Night Goddess (The Goddess Prophecies Book 1)

by Araya Evermore

  Something whistled through the air, and he instinctively dropped to his knees. The hurled blade of the dark dwarf scraped across the top of his helmet. Now kneeling, he could reach the knife in his boot. Jumping up, he sunk it into the dark dwarf’s unprotected throat and stared into the burning yellow eyes of his hated opponent.

  ‘Die you traitorous dark dwarf,’ he roared. Those eyes gleamed in hatred and laughter before they turned dim. ‘Curse them and their night vision,’ he said.

  The dark dwarves could see well in the dark. These cursed tunnels were their home. A place where evil flourished unreached and unchecked by the light. No, no light could ever reach these forsaken depths, he thought in disgust.

  It came as a low hum at first, so low it was barely audible except for a subtle vibration, and he wondered if anyone else could hear it.

  ‘Necromancer!’ Someone screamed behind him.

  He could do nothing now. It was the job of his wizards to protect them from evil magic. He couldn’t feel magic, but the hands of the wizard beside him shimmered blue and a magic shield formed. The temperature dropped to freezing, and then rose so high sweat burst upon his brow. There came an explosive boom that shuddered through his body and sent his heart fluttering, and yet there was nothing to see. He glanced at the wizard’s hands as magic flared and then went out.

  ‘Shield shattered,’ another wizard cried behind.

  ‘Try again, and quickly,’ said the one nearest him, but as he spoke the darkness moved—a cloud blacker than the tunnel around them.

  ‘Duck,’ he cried as a tendril snaked out toward him. But the warrior behind was not quick enough. The black cloud engulfed him just as the shield went up.

  In the dim light cast by magic, Jinfrosthard fell back as the warrior fought something he could not see. The colour drained from the warrior’s face and he screamed and tore past them. His screams echoed as he fled down the tunnel and disappeared.

  ‘Leave him. He is lost. We must press on,’ Jinfrosthard ordered, and yet his hands were shaking. He could only imagine what terror his warrior had witnessed. ‘Find the source of the black magic and destroy it.’

  ‘I have it,’ a wizard replied, his voice strained in concentration. ‘Left fork. There it is. IceFire, strike now.’

  The other wizards obeyed. A white flare shot forwards then turned left into the tunnel. There came the briefest scream, and then silence. The heavy feeling of black magic went, and the temperature returned to cold.

  Jinfrosthard sighed as silently as he could and wiped a trembling hand across his brow. He hated necromancers. He could deal with almost any form of Maphraxie, but the necromancers and their soul eating magic scared the hell out of him.

  ‘Onwards,’ he commanded, and led the line of warriors and wizards, all the while wondering how long he could keep moving. They were all exhausted, spooked, and hating the fact that they could not use magic to light the way so as to avoid detection.

  For another hour they fought vicious skirmishes in the narrow, pitch-black corridors that wound on forever under the surface of Venosia. As hardy and battle seasoned as his warriors and wizards were, they were not as prepared for the strength of the necromancers’ death magic. Many who had not fallen under enemy blades, were sent screaming from the tunnels with their sanity stripped from them.

  Initially fifty, now only a solid fist of thirty light dwarf warriors pushed forwards in the dark. They had come to the deepest part of the dark dwarven tunnels.

  ‘The barest light,’ Jinfrosthard whispered as he slowed.

  A dim orange glow formed above them. He stopped. Here the air was stale and frigid. He could see his breath in the gloom as faint puffs that rose before him then disappeared.

  It had been a fair while, perhaps even half an hour, since they had last engaged the enemy, and the sound of the dead and dying had long disappeared behind them. The sudden lull made him nervous. The wizard beside him, which he could see now in the light, was Inklemak—a thin, long-bearded dwarf, pale-faced from fear and exertion. Inklemak whispered.

  ‘The Flow tells me no necromantic wizard is near, and I sense no others here besides us.’

  ‘So be it, Inklemak, your word has never failed me before,’ Jinfrosthard rumbled, feeling grim despite the news. ‘Let’s have a little more warming light,’ he shivered.

  The wizard whispered a word and three torches held by warriors flared into life. At that moment, he wished with all his heart that he was sitting before his blazing hearth, in his favourite chair beside his wife, and in his home far away on the green hills west of Tarvalastone, the great city of the Dwarves of Light. He pushed the distracting thought aside. He must be getting old and tired of war, he thought with an inward chuckle.

  Now here he was, deep in the stronghold of dark dwarven territory in eastern Venosia. Who knew how the battle above ground was going, or how the three thousand-strong army of light dwarves fared in yet another attempt to wipe out the dark dwarves. Most of the battles would be underground—the dark dwarves could not abide the daylight and had few holdings above ground. They would all be fighting, as was he, in the blackness of underground tunnels that were truly endless, and truly forsaken.

  He pushed forwards, no longer leading, but following the flaming torch, glad of its light and what little warmth it offered down here in the cold. The band of warriors and wizards moved as a tight knot, blades and magic at the ready. All was horribly silent, and the world of light felt very far away.

  They slowed as the torchlight fell upon a great slab of rock marking the end of the tunnel. Jinfrosthard pressed to the front, tugging on his braided beard with one hand and gripping his axe in the other.

  ‘It’s not an end, but a door,’ he said, noting the obvious line around the rock that sealed the tunnel. He stared at the dark dwarven runes scrawled across it. They moved and danced like spiders in the flickering light. He bent closer, but then his eyes began to water, his chest constricted and he could not breathe. Black magic.

  Magic shimmered, cast by his wizards trying to break the runic enchantment settling upon him. Whatever gripped his throat released, and he tore away from the evil symbols with a bellow.

  ‘Damn them all to eternal torture,’ he roared, hot-faced and gasping.

  ‘We have less to fear, their wizards are all dead in this section,’ Inklemak said. ‘I cannot feel anything in the Flow besides our wizards. Without their necromancers nearby, the runes will weaken, and we might be able to break them.’

  Jinfrosthard nodded once. Though his patience was wearing thin, and his body and mind weary, he could not force this. The wizard was right, as always. Unlike most dwarves who only trusted strength through iron and steel, he respected the power and wisdom of magic wielders.

  ‘We shall wait.’ With a motion of his hand, he set them all at ease. The warriors sat where they stood, and in the stale cold darkness, they waited for the runes to weaken.

  A restless hour came and went as the dwarves fidgeted against the evil of the place, worried faces watching as the torches burned low.

  Finally, Inklemak spoke. ‘The runes weaken.’

  The warriors jumped to their feet, and the five wizards entered the Flow. The warriors looked on, faces pensive, barely breathing. For another hour the wizards worked, the sweat rolling down their faces as they lay spell after spell upon the door trying to unlock the runes and open it. The pressure in the tunnel rose and fell, and magical sparks of orange and blue flickered around the dark runes. One wizard shuddered, turned white, and sunk to the floor. The other wizards did not break their concentration as the warriors pulled him aside.

  The minutes rolled by, and seeing their sweat-soaked clothes and pale faces, Jinfrosthard knew that the wizards wouldn’t last much longer. The air suddenly fizzled with red light, and a dull explosion rocked the tunnel. Another wizard collapsed as the enchantment upon the door broke. He was carried away and laid alongside the other. The two fallen wizards both breathed in ragged gasps, and their e
yes fluttered feverishly bright, but otherwise were physically unharmed.

  ‘The magic is broken, but the door must be opened manually now,’ Inklemak said, his voice and body trembling. ‘We have some magical strength left, but not much.’

  Jinfrosthard grunted as he laid a hand on the wizard’s shoulder. Without a word he turned to the massive stone door, put his shoulder against it, and heaved. Others joined him, and together they hefted and pushed. The wizards spent what little magic they could draw from the Flow, and inch by inch the door slid to the left into the recess.

  He squeezed into the chamber and the others followed. The light from their torches spilled into the gloom. The room was ten yards square with no other doors. At the far end, upon a stone pedestal, lay a thick dusty book.

  ‘They fought to the death and cast their most powerful runic enchantments on this place just for a book?’ He said. Inklemak gave him a look that suggested he thought otherwise.

  Jinfrosthard shrugged. ‘It’s just a book.’

  Nevertheless, he stepped carefully towards the leather-bound tome. His boot clanged against something metal. He looked down at a foot-square metal box chained to the pedestal. He glanced back at a warrior, motioned to him to free it, and turned back to the book. He was about to touch it, then hesitated, fearful of more enchantments. Inklemak gave him a reassuring nod.

  Cracking his knuckles he reached and opened the cover. Symbols were scrawled in neat little rows filling the page. His skin crawled, and his sweat turned cold. He, blessedly, could not read dark dwarven runes, but Inklemak could, and he came to stand before the book, squashing his half-moon glasses onto his fat nose before peering down at the runes.

  The warriors hacked at the chain holding the box until it finally broke. But try as they might, they could not break open the box by force. Setting it aside, the dwarves sat or stood and listened as Inklemak began to read from the book.

  Over the next hour, until the torches began to splutter, they learned of the portended coming of the “Almighty Immortal Lord” from a dark and lifeless place beyond the boundaries of time. The victorious feeling of their recent battles was replaced with an all-encompassing dread.

  ‘ “Tusarza, the country most beloved of the foolish peoples of the Goddess, the place most blessed with pure magic and bountiful lands, will be where the Almighty Immortal Lord shall seed his being. Tusarza will be the first to fall to his might. Its purity will be his to consume and its magic his to conquer and wield. The fools upon Maioria know nothing of the darkness that looks hungrily upon this planet. Our Almighty Immortal Lord is the God to which we have prayed for millennia. When he comes to us, true power will be ours, and none shall stand in our way.” ’ Inklemak paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

  ‘Tusarza,’ whispered Jinfrosthard. His voice echoed in the chamber though he’d spoken quietly. He’d been there once and longed to stay for the rest of his days, for it was a beautiful land of lakes, forests, rivers and valleys. Mild winters allowed a myriad of plants and animals to thrive. It was for all this goodness that Tusarza was named the “Orchard of Maioria,” supplying lands far and wide with food, even throughout the winter months.

  This haven was the only place in all Maioria where the Ancients, elves, dwarves and humans lived in equal numbers, thriving peacefully alongside each other. The land was everyone’s, belonging to no one race in particular. Those seeking refuge came to Tusarza, travellers and pilgrims, and many were seduced by the land’s beauty and never left. The magic was strong in Tusarza for it was pure and untainted by greed.

  ‘No one knows of this terrible thing coming from the skies. No one knows what the murderous dark dwarves have been doing in their dark, twisted lairs…’ Jinfrosthard trailed off and looked at Inklemak, lips pursed. Inklemak dropped his eyes and looked back at the dusty book, tracing the letters as he muttered to himself and found where he’d left off.

  ‘ “…From life, he is not. From light, he is not. He is the darkness that fills our minds and hearts; he is the death that needs not the life to be forever. He is our King, our God, our Lord Eternal, for whom which we have waited millennia to come and guide us. Hail the Immortal Lord. Hail Baelthrom. Enter the Age of Oblivion…” ’ Inklemak closed the book and shook his head. ‘I can read no more, and the torchlight dies.’

  Jinfrosthard nodded. ‘Let’s leave. What about this?’ He nudged the box with his foot. A wizard reached over and placed a hand upon it.

  ‘No axe can break this. No magic can open it. Only the key can unlock it,’ the wizard said and removed his hand.

  Inklemak lifted the book from the pedestal, and there came a tinkling sound of something dropped. A small black key gleamed on the floor.

  ‘Why would they lock something and keep the key close?’ Jinfrosthard said. He looked at Inklemak who nodded, clearly thinking the same thing.

  ‘They must have locked it for their own safety,’ Inklemak said, speaking Jinfrosthard’s thoughts aloud.

  Jinfrosthard took the key. ‘Wizards, be ready for anything,’ he said, preparing himself for any horror that might jump out of the box. He inserted the key and turned it. The box opened smoothly. Inside was a rag-bound object.

  Inklemak reached inside. ‘It’s magical and heavy—too heavy for its size.’ He let the cloth fall away and stared at the solid black object, about an inch thick and the size of a small plate. He held it back and squinted at it. ‘It’s shaped into a raven.’

  They all clustered round to stare at it. Its wings were spread wide, and its head turned to the side. Every feather was perfectly detailed, its wedge-shaped tail fanned out, its eyes shining and lifelike.

  ‘Dark dwarven black iron?’ Jinfrosthard asked. Inklemak shook his head.

  ‘No. It’s more like marble or something, and yet it’s a type I’ve never seen before. I don’t know what it is or where it came from, but it’s not evil, and it’s not dark dwarven. Perhaps the Ancients will know. Its magic I cannot read. It feels locked away from me, somehow. It’s not dangerous to us, as far as I can tell.’

  ‘Well, whatever it is, the dark dwarves were clearly afraid of it,’ Inklemak said, putting it back in the box and hefting the book under his arm again.

  Jinfrosthard shook out the tension in his shoulders, wanting to relax, but the words Inklemak had translated from the book filled his soul like a dark secret.

  ‘Let’s get out of here and as far away as possible.’

  No one disagreed with him, and they hurried out with the book and the raven object.

  Jinfrosthard and Inklemak took the dark dwarven book to the king and queen of the light dwarves.

  ‘We will not frighten the people with nonsense created by our most hated enemy,’ said the king in response to Jinfrosthard’s plea to warn the people of what they had learned. ‘That’s the last I will hear of it. If you so much as speak of this again, you will be beaten and hanged.’

  Jinfrosthard stared at Inklemak, the wizard’s face mirrored his shock. They had left the great hall in stunned silence. Only when they were alone did they dare to speak.

  Inklemak shook his head. ‘How can they not warn the people about the coming darkness? How can they not send warning to Tusarza?’

  ‘They’re afraid,’ Jinfrosthard said. ‘Fear stays their tongues. They are more afraid of the disruption and unrest that would spread through the kingdom than they fear the coming of an evil power. So it is easier for them to ignore it, to deny it.’

  Inklemak nodded. ‘Then we shall not tell them about the talisman.’ That is what they had come to call the raven object.

  ‘Take it, Inklemak. You should look after something that has magical powers. Keep it hidden and secret until we can find someone trustworthy who might know about it.’

  Jinfrosthard decided to tell everyone, anyone who would listen, about the dark dwarves book and the coming Immortal Lord. His conscience made him. But when the king and queen heard, he was banished from Venosia under threat of death, and was forced t
o flee his homeland with his wife. He was thankful to make it to the peaceful Isle of Celene, but for the rest of his life, his soul was tortured with the knowledge of the coming darkness.

  Chapter 2

  THE image of proud and noble Jinfrosthard, standing humble and pleading before the king and queen of the light dwarves, faded on the surface of Yisufalni’s sacred pool in the Ethereal Planes. Yisufalni’s eyes misted over as she lay beside the pool.

  ‘So much is lost,’ she breathed, curling her legs up. If they had known, perhaps they could have done something, but deep down she knew they could not have. The dark road Maioria would take when the Immortal Lord entered her lands seemed to be written in the stars, and no amount of pleading on Jinfrosthard’s part, noble as it was, would ever change that.

  He came to Tusarza, just as Jinfrosthard had warned. The sacred waters clouded over in response to her thoughts, and its surface filled with rain clouds.

  A ball of flaming rock bigger than a mountain hurtled across the sky, trailing a scar of black smoke. It hit Tusarza, shuddering whole valleys, and flattening forests. The earth cracked and lakes boiled over, flooding entire villages. The sea slithered away only to resurge in a rage, smothering the land. Yisufalni knew the history, but she had never witnessed it, and she stared into the pool, wide-eyed at the destruction.

  There came a moment of calm, then the ground began to shake. Valleys were torn apart as foreign black rock thrust through them, stabbing high into the sky. The three-peaked mountains of Maphrax were born, dominating the land and challenging the goddess herself.

  She knew it didn’t stop there. History said the earthquakes lasted for months, and great floods came and went without warning. The volcanoes of Maphrax, even thousands of years later, never stopped spewing lava, and volcanic ash poisoned the atmosphere, forever blotting out the sun over that land.

  Those who survived the impact, the floods, the earthquakes, and the poison, soon fell to starvation when the crops failed and famine came. Change came quickly, and in less than a decade the place was a barren wasteland where not even the dead dared tread.