by Brian Murray
The next morning, the scene became clear. Nearly half of the Cecillian army had been killed, most dying in the initial attack before Frazellon took control. But among the Cecillian dead lay thousands upon thousands of barbarians. And, in the middle of the carnage, in the middle of the death, holding a bloody sword, stood a druid. His earthy-brown robes were torn and covered in blood, his tawny-brown eyes danced with delight—murderous, victorious delight. He raised his sword into the air and the soldiers cheered wildly.
That morning Frazellon wore his druid robes for the last time. Away from the camp, he removed the coarse fabric and burnt them. He stood unrepentant and watched the flames lick over the robes. Soon the fire engulfed the cloth and Frazellon smiled, feeling free of a huge burden. From that morning on, he became a leader of men—he became a general. From that day on, his nightmares stopped.
Frazellon led his men for a year on several successful bloody raids, killing all in his path, before returning to his homeland a hero. The former druid returned to his monastery in his soldier’s uniform, proud of his accomplishments. But he was turned away at the door, no longer welcomed into the monastery. His friend, Chari, explained the reason at the gates.
“You have become a man of war and violence, discarding your robes of peace,” the druid informed Frazellon, his tone tinged with disappointment. “From the reports that have come to us, you are a man in love with war. You will not be welcomed back within these walls until you turn your back on war and bloodshed, and repent for your wrongdoings. It is not the kind of example we want to show our students nor have our Order associated with.”
“How dare you judge me?” demanded Frazellon with an ugly, angry sneer.
“I don’t judge you, my friend. You have taken a different path in your life that does not fit in with our teachings. We teach peace, harmony, and healing here, whilst you now follow the way of the sword and blood. Remember the book, Fraz? I told you it would become your downfall. You changed from that day and now you have turned your back on all that we have been taught. Brother Bilal will be turning in his grave, for the man liked you and believed that you would make a great senior brother and even an abbot. He loved you.”
“Well, he did not understand me properly.”
“And that’s all our faults and we pray for forgiveness for your failings. Goodbye Fraz, I wish you luck and happiness. And I hope you re-find your path.” Chari slowly closed the door, his eyes lowered.
Frazellon turned his back on the monastery that had been his home for over ten years. He had no intention of ever returning.
***
For the next seven years, Frazellon established himself within the hierarchy of the army, becoming the youngest general in Cecillians’ history and earning the name “the Night Shadow.” In battle, he was unstoppable like the coming night. He led his men into battle after battle and was never defeated. Some said he could read a battle, understand it as a living beast with its own murderous personality, and he knew exactly what it would do and when. Some people even said the general had mystical powers that allowed him to see the battle before it started. This was partly true, but Frazellon was just happy to see his men kill all enemies they faced. Unknown to many, he allowed his men to rape and pillage once they had conquered. And in return his men worshipped him.
At twenty-five years old, Frazellon married another general’s beautiful daughter. True happiness touched the man’s heart for the first time and he was besotted with his wife. They lived in a large house in the nation’s capital, Prodillia, with many servants to ensure he and his wife wanted for nothing. He lived happily with his wife for a year before another uprising in the south started. Reports reached the city that the barbarians had sacked several Cecillian towns, killing women and children. What the Cecillians did not know was that this was revenge for what Frazellon’s troops had done to them.
Frazellon was ordered to go south and quash the rebellion, but he did not want to leave his wife. The emperor offered Frazellon fabulous wealth and a seat of power if he went and stopped the barbarians. His wife convinced him to go and save the Cecillians. Within a week, the Night Shadow lead his men south with his distinctive black cloak billowing behind him. It took three weeks for his men to reach the southern border of Cecillia. He sent out his scouts and waited for news of the enemy’s location. But he knew his presence alone would be like a magnet for the barbarians. All he would have to do was be patient and they would come to him.
It took three days for his scouts to return. More accurately, the decapitated body of a scout returned to the Cecillians. This enraged Frazellon and against orders, he marched his men across the border into the barbarians’ lands. The first battle took place just south of the border on the Southern Plains. On the green rolling plains, the armies clashed. At that moment, Frazellon once again became the Night Shadow. He used all of his know-how, his powers, and battle strategy to defeat the barbarians and cover the green plains in red. After the victory, Frazellon ordered his men to decapitate every barbarian and staked their heads on the plains. He created a forest of heads, all facing south towards their countrymen. Frazellon had stained the land in the barbarians’ blood and left their decomposing bodies scattered on the fields, not bothering to bury or burn them. Later that night during the victory celebrations, he received bad news. His beloved wife had fallen ill.
Frazellon left his men in control of the Southern Plains and rushed home to be beside his wife. He arrived in just under three weeks and walked straight to his bedroom in his travel- stained clothes. A healer told him his wife had a mass that ate her insides and she had lost a lot of weight, a shadow of her former self. Removing his black cloak and helm, he knelt beside his sick wife. Frazellon looked down at his wife’s clammy, ashen face and she opened her eyes. Her once beautiful, bright blue eyes were dull, almost lifeless—they pleaded for help.
“Fear not my love, I will heal you,” whispered Frazellon, smiling. He removed his gauntlets and placed his hands on his wife’s head. Closing his eyes, he concentrated and let his talent flow. Nothing happened. Frazellon started to panic, but calmed himself and tried again. His eyes blazed open in total alarm. He had lost his powers. He looked down at his shaking hands and shook his head. He could not heal his wife and he could not understand why. Fear welled inside the general, knotting his stomach as he looked at his dying wife. He felt helpless. He quelled his helplessness, replacing it with anger aimed at himself. He never failed—he was the Night Shadow.
Picking his wife’s skeletal body up off the bed, he rose smoothly. Rushing carefully downstairs, he screamed at one of his servants to prepare his carriage. The carriage was prepared and Frazellon rode out of the city to the monastery that had been his home for ten years. He arrived during a thunderstorm and hammered on the gate. Lightning streaked across the sky and rain lashed down, splashing noisily in puddles. Again, Frazellon pounded on the gate. Distant thunder rumbled menacingly.
A druid shuffled towards the gate holding a lamp high in front of him. “Hello?” he called.
“At last! My name is Frazellon, I was once a druid here. My wife is sick and I need help healing her.”
“You’re a soldier,” stated the young druid, confused, his robes sodden.
“Yes, yes I know. Is Brother Chari here?”
“Yes, Abbot Chari is here. You say your wife is sick, please come inside and we will try and help.”
“Thank you.” The gate creaked slowly open and Frazellon drove his weary horses into the monastery. He approached the huge, dark wooden doors and stopped the carriage. Frazellon jumped from the driver’s seat and splashed in thick mud that splattered his riding boots. He reached into the carriage and lifted his wife clear. He turned, ran up the stairs, and entered the monastery.
The druid took Frazellon to a room and told him to wait for Abbot Chari. Soon, the young abbot entered the room and looked down at his old friend, who held his wife’s hand. He took a deep breath and spoke softly, his voice devoid of any emotion.
“Hello, Frazellon.”
“Ah, Chari, how are you? It’s my wife, she’s sick, she has a mass and I need your help to heal her. I have lost my powers. I need your help.”
“Frazellon, you have chosen your path.”
“What does that mean?” asked the general, undecided whether to stand up and face the man or kneel and comfort his wife.
“You’ve chosen your life and now you need to live with that decision.”
“Are you saying that you will not heal my wife?”
The abbot did not answer.
Frazellon rose from beside his wife, and looked into the abbot’s eyes, the general’s tawny-brown eyes blazing with rage. “What I have chosen for my life is my affair, but my wife has done nothing wrong—she has hurt no one! She deserves your help.”
The abbot turned his back. Frazellon grabbed the man by the shoulder and spun him around so they faced one another. “Our differences are our affair, Chari. My wife is innocent of my crimes,” hissed Frazellon. The abbot was about to turn again when Frazellon squeezed his shoulder gently.
“Please Chari, please help my wife,” he pleaded, his voice shaking with emotion.
Chari closed his eyes. “I cannot. But you can stay here and see out the storm.”
“She will die.”
“Aye, like the woman in the shack,” announced the abbot softly.
Despair slapped Frazellon and again he saw the woman’s dead questioning eyes. “Like the woman in the shack,” he repeated, tears brimming, instantly remembering the woman’s pleading eyes. “The woman . . . ”
“Yes, she was a seer and sent me a message of your neglect. I saw you standing in the corner while those animals raped her, and after her throat was cut her soul remained briefly in her body. You came back in with that smug smile on your face. You make me sick and I abhor even standing here talking to you. What happened to you, Fraz? What happened? How could you betray our Order, betray Brother Bilal’s memory so wickedly? Your crimes are utterly heinous.”
“But . . . I was weak and needed help. No one came to help me. No one!”
The abbot stood stock still, his hands shaking with anger. He took several calming breaths, holding Frazellon’s gaze. “I will ask one of my brothers to send you food and water.” Chari paused. “Goodbye, Fraz.”
The door closed and Frazellon looked at the space once occupied by his friend. He slowly turned and knelt beside his wife. He gripped her hand and buried his face beside hers on the hard, thin pillow. There he cried, the pillow muffling his sobs. During that evening whilst he slept next to his wife, she died peacefully without a sound.
In the morning, Frazellon woke and stayed at the monastery while the druids buried his wife in the gardens next to a large rose bush with yellow blooms. Frazellon walked to the gate of the monastery and looked back. Venom filled his eyes and hatred welled in his heart as he gazed on the huge stone building. In that moment, he promised he would see the monastery fall. Frazellon left his carriage and saddled one of his horses, taking an old saddle the druids had. He walked the steed through the gates of the monastery, leaving the other horse and carriage as they had served their purpose. He stopped and looked north, then south. To the south was his army and he could go back to them, but something to the north called. He looked south again, but turned his horse’s head north and started riding. He galloped away with tears stinging his eyes, but they soon dried up. He rode north leaving his grief behind, but his hatred swelled inside of him, filling the man with one twisted aim—vengeance.
***
A week after leaving the monastery and wandering the lands aimlessly, Frazellon arrived in the port of his birth, Riosocho. He rode to his father’s estate and approached the large house, his horse, like him, weary. As the rider approached the house a lackey came running and held the man’s mount. Frazellon almost fell out of the saddle when he dismounted.
One of the servants, an old man, opened the door to the main house and looked at the dishevelled new arrival with disapproving eyes.
“Hello Merv,” said the new arrival.
“Do I know you, sir?” asked the old servant, squinting up at the newcomer.
“You should do. It is I, Frazellon.”
“Master Frazellon, is that really you, my boy?” asked the old man, his face creasing with a wide smile.
“Yes Merv, you must be ancient by now,” replied Frazellon, forcing a fatigued smile.
“Not that old. Come in sir, come in,” said the grinning servant, stepping back to let Frazellon in.
“Who’s at the door, Merv?” asked the master of the house, stepping out of his office and looking over the balcony.
“Greetings, Father,” said Frazellon, his tawny-brown eyes staring up at the man.
The man looked at his son for a long time, then said, “Merv, show him to his room and have someone purchase some clean clothes. I will see him at dinner.” The man turned and returned to his office, closing the door quietly.
“Nothing changes,” sneered Frazellon, looking at the old servant smiling weakly.
“He is proud of you, boy. He gets all the news about you first hand and pays well for stories about your exploits. We’re all proud of you, General Night Shadow.”
“Night Shadow no more,” muttered Frazellon, following the old servant to his room.
For the next couple of hours, Frazellon washed, changed into new clothes, and rested in his room. It was strange for the man; he had not been in the room for twenty years, yet he felt comfortable and at peace with himself. Frazellon reached up and lifted a rag doll from a shelf. He smiled when he remembered sleeping with the bear-like doll. He closed his eyes and smiled when he remembered his dog, Cleo. Opening his eyes, Frazellon moved to the bed and lay down, still clutching the rag doll. He fell asleep dreaming of his late wife.
A knock at Frazellon’s door woke him. “Come,” he called, pushing himself up on his elbows.
Merv entered the room and bowed. “Dinner is served, Master Frazellon.”
“I will be down shortly.”
Frazellon rose from the bed and placed the doll carefully onto his pillow. He exited his room and saw a plump old lady standing in the corridor. “Frazzy, is that you, boy?”
“Nanny?” asked Frazellon, for the first time revealing a genuine smile.
“Come here, boy, and let me look at you.”
Frazellon could not help himself and walked straight into a hug with his former nanny.
“My, my you have grown up into a handsome young man,” said his nanny, combing her fingers through his thick, curly black hair. “Women must be queuing up to see you, my boy.” His nanny recognised the hurt in his eyes and quickly changed the subject. “Come see me in the morning, I have to show you something.”
“I will, Nanny.”
“How long are you staying?”
“Not long, I will be off in a couple of days.”
Frazellon felt happier seeing his nanny but now had to face his father. He walked slowly down thick, carpeted stairs, composing himself as he went. He approached the dining room. As a child, he had not been allowed in the room and this would be the first time he ate there. He took a deep breath, opened the door, and entered.
“Evening, Father,” he said almost joyously.
His father did not look up and pointed to a seat to his right. Frazellon, used to his father’s silence, took the seat next to him. They ate their starter of fresh, lightly fried fish and main course of steak cooked in thick gravy in total silence. He knew his father did not eat dessert and so he waited for the brandy, his anger simmering. When the brandy arrived, his father motioned for his son to follow him into the garden. The two men sat in the garden and his father poured an extra measure of brandy for each of them.
“We should talk,” he said quietly.
“Father, there’s nothing to talk about and nothing to explain. You have never loved me and I have come to understand that, but I do not understand why. Now, to be honest, I’
m a man and I do not really care. As a child, it hurt me deeply, but that hurt is in the past. The past is gone and as far as I’m concerned—dead. I need a favour from you and then I will be gone from your life again.”
The man looked into his son’s tawny-brown eyes and saw his late wife. Fresh pain stabbed at the man’s heart, forcing him to look away and sip his brandy.
“I will not tell you my reasons, but I want to travel across the Endless Sea to the Rafftonia. Once there you will not see me again.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible.”
“I have a ship leaving for the Rafftonia in one week’s time. I will arrange passage for you.”
“Thank you,” said Frazellon, rising to leave.
“I do love you, son.”
Frazellon paused when he heard those words, wanting to talk to his father and get close to the old man, but he walked away as the idea of showing emotion now meant a show of weakness. He would not speak to his father again.
He slept well that night and, in the morning, broke his fast with his nanny in the kitchen, where he felt comfortable. After the meal, he strolled around the garden arm in arm with his nanny. When they were out of earshot, Frazellon and his nanny sat down on an old wooden bench.
“I might be speaking out of turn,” the woman began, “but let me explain some things to you before you go. Your father was married to a woman he loved more than life itself.”
“I do not . . . ”
“Shut up, boy, and listen to me, you’re not too big and will still get a clip around the ear.”