The Trinity of Heroes (I Will Protect You Book 1)

by Mason Jr. , Jared

  Arcel gave an emotional look to his companions. With a powerful, booming voice that echoed throughout the mountaintops he said, “Thank you, men. Now, let us do what no man has ever done. Let us cross these mountains and reach the unknown treasures on the other side!”

  Throughout the history of these lands, it was always man’s greed that got him into trouble. Arcel took a moment to reflect on his recent decision to ignore fair warning from other explorers and travel to these accursed mountaintops. He was attempting to bring fame and fortune back to the family name that he had bastardized with gambling and debauchery by being the first person to ever traverse the Frozen Mountains. But he now sat freezing amongst a group of men no wiser than he about what horrors lie ahead. He knew that sitting for long would cause even greater discomfort and unrest amongst his men. The winds raged, howling through the crevices and singing to the clouds above. The layers of clothing and animal skins the men wore could not protect them. The cold was unforgiving; it infiltrated their hunting vests, enveloped their shoulders and ensnared them in its icy grip.

  The energy they expended shivering made their movements even more sluggish. They continued on at a turtle’s pace, every treacherous yard an accomplishment in its own right. Icicles formed on their beards and eyelashes. There was no respite. When the wind took a moment to regain its ferocity, the snow provided an even more sinister barrier. Their boots snapped through the hard top layer of snow, every crunching step pulling them down ten or twelve inches deep into the white fluff. The icy quicksand slowed their movements even more, forcing them to waste their strength with every stomp. The air itself voided the area as the men circled the mountains. It was a chore to breathe. The men coughed, wheezed, and sputtered spasmodically. It should have been enough to turn back any rational being, but they pressed on, their minds unable to process their desires to survive. They ascended higher into the sky, cresting into the ominous clouds.

  Darkness crept in, a third cunning enemy to the group’s progress. Still they trudged on. Lanterns casted the grim shadows of hollow souls onto the icy walls, acting like a canvas to the procession of the walking dead. Arcel dropped to one knee, begging for his lungs to stop their betrayal. He gasped repeatedly, his throat and lips raw from the crisp winds. He staggered back to his feet, turned to his crew and proclaimed in a raspy voice, “Men, it is only a few paces further, once we crest this summit, we will camp for the night, and descend onto fame and greatness at the first sunlight.”

  The men did not have the resolve left to confirm his directions audibly, but their bodies obliged, following the dream of their leader to a level area at the mountain’s precipice. An overhang of rock provided the group their only shelter, and the men hustled toward their resting area with a renewed vigor. They made a fire, ate some food, and drank. Their spirits returned momentarily. Laughter and song echoed off of the mountaintops, an unknown, self-made requiem to their lofty goals. The night would not be so kind, however. Sleep and death overcame the group, one as a precursor to the other.

  Only Arcel and two others returned to the world of the living the next morning. Arcel awoke first, taking a minute to fully realize that he was still alive. He knew it because of the wind. That unholy howl would not have been allowed in the heavens, or in hell. No one else moved. He heard no other sounds to confirm that he had company. This was a land deserted by life, void of sustenance. Finally, a grunt from one of his awaking comrades broke the desolate silence. The two men helped one another to their feet, brushing snow off each others’ furs. They tried waking the other men, only succeeding one time. The others had been granted an early reprieve from their own misery. The two men said a prayer for their fallen allies, while Arcel glanced impatiently toward the sky. He really didn’t care that most of his men had perished in his quest for greatness.

  Arcel irritably pulled his two remaining crewmen from their dirges, and they began the treacherous descent down the other side of the mountain. They attempted to glimpse their treasure, the sight of the new lands that awaited them at the bottom of the mountain, but could not see through the haze of clouds and the constant, whipping snowfall. Yet their imaginations led them to the utopia that awaited them at the end of their grueling journey. Onward, downward they marched, gravity doubling as both friend and foe as a slippery rock could lead them to an icy end.

  Arcel continued his way down the side of the mountains. As his companions followed, one of them missed their step. His voice howled in unison with the snowstorm as he slid past Arcel’s outstretched hand. Their hands met for a moment, clutching each other in a last grasp for survival. The man’s eyes pleaded against the cruel storm, begging for Arcel to muster his empty strength. Hopelessness overtook his pupils as his mind understood what he did not want to admit. Arcel wouldn’t risk his own position, balanced on an outcropping, to save him. As Arcel struggled half-heartedly to pull the man back up, his own frostbitten fingers gave out like the rotting boards of an ancient bridge. The man disappeared down the mountain, deep into the swirling tempest.

  Two souls now remained against the frozen legion. They continued to battle their way through the battalions of sleet and snow. Beads of ice tore at Arcel’s face as he looked toward the sky one last time. The elements would not defeat him. He turned to his last remaining companion and proclaimed, “Come on friend, it’s only a little farther!”

  The man gave no response; he simply continued to slog along with Arcel for what felt like an eternity. They kept their heads down and muddled through as they finally reached the foothills. They had finished their descent; they were off the mountains.

  Arcel’s voice roared through the still-raging blizzard, “It’s just ahead; we just need to get through the remainder of this storm!”

  He began to run across the flat ground which had less snow packed on it to slow his pace. As he continued onward, he could sense a feeling of accomplishment swell throughout his entire being. The snowstorm’s intensity eased as he moved farther away from the mountains’ base. Even if his journey stopped here, he was the first person to ever cross these miserable peaks. He had done it. His pace slowed as he looked back and saw only a thick wall of white. His companion had been swallowed by the maw of the mighty storm. Arcel did not care. There was simply too much to see and discover for him to waste his time searching for dispensable human life. Arcel continued onward, a newfound purpose in every step he took.

  After a while, he came to an area where the snow was gone, and now he stood on grass and dirt for the first time in days. As though he were a Knight dropping to his knees to take a vow, Arcel kissed the dirt at his feet. He could feel granules of sand and hard earth caress his lips; the cold ground had never felt so good. Blades of brown grass danced about his cheeks as he took a moment to smell his imminent victory.

  Arcel looked up and realized that the ground seemed to crest about one hundred meters ahead of him. He wondered to himself what treasures the horizon could hold. His body knew what needed to be done, involuntarily moving and pulling him closer to the edge of the land ahead of him. He knew he had to be remembered for something, and with his reputation at stake, Arcel would not compromise the magnitude of his historic achievement. Crossing the Frozen Mountains was a verifiable accomplishment by itself, but Arcel wanted more, needed more. He was too close, survived too much, to turn back now. He must know what lie ahead. He marched on, his pace quickening. Finally, he reached the edge of the ground that overlooked his destination.

  He sat perched atop a short cliff that overlooked the lands down below. As his eyes gazed over the expansive landscape, an inescapable feeling of dread and disappointment swelled in his gut. Below him stretched a black marsh that drowned the land as far as the eye could see. He stared at the newly discovered landmark for a long while, hypnotized by the swamp’s stranglehold over his motivation to continue. The trees that littered the Black Swamp had no leaves, but were not dead. Black dreads of seaweed wept from their branches. Red carpets of blood-moss covered large expanse
s of the swamp, and lured birds and animals to its poisonous flowers and treacherous footings. Bubbles of muck formed, expanded, and exploded over and over all throughout the mammoth bog; the signature snap echoing throughout the area. An intense smell singed Arcel’s nostrils, warning him that the liquid below wasn’t water.

  Arcel needed to get closer.

  He slowly inched his way over the crest to the treacherous shores below. He gradually slid down the muddy wall, grabbing for dead plants and clumps of grass to slow his decent. He came upon a small dirt patch before approaching the opaque ocean that lay before him. He could see mounds of dirt and grass scattered around the swamp, the only possible places for sound footing. In his mind he knew that in order to cross this swamp, it would take more than the tools he possessed.

  But he had to explore more. He was warm now, the rush of the unknown overtaking the cold he had felt earlier. He removed his coat of furs and knelt down, keenly observing the swamp. It rolled, it bubbled, it was a life form unique as any he had ever seen. He swore it was alive. He noticed the swamp turn over again, this time leaving a twisted, hand-shaped formation protruding from its unholy depths. Arcel stared in fixated amazement at this black, gnarled symbol. Could this be a creature, a new species to discover, or simply a tree branch covered in muck, playing with his own excitement? Arcel’s heart pounded intensely. He timidly reached toward it, careful to avoid losing his balance.

  The trap worked.

  The warped shape moved, lurching toward Arcel’s outstretched arm, ensnaring his elbow with its unrelenting grip. A ghastly figure arose from the swamp’s deepest recesses, wailing ferociously as it emerged. It towered over Arcel’s prone body, dripping the muck from the marsh off of its transparent form. Its veins coursed with the black liquid of the swamp, flowing like tributaries feeding into its heart of darkness. It’s red, ember-like eyes burned against the hollow backdrop of its bald skull. Human in form but demonic in strength, the beast pulled Arcel off of the ledge out over the expanse of black muck. Arcel was frozen, this time not from the elements, but from gripping, heart-stopping fear. The beast pulled Arcel gradually into the swamp, growling as it toyed with its prey. The wretched creature enjoyed prolonging its victims’ deaths, dragging out their demise until they accepted their own end.

  But Arcel’s own will to survive kicked in. He kicked, punched, and tore at the grisly form. But he could not free himself from its inexorable grip. He gasped for the sweet succulent taste of air, but the beast yanked him down further. The black liquid covered his shoulders, then his neck. Still he sank further down, the beast slowly dragging his soul to a black hell. He sucked one last, deep breath, knowing it would be his last chance. He kicked harder against the muck; he wriggled and squirmed like a fish on a hook. Yet he could not break free. Down he sank. The straws of sunlight that penetrated the black veil faded over his head. He closed his eyes to prevent the liquid from stinging them. His lungs begged for air, but Arcel could not oblige. His chest heaved, his own body forcing its will against its master’s wishes. His mouth opened and in rushed the black fluid, filling his body with the putrid taste of demise. Arcel drowned quickly, effortlessly, succumbing to the painless release death had finally granted him.

  Chapter 18:

  Lawrence, there’s something about that boy. Kinda like his ol’ man. He’s got potential, but I wonder meself if he’ll end up leaving too? Damn good skills, though.

  - Journal of Sabre Grey, August 25th, 21 P.W.

  The Advent of Knighthood was fast approaching, and Lawrence had a very important task to complete. He needed to go see Sabre Grey and ask him one more time for his assistance. He had been training for two years now, and with the ceremony tomorrow, Lawrence needed him in attendance. After all, without Sabre’s proof of his training and completion of tasks, Lawrence wouldn’t be allowed to join the Knight Guard. The skies were covered in an ominous gray as Lawrence traveled the short dirt road from Haile to Alacrecia. In his heart Lawrence knew he was ready, but would Sabre Grey support him? Would Mayor Flint believe his word if not backed by that of a renowned Knight of Haile? Lawrence could feel his stomach churn as he approached the door to the Grey home. He hoped that he would get the answer he was looking for.

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  Lawrence stood in silence for a long moment, anxiously awaiting his meeting with Sabre. The door was finally opened by a young, beautiful woman who appeared to be half the age of Sabre. She had medium length brunette hair and some of the softest brown eyes Lawrence had ever seen. She was a tall and well-built woman, definitely suited to Sabre Grey.

  “May I help you?” Her voice was surprisingly sweet, and it caught Lawrence off guard.

  “Excuse me, miss, I am looking for Sabre Grey. Is he in?”

  “Sabre…He’s uh…Well, you see, Sabre instructed me not to disturb him until he has come out of his study.”

  “Well, when do you imagine he will be coming out, miss?”

  “I couldn’t say for sure; he has been in there for nearly three days now. As his wife I am terribly worried about him. It’s not like Sabre to just shut himself out from human contact.”

  Three days?! Lawrence couldn’t believe it; how could anyone isolate themselves from the world, let alone their family, for that long? “Wait a minute; did you say you are Sabre’s wife?”

  “Why, yes, dear. I’m Joselyn Grey. I’ve been married to Sabre for ten years now. I love him dearly. And who did you say your name was, again?”

  “My name is Lawrence; I am Sabre’s squire.”

  “Ah, yes. He’s told me a lot about you. Well, Lawrence, is there anything that I can help you with?”

  “Probably not, ma’am, but can you just let him know that I stopped by?”

  “I’ll be sure to tell him the moment he comes out, Lawrence.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Good day to you, Lawrence.” Joselyn closed the door softly.

  Lawrence began to trudge back to Haile. He seriously doubted that Sabre had ever mentioned him or his training to his wife. After all, he had never really trained with Sabre anyways. He had no way of knowing if Sabre would show up at tomorrow’s Advent of Knighthood or not. Lawrence was queasy just thinking about the embarrassment he would endure if Sabre didn’t show up to the ceremony. All his efforts and training would be for nothing.

  Chapter 19:

  No food. Low on water. I’ve been wandering in these woods for days. It doesn’t seem to end. Spirits fading, nights are cold, no flint, I can sense the predators getting closer. If only I had a fire. If only I had a fire. If only…

  - Journal of Mason Hex, Undated

  The small village of Alacrecia is but a short walk from Haile, its houses taking refuge behind Forme’s rolling hills. Surrounded by a low, wooden, fence-like structure, Alacrecia is home to many workers who make the walk each day to the larger village of Haile. Blades of green grass covered the land and dandelions speckled the hillside as they dotted a path from house to house. A small creek snaked its way behind several houses and a new wooden bridge offered passage to the flower covered meadow on the other side. Galvan sat on a large boulder in the center of the creek, holding a fishing pole. There has to be more to my life than this…more than the same old same old. I long for something more; something to give meaning to my life. All the power I could possess is meaningless if I cannot use it to fulfill a greater purpose, he thought to himself. He spit out a blade of grass that he had been holding in his mouth, and watched as it floated to the creek and was absorbed by the frigid waters. Galvan cast a thick juicy earthworm from his tree branch fishing rod, and watched as it floated through the water to a shadowed portion of the stream’s banks. The warm yet cloudy weather made this day perfect for catching the trout in this stream. Suddenly, a brilliant flash under the crystal clear water startled Galvan as he felt a tug on his pole.

  “Oh look at the color on this one…I can’t believe how beautiful she is. I have to give her a moment to take the bait,�
�� he said to the audience of birds chirping loudly at his excitement. He stood up on the boulder, planting his feet. “You can try to swim away all you want, my dear, but tonight I dine on trout!” he exclaimed, pulling with all of his might. The beautiful trout soared through the air. He reached out his hand and caught it in midair. The majestic catch flopped and struggled futilely as he looked down at the night’s dinner. “You, my dear…you…” Galvan paused as the trout frolicked in his hand. He opened his hand, allowing the trout to fall to the creek below. “Are … too small.” Galvan frowned as he unwillingly finished his thought.

  He reached into a nearby pouch and pulled out an earthworm to replace the one that he had just used. “Let the next be larger than the last.” He pulled a pipe out of his pocket and proceeded to pack it with some twag, his preferred foliage for pipe smoking. Galvan wore brown robes and cloth shoes, and his silver, braided hair swung past his shoulders. He checked his pipe over, and upon satisfaction, proceeded to trace illuminated runes in midair with his hands in front of him. Like many other sorcerers, Galvan used every chance he had to practice his techniques. “I travel the longest road from east to west and then two hops over the trout creek,” he said as he formed distinct symbols with his fingers. A twinkle of light emanated from his hand and proceeded to spawn a small bright flame. He could feel the warmth of the flame as he brought his pipe closer to it. He stopped for a moment and said, “All things in moderation.” He proceeded to use the present flame to light his pipe. He breathed deeply and his pipe began to glow a bright red. Moments later he exhaled a large plume of smoke. He closed his eyes. A large grin crossed his face.

  “Tirrius, my friend, you grow a good twag,” he said out loud to himself. He nodded in satisfaction while drawing yet another puff from his pipe. Tirrius was a local merchant with whom Galvan had had many dealings, mostly relating to the purchase of twag and a collection of smoking pipes. He puffed out a smoke ring and proceeded to cast out his bait again. He hoped to catch a fish sufficient in size to be a succulent meal. The bait hit the water, casting a hundred ripples to the edges of the creek. The bait worked its way through the underwater labyrinth of rocks and weeds, dancing and wiggling to attract the attention of a larger trout. The sudden eruption of another fish on the bait startled the young sorcerer.