As the Calypsian soldiers came closer, the two bandits mover further away. We are not moving fast enough, thought Craigon, as he noticed the soldiers gaining on them. His only hope was that the Calypsians would give up before venturing deep in the woods. Perhaps the fear of the forest or encountering a large party of bandits would motivate them to turn back.
But no such thing happened. And it was when Craigon heard the loud bark of a hunting dog, that he lost all hope. He knew at that moment that stealth was no longer a practical option. No man had ever hidden from a Calypsian hound and lived to tell the tale. He turned his back to the approaching soldiers, took in a substantial gulp of air, and began to run.
He did not know whether Hath did the same; he did not care. In a matter of seconds, he heard the whooshing sound of arrows followed by a high-pitched scream of a man, and then a thud. He had received the answer to his question.
Craigon did not look back. He ran past hanging branches, cut himself on stray roots, jumped over some moss covered rocks with large red ants crawling up the sides, but did not stop running. He could hear the gallop of horses, the shouting of men, and the harsh barking of a dog. He expected an arrow to pierce him any moment, to penetrate his back and reappear through his chest. He expected the sharp, glistening teeth of a dog to snap at his legs; he anticipated a mace to hit his head and turn it into a gooey mess of bones and pulp. He heard the galloping of hooves getting closer, he heard the twang of the string as the arrow left the bow, and he closed his eyes to embrace his death. But instead of falling to the ground, he began falling inside it. The ground opened up beneath his feet, and he felt himself being swallowed, falling into a dark abyss, until the ground rushed up to meet him and smacked him across the face.
He tasted blood in his mouth for a few heartbeats before closing his eyes and passing out.
∞∞∞
The bandit had vanished right before his eyes as if the threadlike fingers of the mist had coiled around him and had consumed him. Wynn Howell reined in his horse and brought it to a halt.
“Where did he go?” he shouted.
“Probably tripped and fell,” the soldier beside him suggested.
“Doesn’t matter, we have to find him. The king’s justice awaits him. Branch out into different directions, men. Gareth, you go left, and Maelor, take the right. I am going to go straight and scout the area where we last saw him. Try to take him alive, but kill him if he proves to be too much trouble. But try to make it as painful as possible.”
Gareth nodded and trotted into the dense thicket to their left while Maelor proceeded towards the clearing to the right. Wynn stood motionless for some time, studying the thick mist for a little while, trying to make out a silhouette, scampering off into the unknown. His eyes had been glued to the bandit for as long as they had been chasing him, and then in an instant, Eravia had swallowed him. Was it true that the trees of Eravia helped the bandits? How could something so majestic and ancient aid those who were so vile and barbaric? But it was said that the bandits made these lands their home even before the first tree of Eravia grew and matured. If the forest was a thing from the ancient past of Aerdon, then the bandits were descendants of ‘Viranin’, the first men that arrived on the shores of Aerdon. But history did not matter to Wynn. He was a man that lived by his sword, who was loyal to his king, and he was after the man who had killed his brother and left his headless body in the middle of the road.
He brought his horse to a trot, and plunged into the mist, with revenge on his mind. The mist thickened as he went deeper into the forest. Damp air filled his nostrils, and the closeness of the trees gave him the feeling of being surrounded by a host of enemy soldiers. The leaves swayed gently as a mild breeze tickled the green blades of mighty oaks, standing tall and proud all around him. He was about to be presented with the same fate as Craigon when he noticed the wide gaping hole, almost inconspicuous because of the light mist that still hung in the air. He peered into it but could see only darkness. He got down from his horse and bent to take a closer look. The hole was shaped like a square, a square that was well proportioned, with sharp edges and distinct lines, a clear indication that it was the work of men, and not nature. He swept the leaves to the side with his hand and confirmed what he had been thinking. It was a trapdoor, and the latch had been hidden under the yellow autumn leaves of Eravia. Calloused hands of the soldier fumbled at his belt and unsheathed a small dagger that he dropped in the blackness of the hole. A metal clank followed after a silence of three seconds. I can make the jump, thought Wynn. Will I find the murderer inside? What if he is waiting for me in the dark, ready to take my head the same way he took my brothers? Not if I take his first.
Wynn untied his leather boots and kept them to the side. I need to be quiet, he thought. The Calypsian dangled his legs off the edge of the trapdoor, ready to take the plunge into nothingness. He took a deep breath and pushed himself off the edge. He hit the floor faster than the small dagger. The landing was unsteady, and he lost his balance but did not collapse entirely. After steadying himself, he looked around or tried to, as his eyes could see nothing but darkness. He felt like a blind man trapped in a dungeon, where a bloodthirsty man may be hiding mere inches away from him. A putrid odor hit his nose, likely caused by the decaying of dead rats and other small creatures of the dark.
A few feet away from him, Craigon sat with unblinking eyes, his vision already accustomed to the darkness around him. His fingers were wrapped around the hilt of his short sword, which was hidden beneath the folds of his cloak. Everything was quiet for a few seconds. The Calypsian was trying to feel his way in the darkness, the bandit was waiting for the right opportunity to thrust his sword deep inside his opponent’s heart. And then Craigon decided that he had waited long enough, and lurched forward, swinging his sword in the direction of the faint outline that he knew was his enemy.
The sword only cut the air.
Wynn ducked the moment he heard movement behind him, evading death by a few inches. Craigon had lost the element of surprise. The battle was now evenly matched.
Everything was quiet once again.
The two combatants shuffled quietly in the dark, waiting for the other to make a mistake. Wynn was wearing heavy steel armor, while Craigon donned just a cloak.
Steel was louder than cloth.
After what seemed like hours, the clouds cleared in the sky, and moonlight poured into the trapdoor, just enough to bathe the hole in soft silvery light. Wynn had a fleeting look at his enemy’s face. He glimpsed the menacing scar, the grizzly beard, and dark eyes, which were darting left and right, trying to find flesh for a sword. However, Craigon was searching in the wrong place. But Wynn was precisely where he wanted to be. This time, the Calypsian threw himself at Craigon. The two men stumbled backward and hit a wall. Craigon felt the sword penetrate his abdomen and his mouth opened to let out a scream. But nothing came out of his mouth. His eyes stared at the horror-stricken face of Wynn, who had thrust the entirety of his blade into Craigon’s body. But as life left him and darkness started to creep in front of his eyes, he took one last look at his own sword, now a part of Wynn’s body, which had become a fountain of blood. And as the two men collapsed on top of each other, their white armor and black cloak now a shade of deep red, they unleashed magic that had been extinct in Aerdon since the passing of the last Wizard-King.
The blood-stained wall began to metamorphosize, the granite stones started to part, and the entire enclosure began to transform itself. The wall gave way to a passage, which led to an ancient chamber, with cracks running down walls and a floor with broken stone tiles. The high vaulted chamber was bathed in a soft golden glow as if the rising sun had made the ancient site its home. The source of the golden light was an hourglass that appeared to glow on its own, looking out of place in the desolation that surrounded it. Polished glass bulbs were held together by a golden frame with words from a language long forgotten etched on the sides in silver. However, it was not the golden frame
itself that glowed, but the sand inside, that trickled grain by grain into the lower bulb, sparkling and shining like molten gold, counting down the time for a prophecy that was very near to being fulfilled. But there were other things in the room, more majestic, more powerful and more magical than the hourglass and its sparkling sand.
Five lofty statutes, carved from stone, were huddled around the hourglass, with the statue in the middle holding the ancient artifact in its outstretched hand. The other figures were in different stages of wonderment, their expression ranging from fear to happiness, with thick stone beards reaching the ground. The one in the middle wore a crown, shaped like a sword twisted into a circle, his eyes staring down at the hourglass, the only eyes among the five pairs that were shut, an expression of content and calmness etched on its face. One among them was a woman, tallest among all, the crumbling pieces of stones from her face still revealing the beauty she was, her big eyes and curvy body sculpted to perfection, and she was standing next to the crowned bearded man in the center. Crouched beside her, in a hooded cloak, was a man with a face that children dream of in their nightmares, a face that haunts men long after they had laid their eyes on it, the face of death. The statue to the extreme right was the strangest of all, for it had the face of a horse and the body of a man, and finally, the last statue was that of a dwarf, a staff longer than his body in his right hand, and an expression of mischief on his face.
These were the five Wizard-Gods of Aerdon, the creators of kingdoms, the destroyers of men, beings that became myths and legends, humans that had ascended to the status of Gods. Most doubted that they ever walked the lands of Aerdon, but all believed that they created the lands and everything that grew from it. From magic long forgotten, and spells long abandoned, they had resurrected castles, appointed kings and built cities that the Viranins inhabited. Five kingdoms were said to be created, one kingdom by each Wizard-God, and each kingdom, from that day onward, built temples, wrote hymns and recited verses and prayed to their own Vizarin, the name that they gave to the powerful beings.
And now, they held in their hand, the power to change the tides of history; the beginning of something terrible, the beginning of the end of kings, of the end of men, perchance the death of a realm.
Chapter One
Olver Liongloom
“HOW MANY DEATHS?” asked Olver, leaning back into the granite throne, his hands resting on the polished black arms that shimmered in the sunlight streaming through the huge windows of the Black Hall.
“Twenty-eight, your grace, fifteen in the capital and thirteen in the villages and towns,” Sir Pederick Blar said, his head bowed and eyes staring at the black marble floor.
“That is ten more than last week,” said an old man cloaked in black and gold, his white hair tied in a long ponytail, sitting on one of the many chairs that lined both sides of the hall.
“And these are just people we know of, who knows how many have perished, unaccounted and unknown,” the young king said, as he got up and walked over to one of the windows. A black crown, studded with a single large red ruby lay on a mop of auburn hair, and the king was garbed in a black velvet doublet, embroidered with golden flowers on its sleeves and chest. A black cape fell from the shoulders of the doublet, which shimmered every time the king walked.
“What of the potions, Bernard? Have they proved to be of any use at all?”
“They seem to work for a little while, Your Grace, the face retains its color, the eyes stop turning ghostly white, but then the curse always strikes back harden than before, and it seems the person dies faster than he normally would. It is as if the curse uses the potion and turns it against the body. And yes, the manner of death also worsens,” Bernard said, bright blue eyes meeting the brown of the king.
“In what way?” asked Olver, dreading the answer.
“Well, by the end of it, the person loses any hint of fat on their body, imagine a skeleton with a thin layer of skin, stretched taut all over. And while the eyes turn entirely white in most of the cases, they also bleed when a person has consumed any potion that was supposed to stall the spreading of the curse.”
The king grunted in disgust.
“Is this supposed to be my legacy? Will my children inherit a kingdom with graveyards teeming with corpses and houses devoid of people?”
“That is if you find a woman to bear your children, nephew.”
The massive oak doors of the Black Hall opened, and Krastin Liongloom strolled in, wearing a brown leather jerkin over a white doublet, the sound of his black leather shoes echoing through the mighty hall. His black hair was cropped short and kohl-lined his eyes, giving his face a look of mischief and roguery.
“All the pretty ones are turning into scrawny wraiths, while the ugly ones persist,” said Krastin with a sly grin, as he sat opposite Bernard. The old man locked eyes with the king’s uncle, and for a moment, the two men stared at one another. Krastin did not lose his smile, and Bernard did not lose his scowl. It was only when Sir Pederick spoke that the two men averted their gaze.
“The king of Harduin has a sister, people speak of her beauty in all of the four kingdoms, if only His Grace would consider the marriage proposal.”
“His Grace does not want to concern himself with pretty princesses and marriage alliances when half of the kingdom rots,” Olver’s voice rose a little, but his face did not give away his frustration.
“Perhaps His Grace can consider marrying the Harduinian girl for her fishes and not her cunt if those sorts of things do not interest our king. Our crop production is at an all-time low, but the Harduinians continue to catch fishes by the tons,” said Krastin Liongloom, his eyes meeting the king’s for the first time.
He thinks his words have an effect on me, thought Olver. I would have cut him down long ago if only my father did not bear any love for his brother. The king remained stone-faced, not letting his disgust show on his face. A true king keeps a calm head in court and a furious one on the battlefield; his father had always said.
“As always, I thank you for your suggestion, uncle, but Indius has enough wheat and corn. We do not need to turn to the fishes of Harduin. You may have a flawed memory, uncle, seeing that age is finally catching up with you, but I still remember the scars left on our lands by that wretched kingdom. Never in a thousand years will our families unite. At least not as long as I am king.
And how you wish that was not the case.
Krastin slowly lifted himself from his seat and walked over to where Olver stood, facing the window. He leaned in from behind and whispered in a sing-song voice, “Don’t starve your people, young king. It’s the people who protect you. They are your biggest strength, the fools. If it weren’t for them, you would be long gone.”
Olver turned to face Krastin, and for the first time, he smiled, and whispered back, “I like it when you don’t hide your intentions about me. Makes you look less of a coward and more of a true born Liongloom.”
The sound of approaching footsteps distracted both men. Valentin Mertens, master of messages, entered the hall, with an impatient walk. His black and white surcoat looked ordinary in front of the luxurious garments worn by the king and his advisors.
“Your grace, an envoy from Calypsos requests a meeting with you, he says it is a matter of utmost importance.”
“From Calypsos? We haven’t had an envoy from them since ages,” Bernard remarked.
“Strange times solicit strange deeds, ask him to present himself.”
“You may enter, envoy,” Valentin barked.
A tall man, wearing shiny grey plate armor from head to toe, with Swolderhornn dynasty’s war horn emblazoned on the front, entered the Black Hall of Indius. He held his great helm in his right hand, and the other hand lazily held the empty scabbard that hung from his belt. Blonde hair shone in the sunlight like serpents of fire coiled around each other.
He walked up to the dais where the king stood beside the Black Throne and bowed in respect.
“My Lord of Wil
demere, it is an honor to stand in the presence of the youngest king of Indius, ever.”
“The honor is mine, young Calypsian. Tell me, why did it take King Henrik so long to send someone from his mighty kingdom to our humble lands. Not that I am not pleased about it.” Olver jested with the envoy.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but our King has been pre-occupied with happenings in his own kingdom. The bandits have started to violate the accord more often. Robberies and murders in Eravia continue to increase. Times are tough, Your Grace,” the envoy raised his head to look at a face more fair and handsome than any he had seen before. Beautiful brown eyes and a strong jaw, a massive chest and broad shoulders defined young Olver, along with a stubble that peppered the kind face of the young king. A King that looks the part, thought the envoy.
“Times are tough for us all. Anyways, what is your name?”
“Marcus, Your Grace.”
“Well, Marcus, what brings you to Wildemere in these rough times?”
Marcus hesitated before speaking. He knew what he was about to say was absurd.
Absurd, but very real.
“A few days ago, a couple of bandits killed a trader who was returning from Fornhorn. However, a party of men-at-arms caught up with them and chased them deep into the woods of Eravia.”
Bernard shuffled in his chair, Krastin stood motionless, like a statue. The king took his seat back on the throne. Sunlight was choked from the windows as clouds began to evade the sky that had been bright blue and clear just seconds ago.
“One of the men went deeper into the woods than planned, and for hours, he did not return. Finally, we sent a search party to look for him, and that is when we discovered the temple.”
The Passage of Kings Page 2
