningless, a simple illusion created by Tu’luh to scare him into joining forces with that crazed and deluded dragon. Erik had believed that to be the case, until the vision started coming to him in the night.

  The first time it happened, Erik and Lady Arkyn were traveling through the southern reaches of the orcish lands. They had been together for about two years by that point. Erik thought it was a simple nightmare, but then each night the vision would return. After two weeks, the vision progressed beyond what Tu’luh had ever shown him.

  The visions became nightly occurrences, but each night with subtle changes. Sometimes he fought with the horseman, as he had before Nolan woke him. Other times he would watch helpless as the horseman destroyed city after city. Then, there were the nightmares wherein Erik would actually join with the horseman, and help bring death and destruction to the very homeland he had fought so hard to protect. Lady Arkyn had tried to help calm him at night, but more often than not had ended up getting a response similar to Nolan. Though she swore she was never harmed, and could never be afraid of him, Erik knew that he had to find his answers alone. His time at the Monastery of the Southern Light hadn’t yet helped him with his nightmares, but at least he had uncovered some things about the horsemen.

  If his attempts at translating some of the texts were accurate, the Cult of Zammin knew of another person that worked with the horsemen, a guardian of sorts, or perhaps a judger of worlds, Erik couldn’t be sure based upon the texts he had read so far. What he did know, was that the man carried a long, silver spear, and was often dressed in green, hooded robes, beneath which was a jerkin made of dragon skin and a black tunic. It was the tunic that was important, for it was said by the Cult of Zammin that the tunic would bear a particular symbol upon the collar. Erik had spent hours memorizing that symbol.

  If he ever met the guardian, he wanted to know it right away, for he had some questions to ask of that man.

  He studied the tome until long after the sun had dropped behind the western horizon. Shermin, accustomed to Erik’s long hours of study, brought a small snack of bread and fruits meal up to him and set it on the desk next to Erik. Erik thanked Shermin with a smiling nod, but hardly touched the food. He was too busy reading. One day he would have to thank Al, the king of the dwarves in Roegudok Hall, for instilling the love of reading in him. Even Master Lepkin had never succeeded in igniting a passion for reading in Erik the way that Al had. As a young teenager, Erik would have given up after half an hour, but now he was so focused that he feasted upon the words, picking them apart and doing his best to drain them of the precious knowledge contained in their riddles and ancient idioms and metaphors.

  Only when his eyes grew heavy enough to close on their own did he finally decide to end his studies for the night. He closed the book, careful to place a small ribbon of red silk inside to hold his place. He then put the book back in the drawer and stood up. He glanced out the window after blowing out the candle. The clouds had gone now, revealing hundreds of thousands of stars in the night sky. They twinkled brilliantly above him while the moon bathed the snowy mountains in her light. Erik leaned out and took a breath of crisp night air and then turned to his bed.

  CHAPTER 3

  Erik was quickly able to fall asleep. His mind was focused on the studying he had done that day, and so runes and symbols danced in his head as he drifted off into a deep sleep.

  That was when he heard the strange call.

  It wasn’t quite a s
quawk, nor was it a screech. It was something between the two, only barely audible. He turned back to the window and peered outside. In the distant darkness, he could just make out the glittering trail of purple and gold sparkles. A second call came, louder this time.

  “A Night Hawk,” he said softly.

  A flurry of thoughts ran through his weary mind. He knew only a handful of people who could use Night Hawks. Lady Dimwater was one, and Master Lepkin was another. Perhaps King Mathias was dead. He was, after all, well beyond the age of most men. If the king had died, Lepkin might send for Erik to have him help with the transition of power. Erik knew only all too well how many nobles had squabbled over the throne just a few years prior. Or, maybe Lepkin needed him for something else. Erik wasn’t sure what else Lepkin would want though. Even if some creature were foolish enough to attack Master Lepkin and Lady Dimwater, the two former masters from Kuldiga Academy were more than capable of defending themselves. He wondered whether Al might send for him; he did miss his dwarf friend. Or possibly Jaleal, the diminutive gnome warrior that had shared in Erik’s quests, had sent the messenger. A knot formed in Erik’s stomach as the magical bird drew closer. None of those possibilities struck him as the reason for the Night Hawk’s call.

  When Lady Arkyn had finally been persuaded to let him travel alone, she had promised to send a Night Hawk if she should need to contact him. The knot in his stomach grew and began to pull at him as if to drag him through the floor. Night hawks were not usually the bearers of uplifting news.

  He stood waiting, which was all he could do. There was no real point in guessing what might need his attention. He would know soon enough. The great, magical bird sped through the skies like a shooting star, leaving a trail of illuminated dust in its wake. It was nearly as large as Erik’s dragon form was, but it was much faster than any physical being. It crossed the vast openness between them in less than a minute, and then shrank down to the size of a large owl and lighted upon the stone window sill.