by Lucas Hault
“Where am I? Am I dead?” asked Borkan hesitantly, as he helped himself back to his feet. He was indeed struggling to battle the sticky blue thing, which felt like pulling the body to itself.
“Who are you?” asked one among the dwarfs after staring at him long. “How did you get into our land?”
“I am Borkan Solomon Rayne, the son of Lord Elias Solomon Rayne of Townslane”, he steadily began. “I was out with my friend to some place, but…”. He held his head as it ached. He was affected with weakness and struggled hard to remain on his feet.
“Are you really the son of Elias Solomon Rayne?” asked the dwarf.
“I am”, he replied, struggling with the pain in his head. “Where is my friend Owen?”
“You are the only one here boy”, said the dwarf. “You are in the Fourteen Nations of Huruk”.
“What?” He was confounded. The sharp pain on his head disappeared the very moment he heard those words. He was flabbergasted. The last thing he remembered was the fall into some ancient well situated in the forbidden place. And now, they say that he is in the Central Continent, in the Fourteen Nations of Huruk. How was that even possible? The Central Continent laid far North to the Southern, while he remembered his presence at the southernmost region, thrown beyond the boundaries of Harot. There was no possible way to the Central Continent from that place. The whole thing occurred in a moment—so quickly that he had no time to realize it. It all looked instantaneous, he falling down into the well, and now discovering himself here, in the Fourteen Nations of Huruk. This was simply impossible. But how the hell did it happen?
“How did I get here?” asked Borkan bluntly.
“We should be the one asking this”, said the dwarf.
Borkan looked dull, drowned in his own thought of worries. The small ones knew the look on his face which portrayed the truth manifestly. “Raeymor says that he found you lying unconscious by the field, and this is where we found you”.
Borkan once gazed at the dwarf just mentioned, who was dressed the same as everyone around, in a long cotton shirt that reached the knees of his narrow trousers, and a faded grey cloak. The leather boots looked rich and thick, and clasped their ankles in a perfect fit. Cloth-weaving was a notable craft practiced among them, and Borkan could assure it by looking at their hand-woven dresses. Their faces differed from one another by the small alien codes tattooed on their foreheads.
“I am Jordi”, introduced the first one, bowing his head in honour.
“Borkan,” he replied, repeating the action. He was familiar with these manners. The Fourteen Nations of Huruk were fully occupied with the followers of Sceptism, and this was how they greeted one another. Borkan remembered it being told by his mother. The followers of Sceptism worshipped the Gods of love and fortune, whereas they pelted stones on the idol of devil. It was an act of worship, and the Gaffoz, which was their holy place of worship, had a big idol of devil with its dark wings spread wide. Before it, there was a huge goblet filled with small stones that were engraved with their holy scripture. They stoned the idol twice, and that was how they worshipped and pleased their Gods. Borkan had once been to a Gaffoz in Spion along with his parents, and that was why their custom was nothing new to him.
“You are a visitor in our land and there is some tradition that needs to be followed,” explained Jordi, as Borkan struggled with the blue sticky grass-like thing stretched over the vast ground. “You have to visit our place of worship and perform our ritual”.
Borkan couldn’t help it out but nodded. The Sceptists were very strict and attached to their rituals. It wasn’t any request but an order, and he was well aware of it.
He began following them through the ground and was simply staggered to watch them move. They floated in the air, just like a boat on the river. Borkan, on the other hand, struggled hard to walk over the surface, which required much more effort in pulling his legs against that clinging staple. The wide mud-coloured roads following the enormous field were surrounded by tall dense trees, with the usual green pigment, unlike the bright blue grass. The trees were fully loaded with fruits, which dropped down to the ground and were soaked in it at once.
Borkan gazed with interest and surprise upon the surroundings. He stepped into the locality which was no lesser than some fairyland. It was an enormous, enthralling garden that was planted with the same blue grasses. The beautiful flowers growing discharged their colours in the air, filling the place with fragrance all around. Strawberry tinge houses were girted round with very high stonewalls topped with broken glasses. They consisted of a single narrow iron-clamped door that was the only means of entrance. The dwarves seemed notably fond of crystal and green, and their living environment spoke all of it. The houses were deviant yet beautiful, and there were Unicorns all around the fields, grazing the blue grasses on the ground. They looked mesmerizing with their long pony tales and the beautiful horns over their heads. The adorable Unicorns gazed at Borkan, and he could notice their sparkling eyes resting on him. It appeared to be omniscient and omnipotent, and yet was neither seen or heard. He saw the women who were same in size and appearance as the men, and were floating in air, though they could be described as a little more attractive than the masculines. They were a merry folk in their days of peace and prosperity, but had adapted to major changes with the course of time. He remembered his beloved mother narrating it to him once which stood true before his eyes, judging by their lifestyles.
Borkan could hardly believe his eyes all the while, assuming himself to be in some beautiful dream. He was the only one standing over the ground, beside the fantastic unicorns. It once looked like heaven, pushing him to the belief that he was dead. The place was indeed heavenly, but the horrific scenes of Harot had still not slipped out of his mind.
He had to go through various streets of the locality, before finally stopping by a beautiful pond. The pond was enormous, larger than he had ever seen before, though it wasn’t that deep. The water surface was opaque, allowing view of the beautiful pearls shining beneath. There were horizontal stones suspended high above the pond, arranged like a big stairway that ended among the clouds. It was all beyond belief, hitting his senses all the time.
There were also circular slabs on the surface of the pond, which led to the beautiful Gaffoz somewhere in the midst of the water body. Borkan perceived it by the four slanting towers that connected high at a point. It was the structure of the holy mansion which he knew well.
“We have to move upstairs”, said Jordi, eliminating confusions in his head.
“But the Gaffoz is located over the large pond”, replied Borkan at once.
“We worship some other thing in the first place. That is the actual tradition and it needs to be followed by all”.
This surprised Borkan. He had never known anything as such before, and the words from the dwarf’s mouth seemed as different as that place. The little one spoke no further, and Borkan understood how strong and immutable must be the purpose. He got hold of his tongue, and simply placed his steady steps over the stairs. It felt amazing as if he was also the one flying. The stones felt rigid and still under his feet, just like the ground. He ascended the steps one after the other, and once turned around to look at the dwarfs following, who still used the air as their walkway.
Borkan climbed all the way towards the clouds and shortly witnessed a beautiful castle by the end. The castle wasn’t that big, but its charm was no lesser than the fantasy land. There were five tall towers surrounding the castle made of ancient red bricks, which had a large iron gate flat opened, bridging the gap between the stairs and the entrance. Borkan stood before the last step, admiring the pile of bricks before his eyes.
“We do not have the whole day”, said some other dwarf behind him, forcing him to get in at once. Borkan did as said, walking through the flattened gate and into the monument, landing into the large corridor that appeared similar to a long bright tunnel. There were no lights or torches overcoming the darkness, but the bricks of th
e walls which threw sufficient light, setting the place ablaze. The floors were covered in small graphite-like element, which glowed like pearls. Each and every step into the edifice led him to nothing but bewilderment.
He crossed the long corridor that ended up in a big spacious hall, which appeared bigger than the exterior view of the castle. But he was, by now adapted to the place as some sorcerer’s land, and hence no further queries penetrated his head. He stopped by the large hall that was floored with similar stones, and there were no openings on the walls but the uncommon glowing bricks.
Borkan caught a glimpse of a man similar to him, tall and normal, with his back facing him. The man, dressed in some loose garments covering his body, stood facing five round pillars, which were fully carved with some scriptures, though only the last one shone brightly. The scribbles on the rest were illegible. Borkan noticed the numerous dwarves behind him, including Jordi, falling down to their knees before the figure at the far.
“Welcome Borkan!” said a bold voice, and he was astounded to hear his name from a man whom he knew not. The man turned around displaying his face and began approaching him. “I knew you would surely come. And you had to. It was the fate and none can change it”.
“How do you know my name?” Borkan was bolted, while his eyes drowned in intricacy. His senses felt dull and crippled, as if he would faint within moments. He noticed the man, who looked healthy and strong, despite his long white hair and beard that were similar to that of the aged people standing on the edge of their graves. The man was blue-eyed, with a narrow scar crossing his nose. The sleeves of his gown were pulled up to his elbows, displaying the burn marks on both his hands that resembled a design of some fancy tattoo.
“I know it all. I know you are the son of Lord Elias Solomon Rayne, and you were thrown into the boundaries of Harot by the Dictator Antonio Calaway’s men. I can also feel the grief of the incident that followed, and what happened to your friend Owen Green. But trust me Borkan, you had nothing to do with it. You are exactly where you should be, and nothing more should bother you any further”.
Borkan was blown off to hear him speak. How the hell did he know all this, and what happened to Owen? And how exactly does he know him? And what did he just speak? There were countless thoughts pricking his mind time and again, causing a severe headache which was unbearable. He could apprehend nothing, absolutely nothing, and couldn’t hold himself any further, but asked: “Who exactly are you?”
The man looked at him with a twinkle in his eyes. There was a twitching in his lips, and his features lightened. His face lit with a quick smile—a sweet, welcoming, gratifying smile, as if they were never any stranger to each other, and he had always known him. “Petrus Sanclave!” he replied.
Danish Ali, whom i can also call my agent, and invaluable guide through the plot development;
Natasha Lekic, and her entire crew of NY Book Editors, for their immeasurable guidance;
Bridget from Now Novel, without whom this could never had been done the proper way;
Julia Hopes and Jonathan, the two people with a brilliant mind, providing critiques and training me for what I am.
The team of Prowess Publishing, for making it possible.
Oliver, Jane, and Elisabed, for their endless support and motivation.
Again Danish Ali, the astute reader and a brilliant guide.
Mr. Christopher Anglo Francis, my school principal and the man that made me what I am.
Dabeer Ahmad, for his endless support throughout the process.
Margaret Reed and Erik Flame, the two priceless gems in my life.
The Publishers who made me believe I could;
My family and friends, who said I should.
LUCAS HAULT hails from Ranchi, where he grew up in his grandfather’s land. Raised by his large family, he has spent his childhood running wild with his cousins, and obsessing over fantasy and fiction books, monsters, and a world filled with magic. He is a fan of J.K. Rowling and considers her to be the one to have influenced the writer in him. He is also a big fan of the works of BRAM STOKER, MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY, J.R.R. TOLKEIN, SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE and AGATHA CHRISTIE—just to name a few.
The characters in his novel are influenced by some of the traits that he once possessed, and at times still possesses. To learn more about Lucas Hault and his characters, visit www.lucashault.com
Also connect with him on Twitter @LucasHault1 and Instagram: LucasHault33 and LinkedIn.
