The Ancient Ones (The Legacy Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Foster

  Darrig stood over the demon’s smaller, host body where it had come to ground, and drew in a deep breath to stay his courage. He was blackened from the battle. Hot blood streamed down his wrists and over his fists as he contemplated the most difficult task of his life.

  The three disciples waited not far away, successfully stripped of their demons, bound in chains and denied of their powers. This one—the strongest—had proven stubborn. Deeply rooted within its host, it would see him dead before relinquishing him. It had been weakened, but given time it would soon return to strength.

  So be it, thought Darrig, steeling himself. The portal must be sealed!

  He raised his staff and poured out the last of its power. The foolish youth, the one to blame for opening the rift to the demon’s world, screamed in pain. Screaming jets of energy covered his smoking body, spewed over him in ragged forks of lightning so he was lost amongst the bright fury.

  The howls of demons had been bearable, but hearing these human cries skewered Darrig’s heart. This was not simply anyone he was torturing; it was Marrag—his only son.

  The young man writhed in agony upon the scorched soil, little more than a shimmering shadow at the core of a blinding inferno. There was very little life left in him, but Darrig continued, intent to drive the demon out or see Marrag dead, unable to offer his son even one speck of leniency.

  Evil could not be allowed to persist, no matter the cost. It would multiply and return with renewed strength. As it was, the ending of the world had been narrowly averted. There was no reason—not even to save his son—that chances could be taken.

  ‘Wait,’ came a pained voice, raised above the noise of the spell, and Darrig hesitated. He sensed some change and, carefully, he allowed his power to calm.

  In the bottom of the crater was the naked, balled up form of Marrag, quivering with pain and with one pleading hand outstretched towards his father.

  ‘The demons have gone, Father,’ called the voice of the son. ‘They have escaped.’

  Darrig wanted to cry out with joy at hearing the sound of reason emanating from his child, but outwardly he showed nothing. This was not a time for compassion or capitulation, for demons could be cunning in so many ways. He had learned that awful lesson already. Devils could not be underestimated. Assumptions could not be dared.

  Marrag struggled to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. His father regarded him gravely, ready to strike, but the boy’s mother came running in and with a gesture from the ring on her finger, wove a cloth and threw it about his shoulders to cover his naked form, hugging him tightly.

  ‘Take care!’ Darrig hissed, but his wife flashed blazing eyes towards him.

  ‘He is our son, Darrig! Can you not see the evil has left him. Our son is returned to us!’

  ‘You have saved me, Father ... saved us all.’ Marrag laboured to speak. He struggled to rise, and with the help of his mother, clambered from the hole. ‘But the damage has been done. The rift cannot be sealed now it has been opened—it can only be guarded. This war is far from over. It is only beginning.’

  Darrig regarded the youth closely. It seemed true that the essence of evil had fled.

  The city and the council and every living thing within sight had been turned to dust in the battle. Much of the world suffered during the demons’ short reign of terror: seas boiled and rivers turned to dust, forests turned to sand. Countless souls had been lost, devoured and used as fodder.

  ‘We cannot rest,’ Marrag said, stumbling towards his father with his mother at his side, supporting him. ‘Evil has found us and it will never relent until we have been consumed. They hunger for every one of us, and everything living. They would draw the last beads of precious essence from the spirit of our world.’

  ‘But what can we do?’ Thann, one of the minions, asked. Bound together, the three staggered closer. ‘We cannot give up. We cannot do nothing!’

  The weary youth, held on two legs by his mother’s assistance, harboured no doubt. ‘I will stand guard and keep the demons at bay, until such time as we can find a way to vanquish them forever.’

  ‘But how can you do that, my son?’ Darrig asked.

  ‘It can be done. I will shed my mortal form and protect this world. I can keep them at bay, while my strength remains.’

  ‘But that is nonsense,’ Rei, the female servant, declared. Beneath the layers of grime she was a beautiful woman, but the battle and shame had broken her, drained her of dignity and stooped her over. ‘You are in no state to do anything.’

  ‘The demons will take time to regather their strength,’ Marrag stated. ‘We must use that time to our advantage. We must nurture our world back to health, guard her while she is healing, try to undo all this madness we have sown. It will be no easy task. All our strength will be required.’ He looked to his three friends. ‘I will need you three to stand guard while I prepare. Restore what was lost. Will you do it?’

  They nodded solemnly, understanding the implications of their choices.

  ‘Consider it your penance for what we have done,’ he added. ‘You are each spent, but I will consume what remains, and in doing so I will seal the spell—a covenant of rebirth and obligation. I ask you again to be sure ... will you help me? Will you undo this evil that we alone are responsible for unleashing?’

  ‘We will,’ Thann said.

  Poltamir, the third disciple, ever anxious, nodded rapidly.

  Rei kept her head low. Between her sniffles, she made a solemn nod. ‘I will.’

  The young man looked to Darrig. ‘Father, with you permission I will begin.’

  The man nodded soberly, knowing what it implied, stifling the mother’s attempts to object with a firm glance.

  Marrag took a steadying breath and stepped clear of his mother, his strength returning by the moment. ‘Then let it be. Surrender yourselves to me, as you did when we first commenced our folly. I will separate your threads from the weave of the world, everlasting, distinct; bastions to those that still survive. Tend all life and nurture the spirit of mankind as best you can. Strengthen yourselves; I may need to return and revitalise myself if my endurance wanes.’

  ‘But how long will this take?’ Rei asked, searching for a glimmer of hope amongst the ruin.

  ‘I do not know,’ Marrag admitted. ‘It could be a hundred years or more for all I know. I will continue for as long as it takes. If we can persevere, we may just prevent the hordes from returning.’

  ‘And what after that?’ Poltamir asked. ‘Just persevere? Surely we can do better than that? How can we rid the world of this plague of evil that we have brought upon ourselves?’

  Marrag shook his head. ‘I know of no way to close the doorway we have opened. A tear is a tear, and cannot be restitched. Life, in every form, must continue to exist. That is our hope, that somehow, before too long, we discover our salvation—or someone finds it for us.’

  The three accepted the matter and put their hands to Marrag’s shoulders as he gathered his spell. His mother and father stepped back, holding each other, the stout Staff of Elders firm in Darrig’s hand.

  Thann and Rei clasped their fingers together as the spell fluttered through them and the bond was made and the spell was sealed. When it was done, all three were gone, vanished from the face of the earth.

  Marrag drew back his shoulders, standing taller, his muscles filling out the slack in his clothes once more, infused with the remnants of his minions.

  ‘I am sorry for all this, my son,’ Darrig said, shaking his head. ‘I feel responsible for everything.’

  Marrag looked to his father with bright, hopeful eyes. ‘Not at all, Father. You were not to blame.’

  ‘We on the Council of the Wise had become blinded by our pride. We never thought something like this could happen, let alone under our very noses. We used our machines and devices to harness the power of life, yet we stole it from the heart of our world, weakened her and through that allowed this to occur. Never did we think our acts could attract
the attention of such wickedness.’

  ‘No, Father. It was only a matter of time before they found us. This malevolence is consuming the cosmos world by world, attracted to any life that may flourish within the void between stars. We have been fortunate until now, but it was inevitable. Our recent mistakes only accelerated the process, shone a light towards them and gathered their attention.’

  ‘We thought we had formed the perfect society,’ his mother stated. ‘How foolish we had become.’

  ‘Speak no more of it, Mother. When I return, everything will be well.’

  ‘But how will you return, son?’ Darrig asked. ‘Once you abandon your body you know it will not be possible to walk upon the earth.’

  ‘I will need you for that, Father, and you, Mother, with your assent, but it will also mean a great sacrifice on the part of you both.’

  ‘No sacrifice is too much, my son,’ his mother told him. ‘The fate of the world is at stake.’

  ‘You will need to prepare a body for me to return—an empty vessel capable of containing my spirit.’

  ‘How can we accomplish such a feat?’ the father asked, perplexed.

  ‘The same way we did the first time, my love,’ his wife told him. ‘We will bear him into this world again.’ She turned to her child. ‘Remember, my son, that once in spiritual form, your mind will wander. Without the leash of mortality, it may be difficult to remember your path. You must focus upon it with all your might or you risk becoming lost. You may become a danger, perhaps even to yourself.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I will take care. Mother ... Father, I am sorry for being the foolish son I am. I can only hope that someday I can undo what I have done, and that you will love me once again. I will not fail you again. I love you.’

  ‘You have not lost our love, my child,’ the father stated, teary eyed.

  His mother was resilient, taking a strengthening breath. ‘Come, Marrag ... let us begin. We must commence the task at once, and you need our strength, also.’

  ‘Take these devices,’ Darrig suggested, glancing at his staff, but Marrag discounted the idea.

  ‘No, Father. Let them remain. Those left behind will need their power to build back their world.’

  The three hugged and a blinding light surrounded them until they were black silhouettes within a sun fallen to the ground. It grew and grew, brighter and brighter until even the figures were gone and only the expanding brilliance remained, growing out across the scorched plain, where once lay rivers and fields.

  The brightness thinned, but did not slow, steadily fading as it bulged across the earth. When it was too dim to be discerned, there, at its centre, was the body of a young man lying face up on the soil. On one side, lying in the dirt, was a staff, on his other, a ring … abandoned.

  His eyes were open, but he had lost the strength to see.

  His heart was struggling in his chest. Slowly, it lost its vigour, and the pounding grew wan—and then it stopped altogether, silence filling the space where a beat should have been.

  In those last few moments before his mind left his body and he became akin to a god, Marrag Lin thought his last dying thoughts.

  He loved his mother, but she was selfless and would always forgive him—she already had, completely and entirely with her whole being. It was his father that concerned him, for the hurt and anguish he witnessed upon the man had branded itself deep into his memory.

  ‘Father,’ he croaked, the last sound issuing from his cracked lips.

  Then, with the spirit flown, there was only flesh and bone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Beyond Summer

  WORD SPREAD AMONGST the crew their goal was nigh, and just as predicted, an island soon became visible in the distance. At first sight, it resembled a low dark cloud on the horizon. Its features became more apparent as they neared and excitement flourished. They had long been at sea with nothing but the horizon all around them, so the premise of landfall was enough to have the deck full of men spinning in circles, arm in arm. Shouts and cheers abounded.

  Leopold had long given up counting the days and weeks. He emerged blinking from his cabin to see what was causing all the hubbub, hung over from another night of unrestrained self-pity and consumption of liquor.

  In preparation for their voyage, Lady Wind helped them to design navigation equipment and drew detailed maps of their route, all forged from her remarkable memory. So far, her work had proved precise. Presumably, this was the start of an archipelago that curled up from the northern shores of Koia.

  The lady was beside her husband. Together with Captain Orrell, the three breasted the foredeck, gazing ahead. Riggadardian observed the land mass through his cylindrical spyglass, and periodically lowered it to talk vibrantly with his wife. He appeared in the best of humour, buoyed by the sight of land as much as his men.

  Lieutenant Fillius called aloud and the willing crewmen made subtle changes to their direction, pulling and heaving on their lines, calling below to the rudder room, chorusing their actions aloud. At times such as this, when their spirits were high, one of them would take the lead, singing aloud and the rest of the crew would follow with a rowdy shanty.

  ‘Haul on th’ bowline,’ called the shantyman.

  ‘Th’ ship she is a ro-o-llin’,’ came the chorus.

  ‘Haul on th’ bowline.’

  ‘Th’ bowline, haul!’

  There were hundreds of such tunes, with just as many variations. Leopold thought he knew them well by now—too well for his own liking.

  Presently, the men sang with grins on their faces, all eyes locked on that precious piece of land. Their voices had not brimmed with such gusto the whole voyage through.

  Judging from their course and speed, they aimed to round the island, rather than drop anchor. Leopold filled with disappointment, but he knew they were bound to stop at the next island, perhaps within hours, he told himself.

  It was pointless to land here, for there was not a tree or shrub in sight. The island was little more than a crescent-shaped sandbar jutting up from the sea, a crystal blue lagoon taking a bite from its side. The water was so shallow and clear around it, almost entirely colourless upon the white sand, that their ship could not venture near for fear of running aground.

  Flat, unmoving soil! thought Leopold. How we would love to stand upon it, for just a few moments. By the gods, he was sick of the sea.

  ‘This is Summer, the first island of The Four Seasons,’ Lady Wind announced. ‘It receives the constant brunt of the wind and never a drop of rain falls. These sacred places mark the northernmost edge of our realm. Once passed, the islands become immeasurable in size and number all the way to the mainland. We will reach The Heavenly City inside of a week.’

  The songs and merriment faltered and faded as it became apparent they were moving on. They passed by Summer silently, forlornly, and continued across the open sea, all eyes looking behind.

  ****

  At noon of the next day, another, much larger island came into view. A single mountain peak rose from its centre, covered in lush green forest. Temple tops protruded from the foliage and a few small buildings edged the beach. Everything was ruined and abandoned, with no sign of habitation. Thus, they glided by Autumn, with more sighs of regret resounding from the men.

  ****

  The next island was Winter and from the excitement and activities of the crew, it appeared they would indeed be making a landing. Preparations were already commenced.

  The water was tranquil beneath the ship’s hull. The sandy ocean floor was easily visible, with the Farstride’s shadow skipping along it. Fish darted and crabs scuttled to safety upon their passing.

  Leopold wished he could leap in and cool himself, for the humidity had grown debilitating, demoralising. The sky was untainted blue from horizon to horizon and Leopold longed for clouds, some relief from the heat their rain might bring.

  Nearer towards the island, coral blocked their approach. The Farstride readied to drop anchor. A cal
l sounded and men drew in the sails, yelling and heaving in their teams, hurrying across the deck in formation like a re-enactment of movements upon a battlefield.

  Again, the leaders of their expedition were out on deck. Jessicah was beside them, looking out towards the island with expectation as the wind blew softly in her golden hair.

  ‘Are we stopping?’ Leopold asked. ‘Are we going ashore?’

  ‘Yes, Leopold,’ Captain Orrell replied. ‘Lady Wind suggests we may find allies here.’

  ‘Agents were instructed to wait here in hiding, in case we should return,’ the Koian woman explained.

  ‘It has been so many years, My Lady,’ Leopold noted. ‘How can you be sure they have waited all this time?’

  ‘They are Koians, Your Majesty,’ the woman told him assuredly. ‘They will wait.’

  The great ship gruellingly dragged herself to a halt. Her anchors slammed into the water and raced to the ocean floor, sending up billowing clouds of pale sand, a gentle explosion of grit and shells. When complete, she was confirmed as firm and the crew breathed a sigh of relief.

  Captain Merryweather’s men had mastered the art of launching the landing boats along their way, and several of the little craft were already making for the island while the Farstride was decelerating, Samuel and Daneel visible on the foremost one. Samuel stood upright, stiff as a plank, while Daneel sat eagerly behind him.

  Captain Orrell scowled. ‘I had better join them. Lady Wind, I expect we will need you with us.’

  ‘Of course, Captain,’ she responded with a thoughtful nod.

  ‘Take good care of her, Captain,’ Riggadardian insisted. Anxiety creased his brow.

  ‘As always, Commander. Leopold, will you come along?’ he asked, turning to the younger Emperor.

  ‘Of course.’ Leopold leapt to answer, unable to contain his enthusiasm.

  ‘Jessicah?’ Captain Orrell prompted, facing the woman.

  ‘If I may,’ she responded. ‘I would do anything to feel solid ground beneath my feet once again. But only if it will be no inconvenience.’