The Coming Dawn: Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 3

by R. G. Triplett

  Seig let out a grunt of pain, and then slumped to the ground in a heap of wasted and ruined flesh.

  “Goran!” Yasen shouted as he ran over to his wounded friend. “Goran, are you alright?” he asked as the battle raged all about them.

  “I thought we had lost you to the devil herself,” he whispered with blood-frothed words. “But then I saw your eye, and thanked the THREE who is SEVEN for that damned bear.”

  “And for the patch Keily sewed for me, old friend,” he said as he held the head of his dying friend. “I switched it when they forced me before the dragons.”

  “I never doubted you,” Goran said, laboring as he watched his brothers wield their axes all about them, cleaving helms and taking arrows. “Hollis would be proud.”

  A tear rolled down Yasen’s scarred face. “He would be proud of you too, brother.”

  “Would you say the words for me?” Goran barely managed

  “Aye.” Yasen agreed, his voice proud and profoundly saddened. “By your body broke … come birch and elm, pine and oak.”

  Goran closed his eyes as the last of his life passed through his blood-stained lips.

  Yasen rose to his feet and placed his boot upon the back of the fallen governor, gripping the handle of his axe and freeing it from his flesh.

  Nogcwren whirled about, her rage and magic striking like an angered serpent at all who came within reach. The screams of the men and beasts pierced by her devilry cut through the clamor with a soul-chilling clarity. Yasen walked towards her, unopposed, through the diminishing line of guards. When her glowing, yellow eyes met his determined stare, she knew she had been deceived.

  She pointed her scepter at the chest of the woodcutter, who was not more than forty paces from her. “Betrayer!” she shouted as a current of electricity shot forth and gripped him in a violent hold. “Fool! How can this be?!”

  Yasen froze where he was, arrested by the force of her sorcery, writhing in tortured pain.

  “None have kneeled before my children and looked into the fire of the un-light without being taken by its power!” Her very body seemed to be roiling and glowing with rage, as she used her magic to lift him up off the ground.

  Yasen screamed in agony as her malice tightened its grip on his suffocating body. Oren and Alon and the host of the woodcutters ran to the rescue of their chieftain, felling guardsman and Raven alike as they did.

  Pyrrhus watched in horror, and his face did not betray the storm of emotions inside his head and the confusion of it all. “How did ... he didn’t take her light?” he mumbled to himself.

  So terrible were the shouts of the woodcutters that even Durai fell victim to the fear they evoked in this last and final charge. The ground began to rumble and quake, and the woodcutters hurled their axes towards the sorceress as they ran.

  She batted them away as if they were nothing more than a minor nuisance, but her gaze would not leave the face of the dog who betrayed her. “I offered you immortality! I gave you the gift of sight, and you spurned my affection? For what?” she screamed. “To join your dying brothers on this field of death?”

  The ground began to shake even more violently now, and men and beasts everywhere began to lose their footing, stumbling amidst the scattering battle.

  The screech of an Owele could be heard as Azrael descended from the sky above, his violet eyes blazing with righteous intent.

  “This world is mine!” Nogcwren continued. “Look around you! This is the last of the resistance, and all you have left is but to stumble and fall at my feet!” She screamed and cursed, her yellow eyes burning with hatred. “Bring on the birds, bring them all, every last one of them!” She laughed and snarled as she looked up at the Oweles. “Blind servants of a dead God!”

  Yasen’s eyes caught a movement behind her, though he couldn’t see just what it was. All of a sudden, the bright glint of iron shot through the rune-covered chest of the maddened witch. Blood, crimson and yet somehow fouled, began to pour down and pool in the swell of her breasts. The sorcery that burned in her eyes flickered and failed as she beheld the doom that had pierced her very heart.

  The mighty bird tore through the air with such speed that the Sorceress had barely the time to understand what fate had just befallen her. Her eyes went wide, and her slender, once-beautiful neck opened wide as Azrael slashed his talons to sever the head of the imposter Queen.

  Yasen crashed to the ground in a world of pain, watching the body that was bereft of a head fall to its knees and then crumble in a tortured heap. He couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed for standing where, not moments ago, the Sorceress had been inflicting her wrath upon him, Pyrrhus now stood with his crimson-stained sword still in his one remaining hand.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The three light seekers peered into the man-sized opening in the side of the mountain, seeing only by the violet glow of their growing hope.

  “Where does it lead, do you think?” Astyræ asked them.

  “Further in, I guess. And further up,” Cal said, still in wonder of it all. “Was the way like this the whole time?” he asked as he took his first, timid step into the passageway. “Hidden, I mean. I only say that because, well … all the other markings were in plain sight.”

  “Plain sight?” Astyræ said with a playful smile as she followed him inside the cavernous hallway. “Neither Deryn nor I could see the way of the Stag, no matter how hard we looked.”

  “She is right, Cal,” their Sprite companion said, the blue glow of his wings now reflecting off of the glittering walls inside this mountain of the Itxaro.

  “Alright, alright,” Cal said, his clouded eyes still searching for any markings that might be ahead of them. “What I meant was, why was this one hidden? Why the stones? Why the bramble bush? If it wasn’t for the blood of Uriel, I don’t know if I would have even guessed to look.” He thought on it a moment more as the three of them continued their journey deeper into the heart of the mountain, twisting and turning each way the path led them.

  “Maybe it wasn’t always that way, groomsman,” Astyræ said, interrupting his reverie. “Maybe the stones just fell, and maybe the bramble grew over time.”

  “The light of our Great Father has ever been in this world, but only a very few of His children have chosen to seek it.” Deryn added. “Perhaps the ancient paths are subject to the complacency of those content not to tread upon them.”

  “It is sad to me that King Illium never found this part,” Cal continued. “So close he was to it, and yet he died never reaching the promise he sought.”

  “I would not be sad for him, Cal,” Deryn said, flitting up alongside him. “For your story is a part of his story, and you continuing to seek might very well ultimately reveal the shared hope of a shared promise.”

  Cal looked over his shoulder at his friend, a grateful smile breaking across his now-bearded face. “You are a wise little Sprite, aren’t you?”

  “Cal?” Astyræ said rather startled. “What is that?”

  Cal looked as the path that had been winding back and forth for what seemed like hours now opened up into a magnificent chamber, higher than their violet sight could see, as rotund as the courtyard of the kings back in Westriver.

  “What in the damnable dark?” Cal whispered in awe.

  The three of them walked deeper into the chamber, spinning around as they did, straining to take in all that their eyes could see. The walls of the rounded chamber were adorned with intricate carvings, one flowing into the next, telling a story with detail that none of them had ever seen etched upon stone in such a way before.

  “What does it mean?” Astyræ gasped.

  Cal turned around in wonder; the measure of the beauty and detail was nearly overwhelming. “Look!” he exclaimed, his eye catching one the carved reliefs. “I know this place!” He ran over to the wall and traced his fingers upon a familiar sight, a palace carved out of a mountain, whose large doors he had passed through near the beginning of his journey. “Only …
it is not how I remember it. It is much more … brilliant here, younger, not ruined as when I stumbled upon it. Petros is its name,” he said in wonder. “Tolk … I hope you and the others are alright, my friend.”

  The three of them found spaces upon the massive chamber’s wall, each drawn to a particular scene. “I know this man!” Deryn said as he looked at the image of a mighty warrior standing upon the fallen flesh of an ancient serpent.

  “Who is it, Deryn?” Astyræ asked.

  Cal ran over to see who he could possibly be referring to, bewildered. As he approached the scene, he stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Is that?” he whispered, for fear of scaring the revelation back off into the shadows.

  “Caedmon, yes,” Deryn said with silver tears in his eyes. “And that vile abomination is Ahriman, lord and sire of the AŽDAHĀ. I remember this day all too well my friend; the ruin of Terriah, the justice of Éimhear, and the treacheries of Šárka.”

  “Is that Gwarwyn in his hand?” Cal said, looking even closer. “It is, isn’t it?!” he exclaimed as he reached for his blade to compare, then remembered it was now lost on the field of battle.

  In that moment, surrounded by wonders and stories unknown and unimaginable, Cal remembered his friends who were still in the midst of battle: Johanna of Shaimira, Goran, Gvidus and all his woodcutter brothers. His mind reeled with a renewed sense of urgency.

  “Cal look,” Astyræ said nervously as she peered at a carving several scenes down along the great chamber’s wall. “You have to…” she swallowed her fear back so as to finish her thought, “you have to see this.”

  “What is it, my lady?” he said as his eyes scoured scene after scene. He beheld images of great towers erected, of the once-great burning tree of Haven, of beasts and creatures long forgotten, and of battles and beauty and the becoming of the world of Aiénor. He stopped just beside the golden-haired beauty, placing his hand upon her shoulder. When his clouded eyes gazed upon the carving, he too felt a sense of foreboding.

  “That is the ship, Wilderness! Illium’s ship, stranded! Just as we found it!” He wondered disbelievingly.

  “It is, groomsman, just … as … we found it.” Her voice was cold and ominous. “Do you see who is there … in the stonework, I mean?”

  His eyes searched the impossible lines, chiseled into the glittering stone walls with unmatched detail by some unknown artist. “Is that?” he paused, furrowing his brow and reaching up to touch the three small figures there at the bottom of the frame. “It can’t be!” He turned and looked at her violet eyes, his own equally befuddled. “How can it be?”

  “You?” came a voice from the center of the rotund hall.

  The three light seekers wheeled around, all of them instinctively reaching for their blades and bows, only to find that Deryn alone still carried a weapon.

  “Who are you?” Cal said as he scanned the stone floor of the hall, looking for something to defend himself with. “Who are you?” As he spoke, he noticed for the first time that the same sort of carved images stretched out underneath their feet, lining the entire floor of this great hall with more of the artist’s handiwork.

  “Who am I?” the voice replied in a deep and ancient tone. “Who am I?!”

  An impossible wind began to blow inside the chamber from seemingly nowhere, breathing to life a long line of dormant torches that clung to the walls of the chamber with a familiar, silver fire.

  The three of them whirled about, their eyes tracking the gust of wind as they watched the great hall explode with illumination. The dust from within the etched cracks of the chiseled history took flight and swirled about, creating a thick haze around them.

  “Who am I?” the voice bellowed, the depth of its timbre thundering off the walls as the shape of a bearded man appeared in the cloud of dust. “I am who I have always been, and I will be who I always am.”

  Cal and Astyræ kneeled in respect and fear as the robed body of the man of dust began to take form. “We did not mean to offend you, sir. We were led here by the White Stag, and we have come seeking the light of the THREE who is SEVEN,” Cal shouted into the wind.

  The man raised his hand above them, and they saw that it held a hammer. In his other hand was a chisel that looked to be fashioned out of pure silver lightning.

  “Please!” Cal begged, confusion and dread washing over him.

  The man of dust narrowed his blazing blue gaze, his mouth moving with words unfamiliar to the ears of men and Sprites. As the storm about them continued to swirl and rage, Cal reached out to take hold of Astyræ’s hand. She looked at him, her eyes grateful for the touch and grieving what might come next as they remained on their knees and looked up. A deep exhale came from the dust-formed mouth of the bearded man above them and at that … all sound ceased.

  In an instant, the chisel was planted onto the glittering, stone floor beneath them, and with a scream of horror and desperation they beheld the mighty hammer fall swiftly. Though they feared its strike was meant to smite them, its blow instead found only the head of the magnificent chisel.

  BOOM! The crashing sound of the hammer reverberated off the carved walls of the chamber. Cal’s eyes were wild with disbelief as he watched the floor beneath their knees writhe and crack, while blue tendrils of lightning bit into the stone, carving a new image before their eyes. He looked at the floor, and then at the man of dust, hovering over them.

  “I never grow tired of watching,” the man said, his eyes glowing with satisfaction as his handiwork began to take shape before their very eyes.

  “Watching what?” Astyræ said, her voice quivering with relief.

  “The story,” he told them. “I never grow tired of watching so great a tale unfold before the theater of its maker.”

  “What do you mean, the story?” Cal asked again, his eyes drawn again to the scenes that decorated the stone around him. “Do you mean the carvings?”

  Deryn did not tear his gaze from what was happening on the floor beneath his friends. “I think he is referring to us.” Deryn told them, his words measured and ominous. “Look, Cal.” His tiny hand pointed at the stone below them.

  Cal and Astyræ turned their gaze to follow the Sprite’s hand, and as their eyes beheld the image, their skin pimpled with goose flesh and the hairs on their necks stood tree tall.

  “What in the name of the THREE who is SEVEN?!” Cal said disbelievingly.

  “So you do see?” the man of dust replied.

  “That is us!” Cal blurted out. “And there! Over here!” he said as he walked over to the image of the three of them just as they had found the wreck of the ship, Wilderness. “This is us too?”

  “You are correct,” the man of dust said with a bow of his large head. “All of this … all of these,” he waved with his massive, dust hand, “are but chapters in the greater story, the epic, the Requiem of Elior.”

  “Elior?” Cal said.

  “The THREE who is SEVEN, as you know Him, or the Great Father, as the Spriteling may be more familiar with,” the man of dust replied. “God who is light … Elior.”

  “Then why are we here? Why are our images carved upon these stones?” Astyræ questioned.

  “Daughter of Aius, have you not guessed?” he said as he turned his back and strode toward the center of the massive chamber.

  “Guessed what?” she said, completely confused.

  “That you three are part of the story,” he told them.

  Cal turned and saw the image that had been newly created in the floor below them: the three of them kneeling before a dust figure with a great hammer. He looked to his friends and then back to the floor, his brow furrowed in concentration as the gravity of understanding fell upon him with an all-consuming weight.

  “Yes, Calarmindon Bright Fame,” the man of dust said. “Even now, His story is still being told. The walls of the Harel Lior have told of deeds great and small, joyful and joyless, yet all have been a part of a grander tale, the tale of a light that will chase away
the darkness forever and heal the hurts of Aiénor.”

  “All of it?” Cal asked. He thought back to the Oweles upon the walls in Westriver, and of his time with the woodcutters, and of how he found his Poet friends and his Sprite guardian. He thought of his appointment to the first colony, and then of finding Astyræ in the tower of Enguerrand. He thought of how one word, “Shaimira”, had led them through so many more moments, right up until this one. And he thought of every failure, every flaw, and of how many times he nearly abandoned his quest for lesser paths.

  “Yes, indeed. Especially our failures,” the man of dust answered, almost as if he could read Cal’s very thoughts.

  The room sat silent for a moment as Cal took in what the man of dust was saying.

  Finally, Astyræ spoke out with urgency. “Sir. We have been searching for a very long time, following the way of the White Stag. War is raging below us, at the base of these mountains, even now.” She pointed back towards the entrance to this chamber of mysteries. Her voice was nervous, and her words came in a rush. “Can you tell us, please … is this the place we have been looking for? Our friends are dying out there, and we have got to help them.”

  The man of dust peered at them, his glowing blue eyes plunging the depths of their intentions as he held his own council deep in thought. “Tell me, daughter of Aius, son of Poets, and offspring of the Jacarandas … what is it that you truly seek?”

  Cal took a step forward, speaking on behalf of his band of travelers. “We seek the light.”

  “And why is it, Calarmindon Bright Fame, that you seek such a thing?” the man of dust asked. “Why have you traveled through water and wilderness? Why have you both drawn and shed blood?” As he spoke, he began to grow in size, his swirling form hulking high above them now, his eyes blazing with question. “I am the Keeper of the Secret Flame!” he said, his voice growing louder. “I have tended the light of Elior since before Aiénor was breathed into existence!”