What he told me in the next couple of hours was shocking; the details of the fall of Lorken and the horrors of the Redemption Wars were greater than I had imagined.
I stared into the west, and he must have guessed the grimness that colored my thoughts. So he interrupted, saying, “Indeed it was a time of greed, an age of lust for power and wealth. It was an age when man scratched every inch of Talor’s skin searching for what he thought was his and claimed it as his own. But despite this, the balance hadn’t forsaken our world. In that dark age, the Silver Army of Enigmus the Unbroken came to be.”
He sighed deeply, as if recalling a pleasant memory. As he spoke, I took that chance to examine the items above the fireplace. Neatly organized and evenly distributed, carefully placed trophies and army decorations covered the mantle. One particularly elaborate one caught my attention —a silver gauntlet with elaborate engravings.
“You were part of it, part of Enigmus’ Silver Army, weren’t you?” I asked.
“Yes, I was,” he answered somberly. “I left my home, K’ra, and joined Enigmus’s Silver Bearers during the Redemption Wars. I joined with what I believed to be poetic chivalry. I thought I should be part of the one thing that could finally hammer the world of men back to grace.
“That, I do not regret. When news came of the Lorks’ attack on K’ra, I left for its defense. Back at the bed of Mount Eben, Enigmus defeated the Black Army of the Chain of Cas, but at a hefty price.”
He paused for a moment, then asked me, “You asked what I am waiting for, and I will tell you. But first you must ask yourself a question: after all I’ve told you, do you think that you can find any common sense in this world? Any justice or fairness?” I said nothing. “I lost my family when I went saving another, and I remember this every time I soar in the skies of my ruined city. I am waiting for my revenge, dear Genn. For justice.”
“Revenge? Justice? If you don’t mind me asking, how will find those?” I asked.
He looked at me as if gauging whether he could trust me, and I sensed that his words were carefully measured. “The last time I saw Enigmus, before I returned to my city’s rescue, he told us something. He said that one day someone greater than him would carry on his legacy. One day, when darkness reaches its peak and the bleakness of the night dismisses the possibility of a dawn, someone will come and open the door for light to return. That man is who I am waiting for. Presumably, he will appear from the southern countries. Enigmus gave him a name: The Gate Keeper. I am waiting for him, and so should you.”
Hundreds of questions raced through my mind. I tried to gather whether there was any reason for him to trick me, but I found none. Despite his initial hostility, I trusted that Ekran.
He went on. “We can only be safe when the Chain of Cas finds its match. Only someone as powerful as the Order of Eon can stand up against them. Ages ago, there was a plan to fight back but the weak nature of man betrayed him. Deep in the Bracelet, a powerful weapon was getting forged, and those who saw to its creation coveted it. Until the Order of Eon is reassembled and gets it back, there is no hope.”
I thought of the Rushk –they fit the story A’rak just told me. I was about to tell him about them but something caught his attention outside the window. "Genn," he said. He held up a hand, telling me to stay in my seat. When he spoke again, it was with more urgency than before. “It seems you were followed."
"What do you see, Sky Gazer?" I asked with concern.
"Riders with black skin and cruel blades mounting hungry lizards. They are an hour away. What have you brought with you, Genn? What evil followed you out of the underworld?" He turned off the lantern light and peered out the window again.
I gathered my things in a hurry. “My kin. They are after something I unearthed, something that escaped the underworld with the tones of the Sedai.”
I looked at him and saw that he had turned to face me, staring with a newfound inquisitiveness. “How deep did you go?”
“Deeper than any man has ever gone”.
I saw his eyes widen in surprise “So you have found it,” he said then quickly added, “Genn, look for the Gate Keeper. He will bring back the Order of Eon. No matter how long you search, do not lose the tunes of the Sedai until you hear all it has to say. Within them lies a message, a coded whisper that can light your path. Your kin cannot hear it, but the Anguish had left to prepare for the greatest melody of all times, for the world's last cry.”
“Goodbye, A’rak,” I said to the Ekran and jumped to the window opposite to the direction of the Bracelet. I ran to the top of the hill with Sherako before the assassins of Verda arrived. As I faded into the shadowy fabric of the night phasing, I heard him whispering, "Run, Nimtha. You will be the greatest absconder in history.”
Then, to the domain of Veil I finally returned.
The Trodons
Messengers scattered in all directions. Riders, birds, winds, prayers, carried news of the glorious victory won at the Henyan Front. The whole region rejoiced as the nightmarish ending was crushed in its cradle. The historic return of the Serador echoed in every corner of Talor. A glimpse of hope, of a better future, caressed the heart of man for the first time in decades.
Along the beach below the Glaw Bridge, a rider galloped south. He carried the good news to the nearest city of the dwarven kingdom of Helgon, a coastal town by the name of Bafan. The town overlooked the Hullrazor Shore, where a silent gathering built up around a blacksmith shop by the beach.
The messenger showed his message to a dwarf watchman. The dwarf then hurriedly ushered him toward the mobs who stood under the night sky.
“Why are the people gathered like this?” the messenger inquired.
The dwarf answered, “A few days ago, all the ancient anvils of Trodos started to fail under the strokes of their Trodon smithies and broke, one by one. The few Trodons still around are meeting up to throw them into the sea.”
“Why would they do that?”
“They claim that the Hullrazor Shore is a hallowed ground and its waters have some holy powers.” the watchman ended with a hint of sarcasm.
“Are the Trodons still around? I thought they had gone extinct,” the messenger commented.
The dwarf replied as they drew further into the crowd, “There are very few of them now. After King Helgar’s death, they almost went extinct indeed.” He paused, pointing at a young, charismatic, and powerfully built dwarf with a bald head and golden beard… “Almost. Prince Hidnor, the grandson of Helgar, still believes in Trodos. He acts as the high priest of the forgotten deity.”
The messenger turned to the young dwarf prince and noticed the strange markings covering his head and shoulders.
The Trodons were larger than average dwarfs, with darker skin and thicker hides from standing in the hearts of the Anvils of Trodos. This prince was no exception. They claimed to be peaceful followers of Trodos but a subtle warning was always present around them which very few dared to challenge.
Prince Hidnor watched the massive waves of the Sea of Rhythms roaring in the distance. Several carts carrying iron craps threw their load into the water. Hidnor leaned toward the messenger listening to his words and, without turning his head, a wrinkled smile was drawn across his solid features. He walked toward the few incredibly muscular dwarfs covered with soot and sweat.
“The Vile Born was pushed back,” Hidnor said, “and the Serador have returned.” Cheers and cries of relief thundered through the mobs.
While the crowd rejoiced, Hidnor stood beside the Trodon smithies, watching their anvils sink into the water. They muttered ancient prayers, holding their Gray Hammers in their hands.
Their elder, an old dwarf with a dark complexion and white beard, approached the prince. He looked across the Sea of Mountain Waves toward the Goshean Bracelet.
“So we were right. That sound we heard was the Hammer Fall. It truly was the last omen which precedes the return of the Serador.”
Then he turned to the gathering of Trodons. “The
Gray Forge has fallen. Trodos has left our world, and the Final Harvest is upon us. That was the last heartbeat of Talor, and it will ripple across the world until it fades away in the years to come.”
“Just like that?” grumbled a young, soot-covered Trodon, scowling. His black hair ran in strips along his head. “Without leaving a direction to follow?” he added.
A small pause followed after which the elder replied, “Prince Akavi, Trodos didn’t leave us without a guide.” Then he held his withered Gray Hammer and pressed it against Hidnor’s chest. Hidnor held the tool firmly as he noticed that light emitted from the hammers of several others. One by one, their hammers glared as they slowly melted away into ashes.
Surprised muttering issued across the gathering as they watched the peculiar phenomenon. Then the elder said, “That might have been the last beat the Great Gray Hammer made in our world. The followers of Trodos must make sure that it will echo forever.”
“What does this mean? Are we forsaken by Trodos?” came the rough voice of a large, muscled dwarf. His left eye was covered by a metal lid.
“There was a legacy, master Gashnor,” replied the elder. Then he turned, addressing Hidnor again, “A legacy that King Helgar had sown in this world, centuries ago. A legacy that I always felt was within our realm.”
Hidnor and the crowd stood waiting, but all the elder added was, “But now I do not sense it anymore. Now, for some reason, it is veiled. ”
For a Hundred Years
To those who never laid their eyes on Veil , which many sages ignorantly refer to as the Plane of Shadows, it would be difficult to describe.
It is a land of endless night, where a star-lit sky appears to be at arm’s length yet is actually millions of years away. Instead of regular stars, moons, and planets, it contains a reflection of the world. Whatever happens in Talor is shown in the sky of Veil. A newborn baby, for example, coincides with the creation of a new star. Its death means that the star fades from sight –not necessarily dying though, just falling back into the endless nothingness. A word of true passion echoes in the sky of Veil like a brief singing of morning birds, and wars induce tremors in its unstable hills. Parts of the sky hide behind clouds, some are drifting by and some are permanent. Those clouds cover spots and events in Talor that are obscured from knowledge. As the suffering in Talor increases so does the darkness of Veil.
Veil is divided into three subdomains: Shadow End, Dusk, and Night. My home is in the hilly land of Shadow End, where Veil touches Dawn, the realm of morning light. It is there that individuals of my line of work, the settlers, as the natives of Shadow End use to call us, retire. Usually, all foreigners dwell in Shadow End before they either fall into Night or fade into Dusk.
It is from the borders of Shadow End that we could still peek into Talor. The settlers would sit atop the constantly-changing hills, which resemble a flapping layer of cloth, and gaze to the sky. That is how they can briefly cast a look into Talor. In Talor, people would feel that someone is staring at them from within the shadows of a dark closet or a shady corner –a story that turned into a myth.
Hills hugged my two-story cottage and shadowed nearly half of its bulk. The dark green Rasmanian grass lined the bed of my lake and crawled out, extending for fifty feet until it reached my porch. The lake’s transparent water was soft and light, close to air, and could drown a fish. The water glimmered with the reflection of the stars.
The lake was formed along the bank of the river Sarus, the River of Doubt, as it slithered through Shadow End’s dark hills. It then fell into Night several leagues away from my house. It was at the bottom of the lake that all my findings rested, unreachable and unseen by anyone except for me. That lake was my Vault.
Around me were the candlelit houses of my neighbors, both people of my profession and others. Our houses could only be seen if one specifically intended to find them; otherwise, the flapping hills hide those houses from sight. We usually didn’t try to see one another; we just knew they were there, and that was it. Privacy, silence, and loneliness were the attractions that had brought many of us to Shadow End.
***
I walked silently along the bank of Sarus, and Sherako accompanied me. Sherako had a different form in Veil: a huge tiger made of shadow.
I knew I had risked much by phasing to Veil at that particular moment and that mere hours separated me and the assassins on my tail. I realized they could easily trace the faint gray streak I left behind when I traveled to my shadowy domain, but my choices were limited. From A’rak’s description, I knew that the assassins were riding Thittle Rock Lizards, some indomitable and tireless Verdan mounts. They closed in expeditiously. Once they reached A’rak, the Ekran, and discovered the direction I went, all my efforts to keep my lair in Shadow End a secret would be wasted.
On my way across the dark hills of Veil, I kept imagining the assassins phasing behind me or jumping from behind one of the constantly-morphing rocks that lined the river bank. Voices and scenes sometimes escaped the fabrics of the Border of Veil and echoed across its hills. I kept hearing my pursuers’ sadistic lizards whipping themselves with their rock-hard tails on their own sides to move ever faster, getting more frenzied with every slash.
As the hours passed and no one appeared, my hypervigilance eased. The Ekran must have fled his home or somehow misled them. For that, I was grateful. But how long would I run , I pondered, How far would I reach before Xolis and the rest of the Verda Luka, give up on the Rushk?
Something even worse than the Verda Luka lay behind them, in the shadows. I knew that the Goshae was after the Rushk as well.
What was I thinking? What had I dragged myself into? Or, to be more precise, what had Makista led me to?
Before I ventured to Mergal, I had dreamt of nothing more than just to fade into Night. I wanted to become one with Veil; to forget and be forgotten.
Makista’s words echoed in my mind. I recalled his small stature and narrow eyes. I remembered him speaking of the Genn: “ Indeed we are takers, but we are a different type of takers. As we dwell on the fringes of lives which are not our own, we tend to appreciate them the most.
We collect memories that are not ours, and then, alone, in the dark recesses of our cold lairs, gaze upon them. One night after another we watch our spoils as if by taking them we can be part of their story, and they can become part of ours. Yet deep inside, we know that we can never be, and no desire burns within our being more. The true purpose of our existence, my dear protégés, remains veiled. As cruel and unforgiving as the Genn seem to the rest of the world, it is our destiny to make sense of it all .”
I gazed upon the Shards of Mergal and for a brief moment had second thoughts. Are they worth it? I asked myself. Are they worth forfeiting what I’ve done for centuries? Are they worth bidding my city and home farewell? The surface of Talor is boiling, and I have no one up there to call a friend.
Then I remembered the Verda I’d seen in recent decades. It was not “my city” anymore. Besides, I doubted that the Verda Luka would forgive me for even thinking of taking what they believed to be theirs. So I committed myself to accept that decision and my new life, away from homeland.
Deep inside, I wanted nothing to do with any of it. But the Rushk were not forsaken by their owners; they were kept from them, and hence they were not mine to keep. The Verda Luka had once twisted the rules of our kind to the benefit of one side of the battle. They gave the Black Army access to the Shendai Tunnel in Verda allowing them to sneak behind the Silver Bearers of Enigmus. Then, they tried to do it again with the Rushk. With them falling into my hands, I should either pass the Shards of Mergal to their rightful owners in order to maintain the balance or bury them in my Vault... so says the rules of Order of Sever.
The Sedai had led me to the Ekran, and he gave it both a name and a history. He also gave me another name, the perfect candidate to get the Rushk. Yet I did not need to rush in the pursuit of the Gate Keeper.
For the first few weeks after my
return, when I sat atop the hills of Veil to glimpse into Talor, I peeked from behind curtains and shady corners, watching the aftermath of my actions. The Verda Luka rampaged across the Underworld as they searched for me. A whole nation of elite assassins was after me. So I secured the Shards of Mergal with me, and I watched.
***
Nimtha stares at the unfathomable being silently hovering somewhere in front of him in the bunker. “Certainly, I wanted what I have seen and done in the countless years before to make sense. I deeply longed for the moment when I would realize the purpose of the loot I took from Talor which lurked deep in my vault. Yet, above everything, every Genn’s ultimate dream is to be alone.”
“So, what were you searching for, then?” challenges the Asker. “You could have just quitted. Your kind is good at that.” The last sentence carries more than a hint of accusation. “What bound you to Talor?”
For a long moment, Nimtha remains reticent. Then he raises his head, replying, “I had a scale of sorts with which I used to measure everything in my life, and I lost it. After Taria I began to experience mixed feelings again, things I wished never to remember. By then, my already cold world felt even colder, lonelier.”
The presence is silent for just a moment, but no longer. “Go on,” it commands with a measured tone.
“I found myself looking for something else, something besides the Gate Keeper. From the Borders of Veil, the borders of shadows, I sat atop a hill, gazing at the stars and searching Talor for something new to me. I looked for something different than what I had seen during my long life. I often found myself sneaking from within the darkness of an almost-closed door to gaze at a warm family scene, a lovers’ cuddle, or a mother’s caress. I froze in awe at the warmth radiating from such moments.
“As I roamed the lifeless hills of Veil, I kept seeing her heart-shaped face enfolded in my hands. I could see Taria’s glittering, confused eyes. At such moments, I swore I could hear it: the Sedai of the Duke, vivid and merciless as it grieved, cutting through my chest like a razor. The abstruse instrument was following me, just as A’rak foresaw.”
The Dark Season Saga- the Final Harvest Page 11