In A Time Of Darkness

by Gregory James Knoll

  * * * * *

  Grahamas had stopped only once since his journey and had ridden well into the evening hours. Though he left Hensah behind him, the further he got the more he wished he had stopped. It had been days since he had slept more than an hour or two.

  Yet it was a fatigue that could be easily ignored. Something had driven him. Something stirring in his head, not letting him rest. Perhaps it was curiosity, wondering if after all this time the armor was still there. Maybe, Grahamas was punishing himself for lying idle so long. For so many years, he had simply existed—not fighting, not hoping, or attempting to build a better future. He was no longer a Champion; just a man with a past that part of him wanted to forget.

  Even when he received the letter from Tallvas, he waited on retrieving his armor. Other issues were more pressing, like Elryia’s safety. He refused to leave her, even for a day. She was with a good family, one that would love her and raise her properly, but they were not warriors. They were simple farmers. When Grahamas had learned of her origins from Lornya, learned how special she was in those first few weeks that he had her—both to him and to the world—he was determined to protect her. So he spent nearly seventeen years watching over her in his way. All the while, devising a plan that would break Idimus from his throne—for good.

  When Elryia represented that she was ready, Grahamas had decided to take her with him, teach her what he knew about magick and the world, though waited on telling her his plans to de-throne Idimus, as he wanted her to fully comprehend what they were embarking on, and make a rational decision regarding it. She had somewhat of a childhood crush on him, but weighed her options and demonstrated a maturity far beyond her real age. He believed—for the betterment of the people and her own life—she chose to join. They had been together every day since. It was strange being without her now, not having her where he could simply look for her. He hated leaving her behind. But now—if ever—was the time to do so. Elryia was fully capable of the position Grahamas had chosen for her, even if she did not believe it herself. Though she lacked the experience and world knowledge she would learn it over time. As well, Samsun was a trusted ally, and she would be looked after.

  She was safe.

  Grahamas worried that he could not wait any longer. Events had unfolded that were now beyond control. The glint of destiny had begun to break through the shell of his idle years. A war was coming. A war that would decide the world’s alignment—be it good or evil—and for the first time since the day his kingdom fell, Grahamas was preparing to win.

  And it would start with this journey; though he knew not where exactly.

  With his eyes closed, Graham searched deep in his mind for the memory of that day with Tallvas spoke of in that letter—hoping it would give him some clue as to where he was heading.

  When he was first appointed as squire, Tallvas had taken Grahamas south from Irnin and Daleforn, far away from the kingdom in order to teach him how to live for weeks, even months at a time without aid from anyone. For one week, Tallvas had helped Graham search for food, taught him how to read his surroundings and track anything that left an imprint in the soft soil. For the week after Graham was on his own, forced to use what he had learned to survive. The Duke was always nearby, but he provided no aid whatsoever. For three days, young Grahamas starved. Though he was nowhere near death, Tallvas almost stepped in, yet Graham refused to let him help. The stronger his hunger grew, the more desperate he became, but that only fueled his focus. Even at a young age Graham was determined, more to prove himself to Tallvas than he was to save his life. On the fourth day, without rest or even a second to catch his breath, Grahamas tracked, trapped and killed a boar, which lead them miles away from where they originally intended. When Graham repeated the feat on the sixth day, Tallvas was convinced no more training was necessary, and from what the Duke would reveal later, the young man had done it in a quarter of the time.

  On their return to Daleforn, still energized by his victory, Grahamas’ curiosity got the better of him—as it often did for children that age—and he trailed off the road towards a large, lone mountain in the distance. Still eager to impress the man who was mentoring him, he was determined to climb it, his imagination insisting that there was something wonderful and magickal at the top. Grahamas would dazzle the Duke even further by finding it.

  The only discovery, though, had not come from the top of the mountain but the middle. Tallvas, being much older and having far less energy than Graham, laid against the face to rest himself.

  By chance, luck, or perhaps something else, Tallvas pressed his back against one of the countless rocks formed into the side of the mountain. That one boulder that he had chosen shifted, covering the Duke in dirt and debris, revealing an open crack to one side of it. When he pushed harder on it, he found the rock to be much thinner than it looked, and it fit perfectly into a slit on the left side. Tallvas wanted to leave it, but Grahamas insisted on pursuing it further. They pushed the illusion into its alcove—discovering a cavern behind it. Walked the long, winding corridor, only to find that it didn’t lead to anything except an empty, hollowed-out room. Grahamas had been thoroughly disappointed by the whole experience, but his spirit lightened a little when Tallvas reminded him though it did not contain anything magickal now, one day it may. “Imagine how useful something like that could be,” he remembered the Duke assuring him.

  “Tallvas, my good man, you had no idea…” Graham chuckled, dragging his mind back to the present day and driving his horse forward. With no way to gauge whether or not he was close to what he was looking for, he kept his eyes open

  Grahamas had remained vigilant, and strained his vision in the creeping darkness, still unaware of exactly where that mountain lay. He hadn’t seen a hint of it yet, only a small farm tucked up against a small group of trees. Immediately he dismissed it. Had he not, he would have seen the shadowed figure looming within them, the harsh look on its eyes. He would have known that very same entity was no following him.

  Just before the last bit of light faded, a tip of a mountain began to poke up along the horizon. But where excitement should be from the discovery, Grahamas had only impatience. Finding it wasn’t where the difficulty would lie, nor in scaling it. It was a much smaller hill, set apart from the long range that made up the valley that eventually led to Mt. Forgas. The difficulty itself lay in remembering which boulder to push. The challenge was in finding the cave amidst the hundreds of real rocks.

  Long before the mountain became clear Grahamas was full on charging towards it, his curiosity taking hold. It had been so long since he’d seen the armor, worn it on his skin, and forgotten how addictive its radiance could be. He was now eager for it, and more so to end this journey.

  He came to a skidding halt in front of the mountain, and leapt off his horse before it had even settled. He took a deep breath and a quick drink of water, tugging his makeshift torch out of his saddlebag then preparing for a long hike and a fair amount of time spent pressing on different boulders.

  The base of the mountain was far more ragged than Grahamas remembered, but that worked to his advantage, finding the niches necessary to creep into and drag himself up the first thirty feet. There he rested, letting his torn skin and cramped fingers take a break. In his respite, he took the opportunity to stare up at the climb before him. He had perhaps another hundred feet to reach the only plateau—one that wound the entire length of the mountain, wide enough for Grahamas to stand on, but little else. And against the face that would eventually lead to the peak was what Grahamas was looking for. Amidst the countless blemishes—both large and small—that existed there, was one that was simply an illusion. One that looked like all the rest, yet this one almost parchment thin and could be slid away to reveal a hidden chamber.

  A chamber that was almost invisible to anyone simply looking. Luck played on their side that day in discovery of the cavern, and Grahamas hoped that there was no one else who had been that lucky again. The Champion strained his wa
y up, working around the mountain at different times to find a decent hold, toying with the idea that he should have brought his grapple with him, but it may have provided more nuisance than benefit and would have been useful for only one-quarter of his trip. Once he roughed the initial twenty feet the mountain’s angle changed, and shifted inward, turning Grahamas’ vertical climb into right-angled crawl, and finally to a stretched hike on the last twenty yards. Once his feet hit level ground, he allowed himself another break and breath, sifting through his memory to try and gather which way he had been facing on that day, all while idly walking around, searching for anything recognizable. Yet that was futile. Not even Graham—who had been here prior—could discern anything amongst this chaos. The lines, the flaws, the warps—all of it looked like the side of giant, gray candle that had been burned several times over.

  The light had long since faded, and now Graham was going only by his torch. With every boulder passed and pushed on, a little flicker of fatigue and frustration began to slip in.

  He made one entire round, without even a glimmer of where it may lie. Although grating, the task left him with mixed emotions: Fear that he would be here the rest of the night and perhaps even tomorrow; reassurance that if it was this hard for him, the chances of his armor still being here had grown exponentially—which now made him all the more desperate to find it. And in that eagerness, that attempt-and-fail situation he found himself in, the pressure began to weigh on him, forcing him to stop his search all together. He hung his head, let out an exasperated sigh and finally let his eyelids submit to the weight that was overwhelming them. He could have slept standing up right there had he wanted. If not for a sudden flash bright enough to get past his clamped eyes, the Champion may have slipped unconscious. Yet that light alerted the man anew, and immediately he released his gaze from their confines to discover the source. He believed his torch had flared out, but when he looked down, it was wavering just as dimly as it had before. So the Champion turned his attention upwards, several yards in front of him to a single, dominant line of light given off by the moon. It was not so bright—at least now—to have been the illumination that pulled Grahamas from his impending slumber, but it was strong enough to stretch all the way to the face of the mountain, and pinpoint a tiny spot upon it. He followed it to its source then back down, taking one step then another towards it. Though he had dealt with Gods and Goddesses at certain times during his life, he often believed they had little involvement with him; especially in regards to something they may consider miniscule. But he also recognized a sign when he saw one and knew this was far more than a simple trick of light. His stare upon the beam continued, until he was close enough to reach out and touch it—an act he almost committed. But before his hand had reached up fully, his attention was drawn to the canvas the moonlight was playing off, and the tiny carving it highlighted. Grahamas thought it only to be a natural mark on the rock, but as he leaned in, he noticed that it had been scratched—making up a crude, almost illegible “T.”

  “Tallvas, you brilliant man,” Grahamas muttered, letting out a relieved breath, placing his torch on the ground and pushing both palms against the stone behind it. He then dug his heels in and heaved. The boulder slid to one side, complaining with a loud grumble and the scraping of stone upon stone echoed down the long, empty corridor behind it. Grahamas debated picking his torch up, but the passageway was brighter than he imagined it would be, lit by a soft silver glow that radiated from down the hallway.

  Graham felt his heart beat faster and his pace quicken as he strode down the narrow tunnel, the light growing brighter with each step until he finally laid eyes on his armor: Radiant Hope.

  No—part of his armor.

  And Graham felt his beating heart drop, nervousness and paranoia setting in, worry that someone had gotten here before him. He walked and knelt down, staring at the one piece he did have: the gauntlets.

  They were made up mostly of chain mail around the hands, a large plate fitted over the top to protect the knuckles and the fragile bones in the back of the hand, smaller plates wrapped around the fingers with chain mail joints. The bracers were solid metal and with chain mail beneath; they started at the wrist and went all the way up the forearm. As they went higher up the arm, they began to separate and sharpen, turning and twisting into silver, frozen flames. The metal, as well as the chain, was a brilliant platinum tone—like a ray of light breaking through the clouds. Graham always assumed this is how the armor received its name.

  He removed them, one at a time, from the pedestal and slid them over his arms. His fists clenched a few times and he held them in front of himself, admiring how after all these years, they had not lost a bit of their luster. Once the second gauntlet was on his arm, Grahamas took notice of the small, sealed letter that had been tucked under the armor.

  Before he picked it up—before he could—he had to do something with the armor, something that only he knew how to do. He closed his eyes and held his hands in front of him, “Remise Yavaldes” he whispered. The gauntlets flared even brighter, a glint so powerful they blocked out the shape of the armor altogether. When the light faded, the gauntlets disappeared entirely leaving only his scratched, chapped hands behind. It was a spell, known as “Stone Soul” and had been cast on the armor long before Grahamas was the owner. It was used to make transport and secrecy of the armor easy, allowing the user to be protected by it, while concealing the armor as part of the wearer’s skin. As Radiant Hope served as a symbol, it could be called upon at any moment for all to see its brilliance.

  With his fingers no longer armored, he grabbed the letter, stood and turned to head back out. Grahamas lifted the torch with one hand and tugged the parchment open with the other. Half thinking it was Tallvas, half thinking it was a ransom note, he pulled it close to the fire to read what was written.

  Grahamas,

  I hope, tis you, that reads this and I hope that you did not fear, when seeing only your gauntlets, that someone had stolen the rest. I thought it best to separate them. I realize this may be a task for you, but as such it will make it impossible for all others. When the time comes for you to seek out your next piece, then I implore you, return to your roots.

  Safe joUrney my son,

  Tallvas

  Grahamas considered for a moment, then smiled; he believed he knew exactly where Tallvas letter would lead him next. That, however, was a long way from here. And it wouldn’t kill him to get a good night’s sleep, though it may if he did not. So he made his way back down the mountain, much easier than he made it up, thankful it had gone that quick, his torch burning out the moment his foot hit level ground. He tossed it aside, using the moonlight now to cross the field, untied his horse and opted to make the short ride back to Hensah, wishing to sleep on a bed rather than the earth this time.

  He had no qualms about pushing his horse and himself hard to make the quick ride even more so, the sun was far gone and if he hurried he could get enough sleep before it rose again. Yet even at an hour where things are normally bustling about in small towns, Hensah was quiet as Grahamas approached. It was rather quaint for a village, just three or four cottages, blacksmith, and a large barn attached to a rundown inn. He stopped his horse in front and dismounted. When he walked into the room, he saw a worn rug on the floor, a wood-burning stove in the corner, and a decaying, chipped counter with no one behind it. It wasn’t until he was almost leaning on it did he see the ragged old woman sitting in a rocking chair behind it, half-asleep.

  “Good evening, Ma’am.” Grahamas said, peering over and keeping his voice calm as not to startle her.

  Her initial reaction was one of fear, but when she saw that Graham did not wear the garb of soldiers she perked up, stood and rubbed the wrinkles out of her frock. “Evening, Sir. What may I do for you?”

  “I would like a room for the night. As well do you have a stable boy that can tend to my horse?”

  The woman nodded emphatically, as though she had not seen a visitor in
a long time. And considering how close this town was to the outskirts of a dead land, it was more than likely. “Most certainly, Sir.” She bowed, and began sifting under the counter. With one hand, she produced a small iron key, with the other a tiny red ribbon with a number on it. “You can pay for both here, and please take this ticket to the barn.”

  Graham nodded and smiled to her, taking the key and the ribbon, then placing two gold coins on the counter. It was far more than he imagined she would have asked for, but he could tell that she needed it. Everyone did. Before she could argue, he bowed again and headed towards the door. “Pleasant evening, Ma’am.

  Graham heard her scrape the coins off the counter, sigh slightly and stammer, “Same to you Sir.”

  Once outside, Graham walked his horse to the barn and knocked. A young man pushed the door open, looking out and smiling brightly. “Good evening Sir. May I have your ticket?” Grahamas nodded and handed it over. The attendant looked at it briefly, then held his palm open for the reigns prompting the Champion to pass them. ‘Thank you Sir, he’ll be well taken care of.”

  Graham nodded and returned to the inn, his eyes heavy as he moved towards the end of the hall, unlocking the door and pushing in slowly—so tired he forgot to latch it behind him. He crept up to the foot of the bed across the room, ready to fall right on it when he heard a creak behind him and a heavy set of footsteps enter the room.

  “Hello, Champion,” a deep voice bellowed.

  Graham turned, hand on his blade, to face whomever it was “…Hello, Rhimaldez.”

  Obsession Burns Deepest In The Blood

  Demise surrounded Lanyan.

  Usually it was up to him to find food. His bow was the fastest, his eyes the best. Hunting came easily to him. But now, all he had were his tracking skills and nothing to bring them to fruition. Drogan had taken his weapon, and with it, the Elf’s livelihood. He could find the food and he could watch it, but killing it was all but impossible.

  He toyed with the idea of fashioning another, but without even a single blade to carve and shape the wood such a task was insurmountable. The simplest of things—like Gort’s frying pan and Gnert’s GOmobile—were left behind, but anything dangerous like his bow and Gort’s hammers were gone, most likely tucked safely away in Kaldus.

  The bow had been simple and inexpensive, it carried little sentimental value to him, but now more than ever, he wished he had it. He may not be able to buy one, or gather the means to fashion one until they reached Mt. Forgas and that was still three days away. He was starving—they all were. In the late afternoon they managed to get around the outer edge of Sharia, but still had such a long way to travel. He needed to figure something out—if only for himself. If worse came to worse, and they were attacked, Samsun had his axe, El and Jer their magick, and Carsis his brute strength. They were safe, but not one of those things would help them eat.

  So Lanyan had kept himself in the forest, thinking and trying to devise a plan to catch something—anything—to eat.

  It was then that he heard sniffing and rustling, incredibly close to him. He didn’t move, merely listened; trying to determine what and where it was. It sounded too heavy to be a rabbit—a deer or boar maybe. Whatever it be, it was getting closer and coming directly at him.

  Lan bided his time, waiting for just the right moment. His whole body remained still. The slightest move would panic the creature, sending it the other way long before he could get his hands on it. Yet if it got close enough, he might be able to turn and grab it before it realized what had happened. It stepped again and Lanyan coiled. Another step and he sprung, turning with his hands open, ready to capture it. What he saw was only a pair of brown eyes, under bushy eyebrows, that went wide when he turned on it. What he caught was a small, furry, Gnert—who squeaked and almost panicked, kicking his short legs while Lanyan held him up.

  Lanyan’s golden orbs went twice as wide as Gnert’s and he released him immediately, knowing he would not make a good meal. “Gnert! I’m sorry. I thought you were an animal!” The Gnome blinked a few times as Lan brushed him off, placing an embarrassed gaze towards the approaching Samsun.

  “Hunting?” he pondered, a slight chuckle in his voice.

  The Elf turned his blushing face. “Somewhat. Rather, I’m trying to figure out a way to hunt.”

  Samsun’s face quirked as realization set in, “Ah, you’ve lost your bow.” Gnert blinked a few more times, sniffed once more and scurried into the edge of the forest while Sam watched closely. “Do you know how to use a bolo?”

  The Elf perked up slightly and nodded, “Well, actually, yes.”

  Sam grinned and reached into his bag, sifting before tugging out a three-balled bolo and handing it over. “I apologize. Had I known you were out here trying to catch something with your bare hands I would have given it to you much sooner.” Lanyan expressed his gratitude with a bow and Sam returned the gesture before following Gnert into the forest. The Elf expressed one last look of regret for scaring the Gnome so, before idly swinging the bolo in an effort to get used to its feel. The weight in his heart and growl in his stomach reminding him he needed to find something soon.

  And while one struggled with self-worth, another wallowed in self-doubt. Far beyond the chaos invoked by the hunter Elryia was sitting by herself; where she had been since that morning. But it was not hunger that was plaguing her, nor was it worry, fear, doubt, or anxiety. It was loneliness—plain and simple. She had not spent one day apart from Graham in over a decade, and even though she would sometimes go days without seeing him, she always knew he was there—she could feel him watching over her. And now, she knew he was not. It worried her. Even though they had been together for years, he was still so mysterious about some things—especially his feelings towards her. At times, he seemed so distant, so oblivious to any romantic ideas he may have. Yet he was so gentle with her, so protective of her that sometimes she felt as though he were two different people; and both of them confused her. She sighed and chuffed slightly, blowing her bangs away from her face. She was so distracted that she failed to see Merial sit down right beside her.

  Merial stared for a moment, amused at how distracted the girl was, “Have you told him how you feel?”

  Elryia jumped slightly, blushing and stumbling over her words, “What? Who?”

  “You know who. The mysterious hero with the bright green eyes.”

  Again, Elryia’s face flashed red, “I really have no idea…” Elryia shifted to see Merial’s beaming face, realized that the woman wouldn’t give up, so, instead, she did. “Is it that obvious?”

  Merial chuckled and shook her head, tossing her brown curls loosely about, “Only to me. I’ve had that same distant stare and hidden smile before. Still get it occasionally.” She grinned again, “So have you?”

  “No… Well, not directly.”

  Merial glared “Why?”

  “A lot of reasons. You heard his story. He has such grand dreams, such high goals. What would happen to those? Would I even fit into them? What if my feelings weren’t returned? That would change everything between us.”

  Merial cut her off, fearing the young woman would work herself up. “Well, things would change regardless right? Is it better not knowing?” she smirked slightly, still wearing a hint of a grin. “I’ve only seen him twice now, and both times he looked at you like Carsis used to look at me. Maybe more so.”

  Elryia sighed again, a look of disappointment crossing her face, “Maybe you’re right, but with everything that is happening now I wouldn’t want to add to the already abundant things in Graham’s head.”

  Merial nudged her a bit, trying to cheer her up. “May make him fight harder, you know—end it sooner.” But her words had little effect on the young woman and she failed to even respond now. Merial felt bad, pondering for a time before turning her eyes to the road, locking them on a shirtless Jeralyle as he came out of the forest and stretched. Merial’s eyes lit up, half her mouth smiled deviously and again Elryia got
bumped by an elbow. El’s gaze followed Merial’s and she tried her best to hide her shock. Jeralyle noticed them both and gave a huge grin with a wave.

  The same look emblazoned on her face, Merial’s attention went back to Elryia, “I don’t know about you, but I’m in a better mood now.” Elryia hung her head and sheltered the smile as the other woman laughed, “That’s what I wanted.”

  Eventually her discomfort faded and Elryia leaned over, hugging Merial. “Thanks Mare.”

  Merial hugged back, “Welcome Ely.” Merial yawned and tried to ignore her grumbling stomach, “Think Lanyan will scrounge up some dinner?”

  Elryia scanned the area he had disappeared into, “He should. He’s resourceful.” And as if on cue, the elf returned from the forest, a small boar slung over his shoulder.

  Merial’s mood brightened further, “Well praise be to Lanyan. Let’s eat.”