In A Time Of Darkness

by Gregory James Knoll

  * * * * *

  “She’s beautiful isn’t she?” Gort gasped as the tail end of Mt. Forgas came into view far off in the distance. The other companions looked between each other, trying to determine if he was serious.

  Mt. Forgas, at least the part they could see, was dark and morbid. The mountain range stretched from the west to the east. Only a tiny, thin portion of jagged, gray rock was visible. A thick, heavy fog rolling over behind it blocked the view of nearly all the mountain, save for a few sharp points poking out the top of the mist. Gort, much like Lanyan had with Sharia, hurried Pony—eager and excited to be home.

  “Now I see why he’s so grumpy all the time,” Merial said lightly, distaste turning her mouth while Jeralyle tried not to laugh so loud Gort would hear it.

  But the Dwarf was already charging ahead of them, a faint “Stupid Pony!” could be heard and Jeralyle roared, this time aloud. Merial smiled and laughed along with him, leaning her head against Carsis’ back. Jeralyle held his grin for only a moment and then turned his eyes to the redheaded man she was propped against. He remembered the glare he’d received earlier and even saw a hint of it now. Jer had no desire to make him jealous or angry, unsure even of how he did. But he would not ask, only galloped forward without saying a word to either of them.

  “Hmm,” Merial pulled back and looked around her fiancé, “I wonder what got into him.”

  Carsis, his face forward and still covered with a scowl, said in the softest voice, “No idea.” Merial shrugged, thinking only that he had another agenda.

  Jeralyle passed by Graham, Elryia, Lornya, and Ristalln, finally catching up to Gort and riding with him for the time being.

  Grahamas was the only one who had not watched him pass. His attention had been focused on Ristalln. All four of them had spent the night and most of the morning talking and reminiscing. But as more time passed and the closer they got to Mt. Forgas, the quieter the Knight became. It seemed as though he was worried about something, but Grahamas couldn’t decipher what. “Ristalln,” he said, gaining speed as the Knight turned his attention from Lornya to the Champion. “Ride with me,” Graham nodded to El and the Goddess before moving ahead between them and Gort. As Ristalln caught up with him, he slowed and acknowledged the Knight. “Is there something on your mind?”

  Ristalln held his breath for a lapse before speaking, “Why do you ask?”

  “Because of the same look you’ve got right now. I have not seen you in a very long time, but I am smart enough to know concern.”

  “I was going to wait until we got to Forgas, but…” He paused as his gaze went forward. “Do you remember me telling you that Tallvas and I spent nearly two hundred years hiding Hope?”

  “Aye, I do.”

  “It was not an exaggeration, I know it seems far-fetched, as though it would only take a year or two at best. But both the Duke and I were determined to keep it from falling into the wrong hands, so we hid it over and over again. Placing it somewhere, resting for a few years and then moving it again. It was the only way to ensure that neither of us would be caught with it. And we did that for two hundred years. Then we were living in Quiv when Tallvas met the woman that would one day become his wife Senara and Tallvas talked about hiding the armor permanently. We decided to separate it and give hints that only you would know, making it almost impossible for anyone else to find every piece.”

  “And what if I had not returned? What if I was dead?”

  “We knew you were not.”

  “How?”

  Ristalln glanced back for a moment, “That gorgeous red head over there told us. Tallvas called upon her when we were nearly finished. He asked her first if she had seen you and when. Though her answer was not in years, she knew that you were safe. Tallvas sat down and wrote the letter and I stayed behind to guard the lower half and the chest piece… Well…”

  “What? Why are you concerned?” Grahamas asked, not quite understanding, “Are you afraid it’s no longer there?”

  Ristalln laughed uncomfortably, “No. I’m sure it’s still there… I just, I don’t want you to be shocked or thrown off when you go to retrieve it. We… left someone guarding it.”

  “Who?”

  Ristalln waited a long moment before answering “Morgondeval.”

  Grahamas thought briefly, stammered. “The Mantis King?”

  The Knight wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a question so he answered, “Aye. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I was just unaware of how to inform you of something like that…”

  “It’s understood. I would have waited until the last possible moment if it was I needing to inform you,” Grahamas answered idly, his mind drifting to the legend of the Mantis King.

  Most thought it to be a myth, a story to tell misbehaving children who wandered off or would not go to bed. Grahamas had first heard it when he was a child. It was said that when the world was still new, before the war, the mists of Yavale and the dark haze of Urvagh were mixed within Eldonia. All living things traveled freely in and out of the mist, though few went into the haze. Some would exit without harm, some not at all. Few entered, only to be changed by the fog—twisted and morphed by its strange properties. Urvagh had supposedly lain where Kaldus was now; the black jagged rocks were its final taint on Eldonia. Morgondeval was only a young traveler when he came across it and, unknowing of the dangers, he entered. The man spent three months there and when he exited he was no longer human. It had twisted and melded his body with a creature born directly from the haze—a black mantis. Birthed was something whose torso resembled the traveling man who had entered, the lower half representing what would leave Urvagh: an abnormally large Mantis.

  At least, that’s how Grahamas had heard it.

  While he was growing up, he believed it was simply a story. Until he saw Morgondeval with his own eyes, wandering out of a cave—perhaps the same cave where Ristalln had hidden the armor. Grahamas was still young then and not as skilled, nor had Morgondeval ever harmed anyone, save for giving others nightmares. The Champion had no reason to chase him and no need to hunt him. So he did not. Simply left him be and hadn’t heard anything from that day until now.

  “How did you find him?” Grahamas asked, looking back to the knight.

  “By chance. Long before we went to Quiv we had hidden all of your armor in a cave near Davaina. We believed it to be safe and uninhabited. After about six months we went to check on it and found Morgondeval simply…sitting in the tunnel. At first we were scared.”

  “I would be too.”

  “But he was oddly pleasant, more frightened of us than we were of him. Over the years we even got to know him, to trust him. We left and took the armor with us, but after Quiv—when we both decided to go our own ways—we returned and asked him to watch over part of the armor. He agreed to do so, as long as it took.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. I never asked. Though, he acted like he finally had a purpose. I couldn’t imagine living so long like that. An outcast, constantly hiding and fearful of what or who may be hunting you.”

  Grahamas looked forward and sighed softly, “I can.”

  Ristalln focused on him but didn’t utter a word. Instead he reached over and patted his long time friend on the shoulder. Elryia, seeing the motion, sped up to check on Graham, “Everything well?” she asked, coming to his left side.

  “Aye, fine.”

  The young woman smiled, but her face turned, eyes growing wide. “This is grim. Does this fog cover the entire mountain?” she whispered, having never been here.

  Grahamas had, “No, Love. The sides of the mountain are virtually untouched by it, just the top. Once we pass through, we’ll be able to see Forgas itself, in all its beauty.”

  Curiosity built within Elryia as she watched the vapor wrap over Gort and Jeralyle, allowing them to completely vanish. The girl wore a look mixed of excitement and bewilderment as she drew closer. Then the soft, thick air finally wrapped around her and forced her
to hold her breath. And only five long strides from the horse, led her out of it. Just as Grahamas said, the home of the dwarves, Forgas, lay completely untouched.

  The mountain range stretched for miles, but the group was at the tail end so it appeared that it was only fifty feet. As they made their way around the right side and stared down the range, they found their vision ended long before the mountains did. Unlike the tail end the side had been smoothed and fashioned. Twenty feet from the base the first indentation was made; a flat fifteen-foot wide horizontal trail. From there, the mountain sloped up again, becoming leaner as it ascended towards the peak. Another twenty feet passed the first trail was a second, this just as wide. Across the face of both levels were arched entrances placed every ten feet, dwarves filing in or traipsing out of nearly all. Those that exited had either handfuls or wagon loads of rocks. On the right side of each entry, inches away from the wall and bolted to it were sturdy wooden ladders that led up to the other path. Placed every fifty feet the dwarves had built a large wooden square platform with ropes tied to each corner. The workers on the second floor unloaded rocks onto it. Once full they would slide the platform off of the ledge and lower it to the first. The rope was worked through a two-pulley system attached to a strong metal frame. As the group approached they watched Gnert pedal to the front to get a better look, sniffing and wide-eyed. Both Gort and Jeralyle looked down at him. The Dwarf was curious but Jer had been with him long enough to know that look on his face: he was concocting something.

  As everyone came up behind him, Gort turned on Pony and opened his arms to the mountains as if he was making a formal introduction to a member of royalty, “She’s a sight for a weary traveler’s eyes, eh?” The rest seemed almost afraid to step any closer. Elryia, Graham, and Lornya exchanged brief, almost thankful glances.

  “Well,” Merial began “to the brave go the spoils.” Her movement prompting the others to follow.

  The sun was waning, both Grahamas and Lanyan showing concern, though for different reasons. As much as the Dwarf hated the clear skies and brilliant, golden sunlight, Lanyan hated dark, muggy caverns. He knew he would have to spend at least one night here and he was not looking forward to a single moment of it.

  Grahamas’ discomfort derived from yet another departure, and once more leaving the group behind. A part of him wished to stay and watch over them, Forgas was the furthest thing from Sharia and the only thing protecting it was an easily broken mist. Ristalln was here, and he had faith in each of the companions, but there was still the mystery of Valaira as well as a vengeance-hungry dragon roaming the skies. On the way over they had discussed the potential of him leaving and he knew that if he proposed the idea of staying Ristalln—aware of what he had to do—wouldn’t hear of it. Instead he’d lay a guilt trip on him, argue with him, and finally send him on his way. The Champion wouldn’t have a choice. So now the only option he had, as it usually became, was to hurry. “Gort…a moment?”

  “Aye?” he replied, granting his attention to the Champion.

  “It grows late. Javal,” Grahamas made reference to the dwarves’ leader “do you think he is willing to conduct a meeting of this nature at such an hour?”

  Gort obviously tried not to laugh, but failed, “Are ye kidding? This is when he gets tha most work done!”

  His brow raised and lips tightened as he hadn’t been expecting that answer, but it would do. Grahamas knew very little about Javal, so once more he called upon Gort to inform him, “Where are his chambers located?”

  “Chambers? Oh… Aye, it’s on tha third level.”

  Grahamas turned to the rest of the group, “It would be best then if we say our goodbyes here. We should only be gone a day or two at the most.” Most of this was said to Ristalln, as he was leaving the group in his hands now.

  “Understood. The cave you’re looking for is halfway between here and Davaina, close to the left side. It’s hard to miss.” The Knight held out his hand and Grahamas reached across Feiron to shake it, “And you would have us wait here?”

  Grahamas thought for a moment before Lornya stepped up to speak, a bright—almost flirtatious—smile on her face as she looked upon Ristalln, “We plan to travel north after this. It would be easiest if once we’ve both finished we met in the middle. Is that suitable?”

  “Aye. Do you have somewhere in mind?”

  “There’s a small patch of trees that once connected to Davaina’s lumber yard but no longer. It should serve as a suitable landmark.”

  A brief blush and hint of embarrassment traced along the Knight’s face, “I know that forest…”

  “Aye. I know you do.”

  Grahamas gave a curious look to Elryia, but she happened to be wearing the same expression. The two wondered and sat in silence as Lornya and Ristalln simply made eyes at each other. An abrupt, intentional cough from Gort finally drew all four of them out of their respective individual emotions. “Right…” Grahamas muttered, reaching out to shake the hands of each companion on a horse, and give a cordial bow to the much-too-short Gnert. When he turned back to Elryia, he saw the sad face she wore.

  “We seem to do this far too much,” Elryia sighed and slid off her horse, hugging Merial first, and then Lanyan and Jeralyle. “Be good,” she whispered to Gort and—to everyone’s surprise—hugged him as well.

  Gort grumbled, a mock annoyance on his face but his hands rose all the same to the small of her back, “I’m not promising ye anything.”

  With a giggle, the young woman passed by Gnert and patted him on his turtle shell helmet, slid her arms around Carsis’ neck and finally walked up to the Knight who grinned and bowed to her. “M’ Lady.” She returned the gesture with as stern a face as she could muster until Ristalln grinned and held his arms open. She embraced him and playfully slapped his back, “You be good too,” she glared.

  “Never.”

  “Be safe everyone,” Lornya stated as Elryia hopped into the saddle. The Goddess gave the Knight a devious look, “Goodbye Ristalln.”

  Rist smiled, fighting his hardest not to blush, “Goodbye…” And he walked on, leading them down the road that would lead to Davaina, pulling away from the group.

  The others waited patiently for him, watching him stare as the three rode off and disappeared back into the fog. For the second time, Gort grew bored and cleared his throat, bolting the Knight out of his daydream. He grunted and turned around, making haste to catch the already moving party as they made their way up the trail on to the first ladder.

  “So with Elryia gone, who will speak for us?” Jeralyle, well ahead of the Knight, spoke down as he looked over his left arm.

  “Gort first. The dwarves are far more lenient and…energetic than the elves. I don’t imagine they will need much more than that. If something needs to be said beyond, I would be happy to.” Ristalln cranked his head up to speak, but was forced to yell it in order to get it all the way to the Mage.

  As the group came onto the second platform, Merial noticed something. When they entered Sharia, the elves were happy: dancing, singing, and playing music. They seemed to be leading relaxed, carefree existences that celebrated life. The dwarves the exact opposite. They were regimented and structured, moving in and out of the cave in a syncopated fashion. Although no music played, rhythm abounded with each dwarf following the lead of the one in front. No one stepped out of line or even looked up to focus on the group, only the task at hand. Leading a completely opposite life, they seemed just as happy and content as the elves.

  “Mare? You coming?” Jeralyle stared down at her as he made his way up the second ladder, the rest of the group getting restless behind her.

  She blinked then responded to Jeralyle’s question by scurrying up behind him. The moment he turned his attention back, Merial tugged on his boot playfully. Yet he continued to climb, either unknowing or ignoring it. Mare’s response was a tight-lipped, scrunched-faced expression, followed by frustration and another—much harder—tug at his boot.

  “H
ey!” Jeralyle stared down, Merial looking up at him with innocent eyes and a devious smile. Jer glared as hard as he could but the corners of his mouth were involuntarily rising, revealing his true emotion. “If I fall, I’m taking you with me.” The look he received was one he would never be able to place. Her smile grew even more wily and her eyes lit up and then narrowed on him as her teeth bit at her bottom lip. A thought, possibly several, went through her head. The Mage, curious about all of them, nearly lost his grip on the ladder. A moment later with his composure regained, Jeralyle saw fit to ask her, “What is that…”

  “MOVE IT UP THERE!” The Mage heard a bark come from below him, then a dirty, burly face with a trimmed beard darted out from the left side of Merial much further down. Jeralyle went to ask again, but Gort’s face tightened even more and his hand reached for the frying pan stuck to his belt. With no hammers, he had been carrying it as a mock weapon for the time being and the Mage had no doubt that he could hurl it all the way up.

  That was all the incentive he needed to get moving.

  “What is that?” Merial asked as she stepped off the last rung. The third level was shorter than the other two, and only one wide cave had been carved. From it, the sounds of yelling, banging, and arguing came out.

  “Not a clue,” Jeralyle quirked, watching as Gort pushed his way through everyone else to lead the way.

  “What are ye waitin’ for?” he grumbled, walking towards the entryway.

  “You aren’t going to announce us?” Lanyan pressed, trying to convince him to at least think about it.

  The Dwarf stopped and turned, unable to hold back his laughter this time. “We’re not run by a stuffy council, Elf.” Still chuckling, Gort waved his hand inspiring them all to follow, however hesitantly due to all the bickering.

  Although it was a timid approach, the group still made it, tracing down the long corridor towards a faint orange glow at the end. The radiance and the volume of the arguments grew as they drew closer. Once the long hallway had been breached, the companions discovered the source of it.

  In the middle of the chamber was a round wooden table, old and worn; the top scratched and dented from use. Two elbows were propped on top of it, elbows that led to hands locked together in an iron grip. One belonged to a stout, short dwarf with dark orange hair and a stubbly, patchy beard to match, wearing a red tunic and gray pants, dark amber eyes straining as he tried to push down the hand of the dwarf on the other end. He was a massive fellow, wider than he was tall with muscles covering every inch of him. Bright blue eyes that mimicked the color of the sleeveless vest he wore, a plaid sash with a golden emblem wrapped around his left shoulder down his chest and tied at his right side. His face was covered by a curly black beard that grew halfway over his front and long black hair that went well over his shoulders. His eyes were crinkled and burly black eyebrows shoved up from laughter, obviously toying with the dwarf across from him. Without a second though, or any effort to keep his current standing in the arm wrestling battle, the black haired dwarf turned his eyes to Gort and the others as they entered.

  “Gort?!” He exclaimed, idly pushing his rival’s hand down onto the table. The secondary dwarf winced and gripped his wrist, pulling away from the table as the other stood. “I’ll be an Elven maiden!” he shouted, now charging at Gort as though he was going to attack. “Ha ha! Gort McHammer! It’s been years.” One of his huge, calloused hands landed on Gort’s shoulder, patting—rather hard—several times. “Ya look good boy!” he hugged, this time smacking his back even more aggressively than he had his shoulder, “It’s good ta see ya.”

  “Aye. Aye, It’s good ta see ye as well Javal.”

  Each companion now realized who he was, all without a pesky introduction. “I haven’t seen ya since…” Javal went from smiling to a look more expressive of regret, “Well…ye know. I’m glad ta see yer still alive. How goes tha fight?” Jeralyle, for the first time since meeting Gort, swore he saw sadness.

  But as quickly as it came, it faded, “Well. It goes well.”

  The King grinned again and nodded in acceptance before glancing around him to look at the rest of the group, “Who’re yer friends?”

  Gort flicked back quickly, taking a moment to get his bearings before making introductions from left to right. “That’s Lanyan, Ristalln, Carsis, Merial, Jeralyle, and…” He stopped at the end, confused for a moment, obviously looking for one other. “And…” he stalled, finally glancing down at his left, jumping when he found the Gnome tucked right beside him, crouching and sniffling. “Gnert.” He grumbled.

  “Well they’re a spry looking lot! But ye’r going ta need more than that if ya still plan on killing Idimus.”

  Everyone wanted to interject, though none of them did. It was not their place to speak, even as relaxed as the environment seemed. It was up to Gort, who grew quite serious rather quickly. “That’s why I’ve come, and why I’ve brought them with me. I need ta ask something of ye.”

  Javal first glanced between the companions, his beard swaying until finally he landed on the other dwarf. “Aye. It can be said in front of tha…” a slight smile burst onto his face, “tha Council.” looking back at the drinking, bickering dwarves behind him. Gort nodded. “What is it that ya ask of me?”

  “I believed that, when I left here, I was tha only one affected by tha King. Twas not. Everyone is, from humans ta elves, and even us. We pour our hearts and souls into digging out every useful resource this mountain has, break our back and sweat our foreheads off ta make decent weapons and armor; and tha King robs us of all of it. All without payment, without peace, or even a simple thank you. I’m better than that. We’re better. And we have no reason ta give tribute or payment to a king we never chose. It’s time we all stood up, not just me. It’s time we fight. We have enough dwarves here to help build an army that would rival the King’s. I’m asking ye ta inspire them ta stand up and fight. I’m asking for yer permission ta train them ta do so.”

  Javal was taken aback, as was everyone else. They had not expected the dwarf to say such a thing, nor hold himself with the poise and confidence to do so.

  As the Dwarven King slid behind the table, a curious look on his face, everyone expected a situation much like the one in Sharia. “Yer looking ta pick one nasty fight, ye know that?”

  “Aye. I’m counting on it.”

  Javal stared, never leaving Gort’s eyes once as he answered, trying to gauge the sincerity of his words. “Ye’ve got guts, I’ll give ya that. And yer group’s got spirit.” The King moved from the side to the back of the table, shooing the other dwarves away. Against the back wall were four barrels stacked horizontally, the tops facing the group, each with a spout. “It’s always been my philosophy that if ya can drink, ya can fight. If I’m ta grant ye this, I have to know that my dwarves aren’t going ta get massacred. I need ta know that ya can fight. So I need ta know that ya can drink.” He leaned forward, grabbing two of the mugs from the table. He filled each and then placed one where he had been sitting, the second on the other side. “So, I’ll make ye a deal. Ya out drink me, I’ll give ye all the help I can.”

  Gort moved towards the table on the other side, chuckling, “Ye’ve got a deal.”

  But Javal halted him, “Now, I didn’t say ye.”

  “What?”

  “That’s the catch. I get ta choose them.”

  Gort snorted as Javal approached and looked at each companion again. With a challenge like that, the Dwarf would have been the best choice, but it was no longer his decision. Now it was up to Javal.

  Ristalln looked the most eager. In such a contest as this, he would fair well. When Javal’s eyes fell on him, everyone got hopeful that would be his choice, but the King simply shook his head and moved on to Carsis. Again, anticipation rose and fell. Javal pressed on. Even Lanyan or Jeralyle would have stood a better chance, but they were passed over as well. The Dwarven leader finally came to a stop on the end, eyeing the gorgeous woman with curly brown hair and a magn
ificent smile. “Ye look like ya could use a drink, Lass,” he grinned and chuckled, stepping out of the way and swinging his hand out towards her seat. “By all means…” Mare bowed her head down and walked in front of Jeralyle and then a very worried, grumbling dwarf. All sighed as she sat down and wrapped her tiny hand around the tin mug. Javal sat across from her as the companions gathered around. “Here’s the rules: I drink, then ye drink. If ya quit, ya lose; pass out, ya lose. Understand?” Merial nodded, curls bouncing slightly. “Good. I’ll go first.”

  Jeralyle let out a heavy breath, watching Merial down her first drink. With that, he idly slid his hands behind his back and crossed his fingers.