The Shadow of Death: The Conquering Darkness

by Lucas Hault

  He nodded. “What about the Dorphous, father? You know it’s nowhere to be found in Syneria and is not accessible to all”.

  Elias gave a nod. “Sir Thomas must be looking over the case and soon he will lead us to appropriate conclusions. But one thing is very much clear with the case; it’s impossible for any individual to have access to the compound which leads us to either of the two conclusions—either the man wasn’t a citizen of the nation of Syneria or he wasn’t any ordinary person to have the compound with him”.

  The gate was pushed open and there they stood, before the Royal Palace. The magnificent Palace of Hustlecitis was by the beautiful river of Zorang. It glittered golden, as was fully bathed in gold. The entrance gate opened to a large terrain that was embedded in golden tiles, and had a large pit in its centre, appearing like a small pool. The pit was coated with gold all over its surface, and two large goblets were fixed by the side of the stairs that descended down the spot. It was beautiful, and was perhaps used for some religious purposes about which he had no idea. The large terrain was surrounded with small boundaries, flashing the rocky mountains and river which surrounded the radiant structure. The view was mesmerizing and Borkan gazed at it with eyes gaped in amazement.

  Connecting to that large terrain was a small stairwell, which led to the second gate before the structure. Two large pillars, carved in the shape of an angel with her open wings, stood firm on both sides of the gate.

  The heavenly Palace of Hustlecitis was gigantic and the largest in Syneria. It had a huge glittering dome at the top, surrounded by five ascending towers on both its side. The towers were carved in the shape of the angel’s wing, while huge angel statues stood tall on both sides succeeding the lowest towers. The golden structure was simply incomparable and ethereal.

  “Watch those steps,” said Elias as they proceeded in.

  They walked in before the second gate, as it wide opened and the men were through. The inner structure of the Palace was no dissimilar than the exterior—tremendous and phenomenal. The Palace lights dangled magnificently across the ceilings, while the elegant tapestry sheathed the floor. The carpet was of amber and black, so soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss. Large portraits hanging, covered most of the walls, while the lavish decorations could be seen around everywhere. The railings were made of gold and crowned with priceless diamonds. The large corridors within that structure seemed the size of the spacious chambers in their Townslane Palace.

  There were Governors from different states, ambassadors, royal bloods, and the high officials, all of whom had gathered at the sight of Lord Elias Solomon Rayne. They were all professionally dressed in their royal suits, and the ladies in corsets and gowns were laden with jewellery.

  “I hope the journey wasn’t too tiresome for you, Lord Rayne,” said Sir Daze Williamson descending the stairs beside the entrance hall, whom Borkan had met some months ago during his official visit to Townslane. The latter was a small, alert, dark-eyed man about forty years of age, very sturdily built, with thick black eyebrows and a strong, pugnacious face. He wore the same indigo-tinted tweed suit and had the weather-beaten appearance of one who has spent most of his time in the open air, and yet he possessed some physical qualities of a gentleman.

  “We are all habituated to it, Sir Williamson”, replied Elias, and they chuckled. There was but a pride in every face present in the hall, bold features, dignified personalities, imperative postures, and a gleam in the eyes which spoke of their aristocracy. Borkan’s father introduced him to the class and he noticed their eminent eyes gazing at him in awe, perhaps for the physical trait which he possessed, and he never knew how to respond as due to the apprehensive attribute that he had suddenly developed at the sight of them. He slightly nodded and returned a smirk, though not scared but not relaxed enough for a genuine smile.

  “Welcome to Hustlecitis, Lord Rayne!” appeared a middle-sized, horsey-looking man in his early sixties, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers, and lame in his right leg, clad in a single-breasted jacket, a waistcoat, and trousers, with a low-crowned hat and a crutch on his right. “The President awaits you in his office”.

  Borkan was no stranger to this man either. He was Sir Gibson Smith. Borkan remembered his experienced grey eyes that had once sparkled in their Palace of Townslane.

  Elias Rayne nodded, pursuing the man through the big hall and towards the stairs.

  “Here you are,” said he, stopping by the door at the wide corridor. He knocked it once, and then along with Elias got in, while Borkan and Owen stood distant and awaited their turn.

  “Do you feel worried?”

  “I no longer feel anything”, replied Owen plainly. He stood still, baffled and disheartened.

  “I wish you fortune!”

  “I no longer need any”. He answered him as bold as brass. It seemed as Owen was ready to accept his fate, no matter whatever it may be.

  They shared no other word and stood separated, as if they had never known each other. It was not long when the door opened and out came Sir Gibson.

  “Owen”, he called and took him within.

  Borkan wanted to join his father, but was stopped by the man, who held him to wait. Sir Gibson was an unemotional man, who went through his duties in a dull, mechanical way.

  Borkan stood before the door, with a rapid and shallow breathing. Countless thoughts clustered his mind and he felt his pulse pounding in his temples. The placid moment left him dull and dizzy, turning his heart sick and faint within him. He had no idea about the fate of the man or what exactly awaits him—a reward for loyalty or the penalty for perjury. Clearly, his brother must have spoken to him about some visit, but he never inquired about it properly nor did he bring it into the authority’s notice. That was no dissimilar to perjury, which had no fair consequence.

  The wait seemed hard, harder than the rigid furniture behind him. He held himself before it, waiting for his time to arrive. Moments passed one after the other, but there was no sign of anyone. He was impatient in his nerves and wanted to enter the suite all by himself, but it just wasn’t possible. He was before the President’s office, and any such act would cause him no good.

  He was held up in helplessness and impatience, and nothing helped, until the door finally opened and out stepped Owen Green with a relieved face. The furrows on his forehead had disappeared, though the mourning for his brother remained. This bothered Borkan, who stared him bluntly as he walked out with Sir Gibson. He could not exactly guess it right, but the expressions on his face spoke of something favourable. He tried asking him in some gestures, but Owen ignored them all and walked away.

  “Your father awaits you Borkan,” said Sir Gibson and moved across the corridor.

  Borkan finally stepped his foot inside the large suite that had the same beautiful tapestry all over the floor. He walked in to notice the walls fully occupied with portraits and bookshelves. The wall on his left was covered with big expensive portraits hanging all over it, while the one at opposite had large shelves attached to it, occupied with various books and diaries, and appearing no lesser than a huge library. He proceeded towards a series of small steps that led to the other part of the chamber. The spacious chamber was well lit, with low ceiling and round pillars, all of which appeared enthralling with expensive plaster and valuable spangles. There was a big showcase beside the last pillar, following the steps, that had the various antique chattels and certain parchments placed within. There was also a series of rifles attached to the wall above.

  He moved ahead to spot a large table before the other shelve, and a stout figure seated before it.

  “My Lord!” he hailed, collecting himself quick in a position with clicked heels and head bent low in honour. There he also noticed his father, seated before the table in an orderly manner, and a friendly smile on both the faces.

  “Your son appears more like Rebecca than you, Elias”, complimented the President, Marven Fraser. He was a stout man, with a
long nose like a beak, which jutted out between two keen, medium-sized cobalt eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. His golden hair was neatly trimmed, while his clean-shaved face, and a belly that protruded out, matched his grace. An average height figure, white in complexion, and a twinkle in eyes that depicted his majesty—there he was, the President of Syneria, the Ruler of the State, and the Law of the Nation.

  “Everyone says so,” replied Elias smiling.

  Borkan settled quietly beside his father, listening attentively to their conversation. He had never seen them meet before, but had only heard some adventures of their friendship; his personal favourite being the one where they had travelled to Spion to kill a group of treacherous assassins who had fled Syneria. That was where his parents met, and the rest was history. He was amazed to watch them talk, which was in an official way and yet contained a friendly tone, as of two boon companions who were seeing each other after decades. Borkan noticed priceless diamond rings which the President wore on both his index and ring finger. There was also a large emblem on the wall above his head, and a similar model placed on his neatly polished mahogany table which stood fixed over a beautiful rug that occupied some part of the fancy carpet.

  “Are there any other reported cases relating to that hell of a city?” inquired the President.

  “There are plenty, My Lord!” replied Elias, burying his face between his hands.

  “The law seems to be losing its effectiveness and the threat lies dormant over the place.”

  Heavy clouds of disquietedness had begun to draw over their faces, and the smile had already been washed away. Their facial expression was one of absolute dismay, the strain of which had intensified his anxiety.

  “Something needs to be done at the earliest”, mentioned the President. “And there is something else that needs to be sorted, real quick”. He pulled out an old letter and placed it on the table before them.

  The letter was anonymous, with no name or any reference appended to the message. It was quite old and had turned yellow, wrapped with layers of dust. It contained nothing but a petty message, scribbled in a script that was alien to both his father and the President.

  “Tramp found it in the restricted section of the Old Library beside his house. He said that the place was messed up, and found this lying over it”.

  “It is the Holferian Scripture”, he began, taking it in his hand. His fingers felt the layer of sticky dust particles that had settled upon it. “It speaks about the Holferian calendar.”

  “How do you know it?” asked the President at once. He had never known the Holferian tongue, though the people speaking it were no strangers to him.

  “Because my mother has taught me everything about it”, he replied assuredly, observing the writings.

  “You were true, Elias”, he began. “Your son not only resembles his mother’s look, but possesses her qualities as well”.

  He waved at Borkan, commanding him to read.

  Borkan in a bold and clear voice began, “The year of the Dark Bear wails about the danger of the one that follows. It shall soon be over like a blink of an eye. Fear the upcoming and deny not the truth, for time never lies. And by the unforgotten promise surely to be fulfilled—He shall rise!”

  The last words seemed to freeze in his mouth. It felt like a knife in the gut, slowly twisted and pierced deeper and deeper. It was like a constant hammer on his head that explode his senses sooner than later. It was a warning—a plain, sharp warning against something horrendous, perhaps dreadful.

  “The year of the Dark Bear!” murmured Borkan, recalling something in his mind. He had heard about it somewhere earlier, but failed to remember it, and struggled hard with his memories, until, all of a sudden, like a gleam in the dark it struck his mind. Something jarred in his head and he frowned. He remembered it—Well and perfect.

  “The Dark Bear!” he said, in a voice filled with consternation as much as with concern. “It is a year in the Holferian calendar. It is an uncommon calendar where the normal five years constitute a single year in it. Each year in that particular calendar is named after an animal, and this is one of them. The present one, the Year of the Dark Bear”.

  He had never held the tales of Holves as myth, unlike the majority, but believed in it to a far extent.

  “So what does the following one means?”

  “The year following the present one. The final year in the Holferian calendar, the Year of the Scorpion and the Raven”.

  His features had turned pale and contemplative, and Elias had never seen that look on his son’s face. Something was not right and the father knew it well.

  “What does the final year mean?” asked Elias Rayne.

  “Many believe it as Apocalypse!”

  “And what promise had it to say?” asked the President, despite his face lacking anxiety, compared to that of Borkan.

  “I do not know”.

  “And neither you should stress,” said the President. “These are no more than ancient myths that shouldn’t bother you.”

  “But the city of Harot is no myth, My Lord!” remarked Borkan. “You both have witnessed its existence, and how that city is swallowing lives. I think this must never be neglected and I strongly believe that the Holves are the key to the mystery of Harot”.

  “The Holves are long gone, boy!” He sounded straightforward. “They were kind-hearted people that once existed. But the times have changed, and they are into extinction”.

  There was yet another remarkable quality which Borkan possessed that were as superlative as his extraordinary looks, which made him one in the millions. He had his own fears but, moreover, he had a heart of steel—never relinquishing an opportunity to face his own fears, which dragged out a whole new personality once determined. This other aspect of him was far more dominant than the initial, and there was bravery stamped in his hereditary.

  “You remind me about our old days. Your father and I had the same passion. We always wanted to get to Harot to explore the truth, but we didn’t. It was not because we were afraid to die. But it was because we have witnessed countless pain and sufferings due to that place, and wanted to act as a barrier to safeguard other innocent souls to fall prey to it. There is a strong reason for it to be forbidden. It can never be destroyed, and the best possible thing is to stay away from it”.

  Borkan was bold and rigid within himself as he listened to the recital. The President continued, “But the times are changing, and things are getting worse. I sense something miserable and unimaginable coming our way. I don’t know if it’s true or whether I make a proper sense, but measures need to be taken to stop it. Your father and I are burdened with miscellaneous work so as to amend certain laws, and it is only you in the end who needs to act.”

  Borkan nodded. The President continued, “There is a small town called Gubby, following the city of Leyland to the north of the Capital. Get to that place and look for Cade Brown. He is a Holf who lives in disguise, perhaps the last one remaining whom we actually know. Make your way into the town and try to talk to him, if you really can.”

  His last words carried weirdness and a string of challenge with them, and Borkan could not but enquire about it.

  “Because those people never entertain strangers!”

  Borkan looked dull, too confused to interpret anything, and so involved was he with it that he could no longer hear the other two men speak.

  “Father!” called Borkan, when they had stepped out of the office door. “What exactly happened with Owen?”

  “He is fortunate to have been reprieved,” replied Elias. “The President has appreciated his honesty and has offered him a small reward.”

  “What reward?” he asked surprisingly.

  “You shall hear it from Owen once you return.”

  It was a bright morning in Hustlecitis. Cool breeze and coruscating sunlight added to the pleasant weather and made it beautiful. The day looked good and so did Owen Green
, who hadn’t slept all night in the thought of his small reward that had perhaps clenched his mind harder than his brother’s grief.

  “This way,” instructed Tramp, a man with a bent back, forty-one in age, with a long grizzled beard, dark swollen eyes, tanned skin as of one who spends most of his time out in the sun, and a long crooked nose, which along with his bushy eyebrows gave him a tetchy resemblance. He wore a woollen cap that covered all his hair, and a tattered coat, dark green in colour that reached the calf of his faded trousers.

  He led Owen through the large corridors and towards the last row of chambers, situated right at the back of the Palace. He was one of the oldest in the service of the President.

  “What exactly is it?” asked Owen impatiently.

  “You shall see it yourself,” he replied, moving closer to the chamber door. It creaked with a single push and they were through.

  Owen’s eyes widened and mouth dropped-open at the sight within. A thrilling sensation ran over him, and his eyes had stopped to blink. His sorrow seemed on a temporary hold, perhaps replaced with alluring vibes that flowed over his body.

  He was gazing at ostentatious women before him—ten to twelve in number, all professional beauties, with different eye shades, bright faces, and varying hairs. They were white in complexion, with slim lips that appeared like petals of rose. Some of them were on their haunches, a couple of them on their feet, while the remaining were stretched over the cushions in bed. Tramp once turned to Owen, who was staring at them so insanely and absentmindedly that he could barely hold his laughter.

  “Don’t mistake them as cocottes,” he whispered, but Owen was too lost in his deed. “They are noblewomen from different corners of the world. You are allowed to choose any of them to be your wife.”

  Owen was still dumbfounded. The chamber where they stood was lined with square windows that opened before the large mountains and the flowing river of Zorang beneath. Beside one of the windows laid a big table occupied with Synerian currencies, which perhaps would belong to him.