by Dan O'Brien
-Conversation between the Bearers of Truth
The Dark Compendium, the Book of Rh’Keltken, the Three Books of Darkness; all synonyms for the volumes that encompass the incantations for the resurrection of the Dark One, a being of absolute malevolence and terrible power.
Long had the defenders of Exodus hidden away and guarded the demonic passages, but in the scheme of time they had been misplaced and lost. With them had gone any hope of subduing the unholy master from the Void.
The book had remained in stasis for so many years that it ceased to be of common knowledge; even the most benevolent powers knew nothing of the darkness that lay within the book. In time, things that were meant to remain in darkness would return from the Void; all this in the name of Chaos, the dark master that had plagued the lands of Prima Terra.
The Warriors of Exodus were a clan devoted to the service of the word of Exodus and the protection of the Dark Compendium and the volumes contained within. When darkness fell across the land and these great warriors were extinguished, the powers that be had nowhere to turn.
So, to shield the great book, they cast it forth into another dimension that was unaware of its existence, a dimension hundreds of thousands of years in the future. It was unknown that something dark lurked within this realm, a being of undeniable power that lived for death and destruction.
Through his dark thirst, the Dark Compendium was reborn. The merger of the realm that held the Dark Compendium and the one that housed the living spirit of Chaos held the power to return Chaos, and so shall the dark powers see it done.
Some battles are fought and never won, and some victories come without even a shred of violence, thus was the way of humanity. The United Free Peoples State was something of a conundrum, a contradiction of terms. There were those who joined in order to move toward a greater good and those who meant to gain power from the unity. In the end, it seemed that power outweighed good. Those who saw an opportunity to join together the scattered fragments of society were left to the winds, and those who sought absolute power remained at its center. More than a decade later, those in power still quested for more, never satisfied by what they possessed, constantly panged by greed. In order to stifle those misgivings, they took more.
* * * * *
The streets of Gajying were something of a criminal oddity. The flashy showmanship of the shops and the illuminated corner halls and taverns made it seem part of a pleasure planet as opposed to the center of smuggling rings and hired mercenaries.
Not long before, a citizen of the State would have been in such utter fear for their lives that they would not even venture into the miserable streets, but now it was a thriving metropolis to the twisted citizenry of the Baldorian government, which over the years had begun to absorb the once wayward populace of the State.
The dark streets and equally shadowed skies cast a strange aura over the patrons wandering the roads, their progression marked by pale silhouettes and distant, hollow footfalls. Gajying was situated in a deep valley beneath jagged plateaus and winding channels of water that churned throughout the countryside. Far above the city was the citadel that marked the rule of Xzin. His fortress surveyed his capital city.
Robert Welvon was a ghost of his former self; the fall of the State and removal of all that it stood for was something of a blow to him. Despite his hatred and angst toward his fellow man, he felt a pang of guilt for what he had done. The Baldorian government spoke of him in high regard, his name synonymous with bravery. He found solace in inebriation, his mind drowned to the painful memories and images of heroes destroyed due to his selfishness.
He was finally beginning to question the actions that brought him here, but the acquisition of power far outweighed a sense of camaraderie and citizenship. Xzin had offered him rank and title, a place among society’s elite. Welvon had gracefully declined. He wanted only to hide away from accusing eyes. He watched the once immovable pillars of the State crumble and collapse in the spiraling void that was Xzin, his merciless rule wiping away the remnants of justice and prosperity.
Welvon’s once gluttonous frame had drawn thin, the sallow pockets of his cheeks allowing his eyes to bulge, dilated pupils pools of indistinguishable tears. The brown bottle hung loosely from his grip, and his drunken stagger was becoming natural to him, the miscalculated steps something of a perverse dance.
The dark streets wove no clear path through the undisturbed shadows; his eyes were still accustomed to the dim lights of the tavern. The rooftops were shrouded in the same darkness that consumed him; bright lights of the false night could never infect the dreary shadows above. Twin silhouettes leapt from building to building, their approach marked with no sound or other indication of their presence, only the inaudible exhalation of air as they touched the solid base of the building before springing to the next perch.
Welvon stumbled, and then regained his balance, his outstretched arm finding the cool steel of a pillar amongst the scores of identical buildings, each dark door labeled with the cruel stamp of Xzin: the iron fist of injustice. Welvon staggered closer, and then produced a long, thin blade about six centimeters long, the edge no more than half a centimeter thick.
He grasped the hilt of the blade, and then placed the tip upon the insignia of the door, carving thin lines into the outcropping. A moronic smile spread across his face, the effects of the alcohol inducing a surreal glee. When he finished, he stepped away admiring his handiwork. Three poorly constructed words were etched at the center of the symbol – Welvon was here.
He began to laugh hysterically, a childish pitch to his voice. He slid down to a sitting position against the vandalized door. His eyes stared out at the silent night, his hands grasped the thick, brown bottle and he brought it up for a quick, decisive drink. He wiped his lips as he finished the chug and placed the empty bottle upon the ground.
He began speaking in loud, verbose tones. “To hell with Xzin. To hell with sanctimonious fools,” cackled the drunken politician, the world spinning wildly in front of his eyes. He compensated by rotating his head aimlessly in his stupor. “I am Robert Welvon, and I am a fool. You hear me? I am the king of fools.”
Welvon tried to get up, but his hands would not support him. He fell back against the doorstop, not hearing the dual set of boots hitting the pavement near him or the unsheathing of weapons as the duo rounded the corner of the building. Their features were hidden by the night, and the silvery edges of their blades were lost without reflection of artificial light. They converged on Welvon in a poetic fashion, nonetheless.
“You are Robert Welvon?”
Welvon turned sluggishly to locate the voice, and upon setting his eyes upon the two, his ranting exploded exponentially and his words came out in flabbergasted and irrational tones. “Well, look at you two fine gentlemen. What are two such reputable villains doing out on a night like this?” Welvon attempted to rise again, this time successfully, but not without first kicking the bottle at his side, breaking it into thousands of indistinguishable shards.
“Looking for you, your grace. I am Edge, and my silent partner here is the poignant Hocher, master of the unspoken word.” The shadow called Edge laughed, feral and cruel, a mocking, horrific version of the drunken councilman’s childish giggle.
“How wonderful to have admirers. Who, pray tell, is the gracious host to which I owe the honor of your meeting?” Welvon felt the flush of heat that accompanied the tremendous amount of alcohol he had consumed. His mind was stuck in a moment of years past – a class from the academy – a time when ancient literature seemed to be the focus of his mind, books and stories of ages lost.
Edge flashed a cruel grin. He felt joy at playing along with the drunk’s games. “Why, it was none other than his grace, Lord Xzin. He asked us to deliver a message of the utmost importance.”
The glaze and twinkle of Welvon’s intoxicated eyes seemed to dry, and a look of absolute fear crossed the sagging and depressed features. “Assassins,” spoke Welvon slowly, his hand ris
ing to his mouth and his steps jumbled as he attempted to back away from the duo.
Edge moved closer and the silent, plain figure of Hocher remained a step behind, the exactness of his features not yet revealed. Edge’s face came into the dim light of the broken street lamp and the sharp, angular features and rows of delicately sharp teeth reminded Welvon of a predator.
The dark cloak hid his body type, but from the drawn look of his face, there was no doubt that he was wire thin. The folds of the cloak hid the blade at his side, but as he stalked forward, the glint of the sword caught what little light enhanced the scene. The glimmer was a fearful sight for the already shaken Welvon.
“Yes, we are your executioners sent by Lord Xzin to show you the price of dissension. Your treasonous words have fallen on ears of your enemies and that path has led you to here, the crossroads of your existence.” Edge seemed to enjoy the speech he spewed at Welvon, his voice rising and falling with proper inflection as if dictating the prologue to a classic play or a speech to an assembled crowd of distinguished individuals.
“Xzin remains the coward, I see. Won’t spill the blood of enemies with his own hands, but sends peons to do his dirty work. How does it feel to be nothing more than an extension of his hate: a pawn?” The situation had sobered Welvon, his eyes regained what sanity he still possessed, and he squared his shoulders and met the gaze of his executioners.
“Such coarse words, as if I have not heard them before. I could not care less whether I am pawn or king. I enjoy carnage and death, and yours shall be a splendid display, no doubt. Promise me you will fight back or at least make a scene. It is far more enjoyable that way.”
Hocher gripped Edge’s arm, the silent man’s face coming into view for the first time. It struck Welvon that this man was attractive, without cruel or twisted features as he would have expected. Hocher had the face of a politician or an instructor from his academy days. This man did not look like a killer.
Welvon, true to Edge’s request, leapt forward with the thin blade he kept in his coat pocket. The point was aimed at Edge’s throat, but the thrust fell short as the assassin’s blade sliced through Welvon’s elbow. Ducking and spinning, the blade opened Welvon’s stomach and spilled intestines to the pavement.
“Thank you,” choked Welvon as he fell to the ground, his severed appendage churning with a fountain of lifeblood; his body discharged the remnants of his soul. The assassins turned from Welvon and melted back into the shadows, their departure marked by the same silence as their entrance. The universe did not mourn a lost hero that night. Rather, it was complacent, knowing that an eternal wrong had been righted and a justice, of sorts, had been carried out.
“The priests of Kenylon were the vilest of men, but they had conviction, a sense of unity, whereas in all of Prima Terra walked people who cared little to battle the hordes of evil. To be evil does not take conviction, but a lack of wanting. To be good takes purity of soul and an understanding far beyond the mortal coil.”
-Dion Volghurn to the armies of the Crimson Shield
Fasen Minor was once just a simple land of people who cared only for their own patch of life. Fate was self-determined. The only purpose and constant to their lives was that of providing for family and the sanctity and protection of loved ones. Much had changed in the land where greed grew faster than any crop and despair spread quicker than rumor.
Long since those archaic eras, the land had grown into a veritable metropolis of bustling cities and pleasure resorts for the rich and treacherous. The minds of the people had regressed to those of primal creatures, their instincts focused on satisfying their insatiable appetite for hate and mayhem.
The center of their lavish need for violent spectacle and widespread danger was the universally renowned battles childishly named the True Test of the Technological Combatant. Tech Fights, as they’d been nicknamed, had grown into an institution for youth across the galaxy, and these most troubled games were held in the capital city, Hulan.
Within the walls of the once prosperous city, the blood and the tears of some of the vilest criminals alive were tilled into the soil, and the dreams and aspirations of a land forgotten were tucked beneath the folds of the rich and adored.
The grand, cascading hills covered what little landscape remained, and the illustrious home of Riken Falcone stood alone in the dense forest that surrounded Hulan. The brutal guards who walked the grounds were of the most vicious and proficient security in the known galaxy, rivaling even the vast resources of the cruel dictator Xzin. Falcone, the sole proprietor of the Tech Fights, was a man of ill humor and insurmountable power. As well, he was the leading trader and producer of the most potent drug in both the civilized and barbaric universe – castion.
His vast smuggling routes and trade deals had made him wealthy beyond the dreams of many men, the powerful and pitiful alike. The drug was an addictive spice, highly desirable to both aliens and humanoids. Within this evil empire he had created, Falcone found a world that could be devoted to his own sick pleasures.
Inside the grandiose monolith was a tremendous hall where the most vile and intrepid scum in the established universe gathered. The music flared, and the fluorescent lights pulsed. The masses moved in a rhythmic wave that almost materialized between the flashing beams of light and the smoke emanating from the walls.
A man sat upon the ivory throne in the center of the room. His presence was that of a man relishing his own power and wealth, a man who felt himself king of all he surveyed. Women of all sorts surrounded his throne, each with the face of a goddess, but with cold eyes that chilled a man to his soul. To the immediate right and left of his boorish frame stood guards enshrouded in dark, loose-fitting garb. Each held a pike that was far taller than themselves, and the bottom resting lightly on the velvet carpet surrounding the throne.
A woman emerged from the swaying crowd and shone like a clear beacon on a foggy night, her iridescent frame back-dropped against the room’s reflecting cornucopia of colors. She came toward the throne and knelt humbly before the gluttonous master, her shimmering hair catching the rainbow of colors.
Her dress was made of ornate silk and clung to her perfect frame as skin would, revealing the body of a goddess reborn, every curve in tune with nature. Falcone allowed his hungry eyes to dance lazily over the body of the crouched woman. His tongue slipped across his lips, the moisture glistening in the pulsing of lights and colors.
“Who comes before my throne in such reverence at a festive time such as this?” His weak voice was unable to conquer the volume of the music. She raised her head slightly, and her eyes fixated upon his sweating face. He could feel that there was something altogether different about the woman.
Beware the idle pleasures of the flesh, the words sounded within.
“I am Haki. I have been sent for your pleasure.” She smiled slightly, a sliver of her delicate white teeth revealed between parted, scarlet lips.
Only a fool’s mind can be blinded by beauty and bewitched by innocence, the voice whispered to him.
“I see, and who may I thank for your intrusion?”
It matters not, for she has already ensnared your senses and is in command of your every thought. You have lost. The voice mocked him now, teasing the light gray matter of his brain.
“The mighty Lord Xzin is pleased with you and wishes to thank you in a more personal manner, my lord.” Her words seemed small, and yet her voice permeated the deafening levels of sound.
Listen now to the voices of those you have plundered in the past and realize that your life means nothing in the scheme of the grand plans of the Dark One. You will fall, as will all humanity.
“I do appreciate his generosity.” Falcone rose from his throne. His robes concealed the rolls of fatty flesh and sweat-stained fabrics beneath. He whispered into Haki’s most perfect ear, “Do you wish to accompany me to my chambers?”
To succumb to sin and feel the utter solitude and worthlessness of wealth and power.
Haki m
erely nodded and allowed Falcone to slide his arm beneath hers and move her toward the rear archway leading back into the darkness of the castle. Falcone brushed the sweat from his brow in annoyance and desired to throw himself upon the gorgeous vision. Instead, he subdued the urge and led her through the winding corridors that carved the inner chambers of the dictator.
Now we come to the pinnacle of man’s evolution, everything ends in copulation. How miniscule we have become. In time all shall fear and despair.
Falcone stopped before the double doors at the end of the hallway and turned to the shadowed face of Haki. “Inside you shall see the wealth and pleasure of a man truly blessed.”
Haki moved into the room and eased her shoulder straps down from her shoulders. Her bare breasts were revealed, and then the dress fell down around her ankles. The vision of her unsurpassed beauty drew Falcone toward her. Haki spread herself across the velvet sheets of the bed and gestured for him. He allowed his garments to fall to reveal a man who had led a life of indulgence.
Haki quickly reached forward and scratched the oafish villain, the sleeping agent coated on her nails taking quick effect. He crashed upon the bed, his breaths the snores of a pampered man. Haki lay beside the sleeping frame, eyes shut tight against the foul sight of him.
No rest for the wicked. In time you shall wish you had never allowed yourself to be swayed from your path. You should have waited for your love to return. All shall quiver beneath the surreal power of time. As Haki slipped off into sleep, she too could hear the haunting, mocking voice that plagued all mortals before the end.
* * * * *
The prison colony of Baldor III was unique. The identities of the prisoners there were hidden for scores of reasons. The planet, no more than twelve kilometers in diameter and composed mostly of compressed volcanic rock, was the perfect environment to squander the pride and dreams of any man, no matter what strength had once been within their frames.
