In A Time Of Darkness

by Gregory James Knoll

The Blinding Inspiration Of Finality

  The King squirmed in his seat, nervousness settling in. His kingdom was slowly falling apart. So many aspects were starting to fail one by one. He had heard little from his highest advisor Kalinies and even less from his General. A strange, powerful woman had made it abundantly clear that he was merely her puppet and he still had yet to figure out how to stop her. And worst of all, a very strong, very resilient enemy had resurfaced from the past, intent on ripping him from his throne. Piece by piece, his kingdom was decaying—like individual grains of sand falling through an hourglass—and the King felt as though his time was running out. His eyes rose after a long time of simply staring at a stone in his floor. The door creaking open was what drew his attention, had it remained closed he would have continued to stare. “Gerin. Finally. It’s been weeks,” the King stood, holding his hand out—waiting for the General to kneel before him.

  The General however, did not. He merely stepped inside the room, closed and barricaded the door behind him and then turned to face the King with a sharp look in his eyes. The King’s face was a mixture of confusion and anger, enraged his General had not answered and more so, why he had barricaded the door. “Answer me! You think it wise to ignore me after you’ve failed so terribly?!”

  Still, Gerin said not a word; he only moved to face the King fully, his eyes narrowing slightly. Idimus took a slow step forward and Gerin responded by reaching behind his back and drawing both of his scimitars, a loud hiss of metal echoing throughout the King’s empty chamber. Idimus’ expression echoed shock as he now took a step back, the edge of his throne pressing into the back of his knees. Idimus was no longer sure of what to say, or even how to react. Yet instinct took over when Gerin closed the gap, swinging both blades above his head and then arcing them down towards Idimus’ chest.

  The King was forced to retreat and he fell into his throne, his right hand reaching down to grab his own weapon and turn it horizontal to block both scimitars, though they came dangerously close to his shoulders. “Have you gone mad?!” he questioned, incensed. Gerin lifted the swords, taking one step—and then another—backwards to allow the King room to stand. But he did not, only tried to comprehend why Gerin had attacked him, trying to read the look on his face, all while wearing a confused expression on his own.

  The General waited patiently for Idimus. When it was obvious that he was not going to attack, he struck again; this time poking both blades towards the King’s stomach much faster than before. Idimus didn’t remember Gerin ever having that kind of speed and he was caught off guard once again, dropping his sword down between the blades then back up to catch the undersides and flick them up.

  Gerin stepped back as though he was only toying with the King, this time taunting him with motions, remaining silent. Idimus’ eyes flicked, his mind whirling as he desperately tried to determine why his General was acting this way, though he feared he wouldn’t have time to figure it out. Gerin moved as if he was going to attempt another assault and Idimus decided he could no longer battle him while sitting on his throne. He rose to his feet quickly and pressed on.

  He still resisted hurting the man, as it may not be mutiny or rebellion; perhaps a spell or maybe he truly had gone insane. The King hadn’t the first inkling, so he would not harm him—yet. Not that he cared about the man, but Gerin was still useful to him He still had a prophecy to fulfill and that benefited the King in more ways than one. Idimus was not about to destroy the key element to it. He would not end his life until it was absolutely necessary. Simply to fend him off the King raised his sword as well as his other hand, following him as he circled.

  Gerin paced anxiously, curious and almost frustrated at how difficult it was to goad the King enough to make him actually try to kill him. Over the decades Idimus seemed to grow less and less emotional, as though hiding in his room was the only thing he cared about; protecting his throne was all that mattered. Idimus used to be passionate, he used to rule the kingdom with power; now he seemed satisfied to remain where he was while his land sat stagnant. It was strange and almost ironic; Idimus saw his empire as so strong, it could remain as it was without tending and survive, yet it was so fragile in his eyes that he tucked himself away in his tower, fearful that at any moment it would be taken away from him. He seemed so inactive, only biding his time and protecting himself until the prophecy was fulfilled.

  In that, the realization struck Gerin…that was why he would not attack. The King still needed him for his future throne. He would cower, defend and perhaps even try to reason with him, but would not kill him. There was only one way to prompt him to risk his future kingdom: threaten his present one. As long as Gerin had known Idimus, from the first day his telepathy developed, the King was one of only a handful of people he could not read. He attributed it to the King’s focus, or his dark, convoluted mind. But that had never stopped him from pushing thoughts in, and for that he was thankful. If this was to work, that ability would be required of him now. He paused and twisted one around in his head. He tried not to make it obvious, strained only hard enough to let one phrase slip through, and hopefully that would be enough to spiral the King into a rage. “I should be king, not you. It is about time I took what is rightfully mine.”

  Though Gerin could not read his mind, the expression on Idimus’ face spoke volumes. For the first time in nearly fifty years, Gerin saw rage in the King’s eyes, he saw emotion. Prophecy or not, Idimus was prepared to do anything to protect his realm, even if it meant killing Gerin.

  That was exactly what the General wanted.

  It was Idimus’ turn to charge, closing the gap with speed that surprised even the General, swinging his sword down with incredible force. Gerin raised his left hand and a loud clang echoed through the room. Gerin’s arm temporarily went numb from the blow, but this was what he wanted, and he tried his best not to express it.

  Instead, he fought back, acting his rage and letting his face mask the fake emotion. He swung his right hand up, the scimitar sliced through the air—threatening to do the same to the King. Idimus pulled back and then turned his wrist to point the blade down and block the blow coming at his left side. It crashed against the sword and his arms gave way only slightly until he was able to reverse the momentum of the strike and fling it harmlessly to the side.

  Gerin pushed onward, swinging his left arm in the same manner as he did his right, hacking towards Idimus’ mid-section. Idimus spun his wrist and the blade fanned in front of Gerin’s face as it went from pointing down to up, the King pulling his arm to his right side. Again his sword caught the scimitar and metal scraped against metal. Idimus straightened his wrist, turning the blade vertically, bringing his wrist forwards, swinging the blade down towards Gerin’s shoulder.

  The General raised both arms, crossing his weapons in front of his face and caught the oncoming sword where the blades met. The instant his swords touched however, the King pulled both arms back and turned the blade, ramming it forward. With his blades still crossed, Gering merely turned his hands even further and the scimitar crossed again—this time in front of his abdomen, stopping the sword once more.

  Idimus was relentless, yanking his arms back and releasing his weapon one more time to shove it forward, higher, aiming for Gerin’s chest. The General could have crossed again, but opted instead to spin his right wrist and parry the oncoming bade, deflecting it safely to the side before hooking his left blade and arcing upwards, aiming for Idimus’ ribcage.

  Parried, the King’s blade swung wide and did not have the time to come back to stop the other—his arm was too far away. So he spun, turning his back to Gerin and spiraling his blade downward, using his whole body to push his blade fast enough to stop the charge—and it worked—again, steel crashing echoed the chamber as Idimus continued to spin, ending with the two of them facing each other again. Idimus slid his sword all the way down, catching Gerin’s left scimitar in the thorny guard of his sword.

  “You will not take my throne!” he g
rowled, yanking hard and wrenching the weapon from Gerin’s firm grip, then threw it to the ground with a loud clang. Idimus didn’t give the General time to breath as he raised his arms and, in the same instant, swung them down towards Gerin’s head.

  The General had forgotten how fast the King was and barely had enough time to bring his free hand to his remaining blade and raise both up to block. He had been on the defensive since the battle started and neither was gaining any advantage. It was possible—at least in the General’s mind—that he may lose for the second time in almost three weeks. Agonizingly, the image of his first defeat began to bleed into his mind and—as it had for the past several weeks—it began to sting him, to get under his skin and drive him mad. It seared his pride until finally it rendered him so angry he could no longer see the King before him, but the man who beat him the first time. His rage burned, his desire to snarl so blaring the expression almost became evident, despite his lack of required features. He tucked his elbows backwards and drove his sword forward hard towards his enemy’s abdomen—a blow that was blocked, though not as easily as it had been prior.

  Gerin yanked back as his body drove forward, lunging again and growing even closer before Idimus batted it away. The General continued on and Idimus had no choice but to backpedal. Gerin raised his arms and hacked down towards the King’s head, Idimus raised his sword to block, and succeeded; yet his arm wobbled and threatened to give way. Again Gerin hacked and crashed against Idimus’ sword, the General tugging back and jabbing forward again, forcing the King to step back, his hand dropping to cross his sword in front of his stomach to stop the blow.

  Idimus, intent on defending himself, was unaware of his surroundings and as he blocked one more blow aimed for his head, he was driven in reverse. The back of his knees pressed against the edge of his throne, suddenly forced to bend, causing the King to unwillingly sit down in the chair. Gerin’s blade came down towards Idimus’ neck, the King went to bring his own sword up, but Gerin’s left hand found his wrist and pinned it to the arm of the throne. The King merely winced and closed his eyes, the weapon was too close now to block and he didn’t have the room to move—so he simply waited for it all to be over.

  At the last moment, Gerin stopped the sharp edge, mere inches before it hit the King’s flesh. “End it! But know that you will not be King for long!” Idimus growled angrily, and although wrath burned across his face, Gerin could hear the genuine fear hidden in his voice.

  Gerin pulled the blade away, “I do not want your throne.” He slipped back to pick up his other sword and sheathed them both, “I wanted a challenge.” And, as if moments ago they were not trying to take each other’s lives, the General knelt down in front of his King.

  The King’s face morphed from rage into bewilderment, confusion running rampant through his mind. Idimus was tempted to scream insolence and dispose of the General right there, but he was too shocked to even move. Gerin had been loyal to him for more than a lifetime, he had served him and asked for little in return. The General was not one for money or prestige. He simply wanted to be the best at what he did. It had always been that way. His desires were simple and in their own twisted way, pure. In that, Idimus had forgotten how obsessed he could get.

  When the General had failed so many weeks ago, Idimus had only taken into account his own emotions. He had not considered, nor really cared, how Gerin felt after his defeat. It had been eating away at him and had obviously driven him mad. So sick with his loss, he walked into the chambers of the only other man who could defeat him, and antagonized him until he nearly killed him; if he’d gotten the chance, he would have. And Gerin knew this, yet still he came.

  It was stained with mutiny, a slap in the face of both Idimus and his kingdom. From any other he would have ended them without a single thought. This, however, was different. Gerin had acted this way, not of spite or retaliation, but from drive and determination. He had been defeated; the thought of another loss terrified him more than death if he was willing to risk his life to better himself. It was that desire—that drive—that the King wanted. As he knew it would be what won him the war.

  He would fight, train, push himself, and risk insanity in order to achieve victory. He would win or he would die trying. In the end, he was still serving his purpose, though he went about it in such a foolish manner. Idimus would not kill him. He would not even punish him. Not yet. He would let him condition, however he needed to, and when he won the battle of legend, after he fulfilled his destiny and earned him the thousand years of freedom, Idimus would end his life for his insolence. As time passed, Gerin would only get better, stronger, and he was already good enough to defeat Idimus. Whether he was loyal or not, the King’s paranoia would one day dig its nails into his brain and he would be unable to have someone so close who was able to defeat him.

  Gerin bowed his head, fearful that the King would punish him, or possibly even murder him, “Disappointed Lord?”

  The King looked down and shook his head slowly, “Train your army as you have trained yourself, and I am not.”

  Knowing he was right, the General nodded. Although an army without a commander is nothing—if he lost, all would. It was not solely dependent on the fact that he better himself. He must do so with each and every one of his soldiers. As he stood, well on his way to fulfill the orders of his liege, Idimus spoke again, stopping him in his tracks. “Gerin…” the King leaned forward and narrowed his eyes, “This time, keep me informed.”

  The General bowed and turned, removing the barricade on the door and slipping out, not looking back. Idimus pulled himself from his throne and moved to his window, staring out into the breaking afternoon. His mind now wandered to the advisor he had sent away, Kalinies, wondering—rather hoping—that he fared as well as Gerin did.